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“Mom? Mum? Can I talk to you?”My voice quivered. Both of them looked up at me. Mom’s head was in Mum’s lap. Mum was slowly stroking her forehead, leaning down to kiss her forehead while still staring at me intently. A satanic bible was placed in Mum’s lap, the thin, withered pages torn in a few places from continued reading. “You know you can talk to us about anything,” Mom said, smiling, sitting up a bit straighter. She leaned over to kiss Mum, who kissed her back. I took a seat on the couch and pulled my knees up to my chin, staring down at my cuticles. Even for a guy, they were pretty nasty.I took a deep breath. “Guys? I don’t really k...

"People who kill themselves are selfish."Well, darling, let me tell you a story, A story all too true.A daughter who became a wife, a wife who became a mother. A mother of three girls... One just above the age of a toddler, One at the age of twelve, And one entering the life of a married adult.Now, the youngest girl was watching television, And the oldest at the neighbor's home.The twelve year old daughter sat at a computer with her closest friend, When something terrifying happened.Her mother was in the kitchen, coughing. The daughter, although unable to see her mother, only could imagine the situation.The mother walked calmly past the da...

After being on DeviantArt for a few years now, I've noticed patterns in people's stories. Patterns, that I can't say I've ever seen until I started using the internet. I believe that's because these kind of patterns are thoroughly unprofessional. The pattern in short is this:Character = victim Plot = bad things happening to said victimMaybe this sounds harsh. It's not if you understand that is ALL there is to these stories. They take any character, hurl them into a tragedy and that's it.Let's get this straight: We do not know your character well enough to care about them yet. No matter how bloody and gutty their injuries are, no matter how...

Kay didn't want it.No, no, no, no, no. "No." She screwed the shiny leaflet up into a tight ball, not caring that the sharp edges dug into her palms, and threw it into the open fireplace, smugly watching the flames eat up her information. It was permanently ingrained now anyway.She didn't want alopecia. To have to wrap her bald head in scarves and wigs that itched. She didn't want to vomit her stomach up every time she tried to keep some form of nourishment in it. She didn't want her red blood cells to die away so all she had energy for was to lie down and sob. She didn't want her skin to be so sore and fragile her legs would bleed freely e...

Don’t recognize your child’s needs, or at the very least see them as secondary to your own. Ignore your child’s tears; tell them to buck up. Better yet, tell them if they don’t stop crying you’ll give them something to cry about. That outta teach ’em.Weigh them down with adult demands. Expect them to cook dinner at nine years old because you’ll be home late. Force them to grow up too fast, or don’t allow them to grow up at all because in a child’s dependent role is where you can control them.Don’t be consistent, with anything. Change your values like you change your sex partners. Swear off drinking one day only to get a DUI the next. And w...

imagine trees of tangerines, heavy sagging suns on all the branches. rip one down, introduce it to vivisection (though dead or alive, it never cries out), and squeeze until pulp like entrails forces itself between your dripping fingers.stare blankly at the mess and attempt to clean it, succeed only in staining your clothes golden. work the designs against your skin until the mistakes become tattoos and the rinds before you look less like refuse and more like fresh-hatched eggshells.as the morning scent stings your senses, reach up.don't look, just touch, and rip down another.and another.and another.

1) To stuff my bra in hopes that you'll see me tonight2) To dry the tears from my eyes when you don't3) To blow my nose and try again tomorrow4) To keep in my pocket just in case5) To dab my lipstick before our date6) To fix my mascara after you say you love me7) To clean my glasses and see the truth on your collar8) To wipe the crap off of your lips when you swear I'm the only one9) To use every roll to cover your house in blankets of white10) To replace the toilet paper I wasted on you

Did anyone notice that she winced if you raised your arm? Did anyone notice that her eyes were wide with alarm? Did anyone notice that she never looked you in the eye? Did anyone notice that her voice was but a sigh? Did anyone notice that her skin was always bruised? Did anyone question whether she might be abused? Did anyone question why she walked in obvious fear? Did anyone question why one day she did not appear? Did anyone recognize her face on the six-o’clock news? Did anyone see her remains pulled from the river refuse? Did anyone care that this quiet girl no longer exists? No.  No one did. And she will never even be missed. R.I.P.

I looked into the mirror I saw that my face was plumper My thighs much bigger My stomach much fatter A piece of cake in my right hand I look at this large body I see that I’m fat 5’3 210 pounds and to my shock I think I’m beautiful For the first time in my life This isn’t some feel superior mantra I’m saying to make myself feel better I am beautiful I eat that piece of cake in one bite

my mother tells me that i should be ashamed for dipping my baby carrots in salad dressing, that my food doesn't need the salt i sprinkle on it.my afternoon tea doesn't need any sugar, skip the lemonade and drink the water instead. do you really need that? her sharp tone echoes like military orders in the face of combat.she tells me that at my age, her jean size was half of mine and i resist the urge to tell her that maybe that means she had half the character i do.shopping with her, she butts heads with a body-image complex, telling me to quit fooling myself and pick the next size up. i shock her time and time again when i cram my corner...

we love like we sin, terrified and breathless.we are tea-at-midnight girls, naming constellations that don't exist after lost tourists we meet on the street, reminding our freckle covered shoulders that even beautiful things can be made ordinary.we are broken fingers and half-closed eyelids and a penchant for mischief. we are ribbon skin and frantic desires and incandescent hope. we are a voice spilling secrets to falling leaves diving after their arachnid brothers,mimicking the millions before us who were judged unfairly, unjustly but all too correctly.we whisper promises to dandelions because they do not know how to hold grudges and we r...

have parents that separate when you’re in high school; a father filled with unused anger and a mother too busy to care.pretend it doesn’t hurt.let your friends treat you       like dirt;      after all, everything is your fault.listen to their problems with a fake smile all the while crying out because everything hurts and no one can see.press a knife to your skin, but be too cowardly to draw your own blood.fall in love with people who could never notice you, because you’re                just. not. good.                enough.chew on the multicolored strands of your hair.      (you can’t stop running       from who you really are.)carry...

It’s 6 a.m. A girl is beginning the journey back from Oz, anchored to life by the whirr and beep of machines and tubes. Above her emaciated body, nurses pace, write on clipboards, click their heels and purse their lips. She is oblivious. Her mind drifts in freefall, stuck in an eggshell skull wrapped in nasal gastric tubing and an oxygen pipe forced down her throat like a synthetic umbilical cord. Somewhere, neurotransmitters are sewing themselves back into conscious awareness. There is a person lost somewhere in that body. There is a mind overboard in a black sea, sending up a flare. The nurses are afraid that she will stay in there forev...

Dear Unborn Child, Whom I Let Go;When I was thirteen and four months old, and you were thirteen years younger, I decided to let you go. You squirmed in opposition beneath my ribcage, up against my pelvis, and I licked my lips and tried to smile while I leaned my forehead on the cool glass of the car, hellbound.I remember sea weed insertion, dilation, cramps and bleeding. Orange smoothies from Dairy Queen that I threw up, and I hoped you were mingling in the remains of my summer day treat, so I could put this behind me. Pretend I was 'moving on'. I laid in the bathtub of a hotel room for six hours, trying to melt you away in scalding water ...

You are one of the very reasons why I hate humanity. You. You surf the Internet, lurking forums and websites, Waiting and watching for the chance to flame, argue, and cause strife For any and all of the online community. You. You think you’re the greatest. You think you’re superior. You think your shit smells like roses.Well, I have a newsflash for you: Your shit smells like everyone else’s. Your penis is small. Your boobs are tiny. And I know this because I observe your kinds behavior; You feel the need to overcompensate for what you lack in physical attributes, reality, or self-esteem. You. You put other people down. You drop in and cra...

once i asked you your favourite colour, and you said, "the brown of your eyes," so i put in one green contact and told everyone that i came out of the womb as a factory defect, half-priced, damaged goods.-sometimes i am from canada and sometimes i am from england and sometimes i am from spain.i've carefully tempered my accents and plotted out my stories with yellow and purple coloured pencils on index cards. my origin changes like the seasons."why do you lie to everyone?" you ask."why not?" i reply.-i wear nametags that read "alicia" and "liana" and "samantha," because i want to know how it feels to be someone else for a day.you make me a ...

It's the constant feeling of not quite right and I don't know why I feel this way but it hurts (but not in ways that others can understand) and it's the tension in your chest, the rising water the aching muscles and the clenching in your core That never leavesIt's the headache that never quite fades, just hurts sometimes more than others. It's the constant need to move with your racing thoughts— to bounce or twitch or glance around the room every three seconds just to make sure you're not being watched, you're not being judgedIt's two a.m. and you're lying facedown on top of hot sheets, such an empty shell you don't even have the energ...

People on social media sites tend to glorify things that hurt. They brag about things that people struggle with.Mental illness is not a label. It is not a badge nor a privilege or something you have to earn.People suffer, they battle voices in their heads that they do not even recognize.People struggle to tame their inner demons and keep up an image that the world expects them to uphold.Mental illness is not cute, being so anxious you cannot speak is not a quirk. Relying on people to take care of you is not romantic.News flash! Your life is not an episode of Skins The idea of Effy and Freddie is fictional, no one is going to save you.We go...

never fall in love with a boy who loves his grandmother. he will be too gentle with your lips, too sincere when he whispers blessings into your ears pleading that he doesn't deserve you.his tongue will not slither between your teeth. instead, the heat of his mouth will melt your scar tissue until there is no trace of your travels.never fall in love with a boy who loves his grandmother. he knows patience. you will try to convince him that it is one of the many virtues you don't yet possess, but he will dig through the flesh in your ribcage until he finds it lodged beneath everything you're too scared to confess.he will teach you forgiveness...

Dear Jesus Christ,I went to bed at 3:16 last night and started thinking about John—John who pissed away every paycheck he ever made and only fucked virgins, John who beat up a woman's husband and spent a Christmas in jail, John who shot himself on the front porch of his mother's house. I don't think anyone shed a tear except her. I heard she shed many tears as she cleaned up the mess.I thought about when I first met him. It was at church. He and I were both eight. He sat next to me and we stared at that stained glass image of you in your white robe with your outstretched, loving arms, and he leaned into me and asked, "Do you believe in Jes...