EXPLODE

sometimes I sit and I wonder what goes on in people's heads when they think of me. is it worry, and pain or is it laughter and admiration? Is it sadness or happiness? Is it melancholia or euphoria? Is it stars or clouds?

I don't know and it would be great if they messaged me or called me or told me how they see me. I never felt like I was me, because I don't know her. I know of her but she's five. I know of Alice but she's all colors. When I see young Pam, she's in a dark room. Of course, pigtails, and a pink Barbie pajama holding sixteen year old in a corner, tears in her hands and she's patting my hair and figments dancing around in gold. When I see Alice, i look into the mirror. I look down and she's all around me. Glass figures and she's laughing. At me?

I don't know myself. I've never known her. But the real me has flowers around her - sunflowers - and she's basking in the sun in a field and she's one not broken.

Someone told me "You need help."
"Why cause I like to be alone?"
"Yes that's not healthy."
"Then get a doctor and help me."
"No."

How could you deny me when I'm screaming for help? I told you and you denied me. How could you be so afraid to tell me that I'm angry, sad and happy all at the same fucking time and that being alone is the reason why I need help? I'm borderline.

Don't you dare ask me why I don't want to go to school. Don't you dare ask me how was your day. Don't you dare tell me about your mistakes. Don't you dare tell me I need help and deny that from me.

I don't even want to fucking write anymore. It hurts so much. I start a poem to let it stay in my drafts. I don't even write to write. I am going fucking mad. This book turned into a thought book rather than a florilegium. Cause it's all competition. It was all about spitting the truth and today it's all about you. I don't even know if who I am is worthy to even be alive. I just think I'm death. I am death sitting in
the shower. I am death in my bed. I am sickness. But how could that be?

when an old poem defines exactly how you feel at this very moment. Old poem from trainwrecks. - Pamela