At the Stroke of Midnight

I thought I was used to it
The words full of scorn
I thought I'd become immune to
The knife-like accusations
The tears started congregating
Filling up my eyes
I blinked to show them
I control them
Not the other way around

I swore to myself when the pain kicked in
That they were just jocks
Idiotic, immature, sophomoric
But after a while
My shield, made of lies,
Withered into nothing

My masquerade ball I've been at for years
Has ended
My beautiful mask of happiness and social ease
Has disintegrated
Like Cinderella's night of freedom
Reality's bell has rung, announcing midnight

I'm back to being Brenda                                                   angry

Who can't sing                                                                    tears

Can't run                                                                      stumbling

Can't play music                                                          screeching

Can't go even one day without                                         needing

A cigarette                                                                      isolation

Can't go a week without                                                    getting

High                                                                                 broken

Drunk                                                                                    into

Can't go a month without cutting, without bloodshed           pieces

Instead of being Brenna

Fearless                                                                      Captivating

Funny                                                                         Mysterious

Tough                                                                     Unpredictable

Talented                                                                       Significant

Flirtatious                                                                             Bold

Brie-                                                                              Creative

Rebellious                                                                     Charming

Outspoken                                                                          Witty

Intelligent                                                                             Deep

Beautiful                                                                             Poetic

Everything                               I've                                        Ever

                        Wanted                                 To

                                               Be

The Reflection In The Mirror

I have this deep, dark secret that I never share
It haunts me every day whenever I see a mirror
The person in the glass reflects the monster in my head
I fear going to sleep at night, all alone in my bed
I can't let that monster out of her iron cage
Because once she escapes, she'll go on a rampage
Finding vengeance for her past, present, mind
Never ceasing her destruction until she's satisfied
Her strength grows steadily, never decreasing
Her hatred, aimed at me, is increasing
She hates me for tying her up, locking her down
As hard as I try, I can't keep her underground
She's exposed my true colors a few times today
I regret all the things I have and will say
I don't want her to be free to ruin my life
But I'm growing too weak to resist the knife
The urge to cut is just to great
To continue trying to escape
The girl in the sink, staring into my eyes
Knows all she has to do is get me to die
The chains will fall off, the iron bars will melt
All because I'm that unsure of myself
I can't trust my wits anymore
Nor can I lock her prison room's door
I fear the reflection looking at me
I can't avert my eyes because then she'll see
The type of person I've turned into
She'll know immediately her dream's come true
I can't let that happen, don't you see?
If I let her out, she'll destroy both you and me

Untitled-----I would seriously love some suggestions! :)

Alright, so my foster sister had some male relative issues prior to living at Gramma's. I always write stuff for her, because honestly, I feel for her. We've grown so close over the last two years, and I've been given an insight to what it's like going through some of the stuff she went through. So I wrote this one night after a discussion Lida, Paige, and I had about why we're in foster care. It's not supposed to offend anyone, but it is how I would picture my reaction to growing up like that.



I can see you in the black tonight. I saw your silhouette before the storm even started. The air is stale and dry with your fear. You try to get moisture in your mouth, but your tongue is like the sand in a desert, scorched dry by the sun.
The lightning strikes the sky, setting the mood for my next move. The wind opens the curtains, and they reach towards you, trying to entangle you. When the streak in the sky lights up the side of my face, you suddenly see your fate. You know exactly why I'm here. You scurry to the corner, looking for protection. But you can't stop me now.
As I walk slowly towards you, taking my time just for the hell of it, your hands go up quickly to hide your face. You murmur to yourself that this is just a dream, just a dream. Funny thing is, it's not. It's not even a nightmare.
As I creep closer, I tell you a story. You know the story already, but I changed it a little. Tweaked it.
"Once upon a time, there was a little princess. She was about four, maybe five. After her daddy died, her mommy married a mean man. This bad man used to do bad things to the princess, things her mommy knew nothing about."
One glance at your face and I know you can see how the story will end.
"The bad man used to tell the princess that they were playing a game. 'Only a few more minutes,' he would say. But the game never lasted just a few minutes. It lasted thirty.
"The princess never told her mommy about the man's game because he told her he would hurt her mommy. The little princess loved her mommy and didn't want to hurt her.
"But when the princess grew up, she hated her mommy and the man because she felt dirty every time the man made her play his game. She swore she would get revenge on the mean man for hurting her family."
The adrenaline starts pumping through my blood, giving me a high feeling. Grinning evilly, I stare at you, my head tilted and my eyes laughing at your terrified expression.
"Only a few more minutes..."
You scream.

I Dare You

Go ahead, tell me you love me
Better yet, tell me you hate me
Tell me you want only what's best for me
Or tell the truth: you want to destroy me
I dare you.

Tell me He loves me
Tell me He died for me
Or be original: He wanted to save me from him
Like I haven't heard that before

Hold me to your chest
Wipe my tears away, kiss my forehead
But let's be real: push me away
Tell me to find a Kleenex
How thoughtful of you

Buy me new things
New clothes, toys, friends
Nothing you do will make a difference
I'll still cut

Take those friends away
Take my money as well
Like I care
I can get weed a different way

Bury my secrets along with yours
I'll dig yours up
And show them to the world
I'll burn mine

Be nice to me, say you love me
Say you'll never leave me no matter what I do
I dare you.

When I Was Twelve...

So my mom forced me to be in speech. I hate speech, just saying. I prefer to be the writer. Not the speaker. Anyway, I chose to do a category where I read two poems and a prose in the middle. I chose the topic of suicide, mostly because I can really relate to that particular subject. I mean, after all my ODs, it should be obvious. Anyhow, this is the prose I'm going to read on Saturday..


When I was twelve, I watched my best friend die. I watched her slowly deteriorate into nothing, just tightly-stretched skin barely covering her bones. I saw the puffy eyes, the glistening tears running down her face. Even people we never talked to noticed her changing. When the wristbands started appearing, we never worried. "She just wants attention." "No, she's just being funny. You know how she likes to joke around like that."  But I knew the truth. I knew what happened in the privacy of her bedroom. But my best friend was strong, she could handle anything that came her way.
When I was twelve, Bree would take her bracelets and wristbands off and roll up her sleeves. She wanted me to see what was happening. But I didn't want to know. I didn't want to suffer along with her. But she'd shove her arms in my face without a word, forcing me to look.
Angry red openings covered her inside forearm. The image still haunts me to this day. Broken hearts, words, X's, FUCK YOU's, and trails of dried blood were all over, like rivers on a map, but worse. The long, deep line going from her wrist to her elbow, running parallel to her vein; the one vein she craved to drain.
When I was fourteen, Bree called me up saying she was sorry and she loved me, but she couldn't take it anymore. Confused, I ran to her house two blocks down the street. I threw open the door to her room and found her sleeping-a bottle of pills next to her face. Too scared to leave, I lay down next to her and checked on her every few hours, making sure she was alive. I couldn't let her die while I was there. She was fine, but wouldn't tell me what happened or what pills she actually took.
When I was sixteen, my best friend started smoking pot. Her rebelliousness progressed, turning into alcohol. Then, popping pills. She'd become the monster in her nightmares. She became skinnier and skinnier from her anorexia, and her eyes glazed over from the drugs.
When Bree turned sixteen, I stayed the night at her house. She started the weed and booze before I even closed the door. I took a hit, then two, three, four. I was stoned after ten minutes. She was drunk after twenty. She told me she hated her life and wanted to die. I told her I hated my dad. She said she was going to kill herself someday. I laughed and told her to shut up.
When I was sixteen, my best friend killed herself. Combining her addictions she ended her life with me laying next to her. First the high, then the drunkenness. When she woke from her unconscious state, her blade was right next to her, directly within reach. She cut the vein she so coveted, letting the blood pool below her as her life force left its containment.
Her note was under my pillow, saying she wasn't sorry this time-she was saving her life by ending it. She asked me to take care of her little sister-she was only twelve. Don't let her see the body. Twelve year-olds shouldn't have to see their older sisters die.
But when I was twelve, I watched you die. And I didn't try to stop you.