Poetry For Problem Children

This Is For Us

This time, this poem is not for you. This time around, it's for me.
I need to see the words typed out in black and white, understand exactly what's going on with me this time.
I write about love and only letting the best in, but I'm guilty of loving those who didn't love me back.
I write about happiness when I've spent countless nights swallowing my own grief-stricken screams.
I write about life and how it should be, but let's be honest here; life doesn't ever happen how we think or want it to.
I have days where I have to pry myself from the bedsheets, sit on the bed for ten minutes, and wonder if today will be worth getting up.
I have late evenings staring at the moon, floating hollow in the sky thinking "I know exactly how that feels; to always be outshined by something bigger, better, brighter."
I have middle of the night disasters, waking up at two in the morning choking back tears and making sure I'm actually in my room, and that my room is not the dream.
I'm sure you've been here. I know plenty that have.
But this time around isn't about you, it's about me, remember?
Me, the girl that's always left behind.
Me, always a bridesmaid and never a bride.
Me, the giver of love and receiver of lies.
My, how things never seem to fucking change, not for this girl any how.
I've tried, I've broken my arm countless times by leaving my heart on my sleeve.
Why is it that I'm always told I'm loved, but all they ever do is leave?
I just don't get it.
When will I get it, the love that I deserve?
At this point my life is a movie, and this scene has been over rehearsed.
Can we move to the next scene now? I know these lines too well already.
I give this love out like I'm going to die tomorrow, so when will I finally find my peace?
Hm. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this poem isn't about me.
No, once again I think I've turned this into something about you again.
But that's just me, that's who I am.
I could be lying on the floor squirting blood out of every orifice, and I would use my last to breathe to apologize about not being able to clean up my mess.
I could be flat broke and if you're hungry, I'll feed you a full meal while I eat a snack. I will always give out to others more than I could give myself.
Maybe that's my issue, I love everyone. But it's so hard to look in the mirror and love the girl looking back at me.
I could name a thousand things I love.
I love the smell of fresh paint, I love the first sip of coffee on a cold morning, I love the way a person's eyes light up when they talk about something important to them.
But it would take a very, very long time before I ever listed myself.
Yeah, maybe this poem is both.
This is me, telling you I know I'm not perfect. But this is also me, letting you know I will never stop fighting.
The smile people give me for loving them is enough; it's enough for me to love this life.
And it's just enough to help drag me out of bed, to make me feel whole, to wipe those two am tears away.
Because maybe I don't have someone with me all the time to do those things for me;
But there are plenty of people that would wipe my tears if they saw them.
Friends who would drag me out of bed and tell me it's time to be human.
Best friends that would hug me so fucking tight it would feel like they're glueing all my broken pieces back together.
So this isn't for me, and it's not for you.
No, this time it's for us.
May we love, may we care, may we cope.
And maybe we can all be a little better to each other.