Bad photo of a croc :) @rattrap46

Bad photo of a croc :) @rattrap46

Leave it Rot

Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning;
I can’t breathe, there’s pressure in my head and chest
I feel like there’s darkness
And unknown terrors below me
And yet I can’t die. I just drown.

Sometimes I want to be alone.
I get this rich feeling in my heart
A feeling that I get when I am reminded of fresh mulch and its smell
As if a seed of freedom has been planted in the hot, loose soil.
I would feel free to do anything
And not have people care for me
I could run away and not be brought back
I could decide go die and not be pulled back
I would feel protected and relieved
Finally able to open the rusty hinges of the safe
I have kept locked by fear and insecurity
And I get a secure feeling in being self destructive and alone.

My time is useless and I am nothing.
Every day I fight for a purpose
Just to find myself in a field of grass
And thorns without roses.
Everything is worn down
And I am just left to realize
Everything is worn and I’m weak.
I battle long wars to get myself a spot
That will give me a chance to be good at something, better than at least a few
I think about the blurred future
And realize the past and present are just as fuzzy;
I live the same routine with the same feelings and same struggles and friends
And I live without a purpose.

Anything I say is invaluable.
It is proven when I try to say something
And it just won’t come out
Or I try to voice my thoughts
And I just can’t be heard.
When I can utter my opinions
They annoy my peers
And they retaliate by telling me their own
And for me to fix mine.
To the words of others there’s a “that’s write” and the leader adds on to their words
To my words there’s a bored “Thanks for sharing, what else?”
And I’ve come to realize that my words aren’t unappreciated
They just aren’t valuable, which is my own fault.

A lot of the time I feel sad.
There is no reason why, but it feels like my blood is fused with sour salt
And I feel like a dog in a cage
Wanting to get out of whatever I’m in.
I feel pinned down and lost
And lonely, as if I were abandoned
And songs repeat in my head,
Their tone saying to me,
“Yep…This is life. This is my life. Nothing else. Life just is. And it goes on.”
And I can’t stand it,
Knowing I’m tattooed in failure
And covered in scars made from sorrow.
How can I feel so numb in my eyes,
Yet I can feel tears sting as if they are cutting them?

Yet I’m so haunted by fear.
I can’t trust anyone
Because they’ll try to “help”.
But I don’t want this to get worse.
I don’t want to tell my life to a person payed to listen and tell me that I’m wrong
I don’t want anyone to talk to
To fix me or hit me hard on the head
And pound me into the board straight
I don’t want anyone to cry on
When the truth is I do
But I can’t stand being so weak.
It’d be easier to rot inside my body
Than have everyone know and tell
And have everyone attack me and be fake.

I think everything would just be better
For me and for them
If I were to just keep it in
Or else disappear.


If you don’t think this is badass then what are you.


If you don’t think this is badass then what are you.


daily reminder.

(via teen-jesus-freak)

What Kills Us All

In 5th grade crying was natural
In 6th grade I learned to cry less
In 7th grade I didn’t cry at all
In 8th grade I cried the most
And in 9th grade there were no feelings left to cry about

(via akefeline)

is eight years old, she’s got pink cheeks that her grandmother calls chubby. She wants a second cookie but her aunt says “you’ll get huge if you keep eating.” She wants a dress and the woman in the changing room says “she’ll probably need a large in that.” She wants to have dessert and her waiter says “After all that dinner you just had? You must be really hungry!” and her parents laugh.

is eleven and she is picked second-to-last in gym class. She watches a cartoon and sees that everyone who is annoying is drawn with a big wide body, all sweaty and panting. At night she dreams she is swelling like the ocean over seabeds. When she wakes up, she skips school.

is thirteen and her friends are stick-thin ballerinas with valleys between their hipbones. She is instead developing the wide curves of her mother. She says she is thick but her friends argue that she’s “muscular” and for some reason this hurts worse than just admitting that she jiggles when she walks and she’ll never be a dancer. Eating seconds of anything feels like she’s breaking some unspoken rule. The word “indulgent” starts to go along with “food.”

is fourteen and she has stopped drinking soda and juice because they bloat you. She always takes the stairs. She fidgets when she has to sit still. Whenever she goes out for ice cream, she leaves half at the bottom - but someone else always leaves more and she feels like she’s falling. She pretends to like salad more than she does. She feels eyes burrowing through her body while she eats lunch. Kate Moss tells her nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, but she just feels like she is wilting.

is fifteen the first time her father says “you’re getting gaunt.” She rolls her eyes. She eats one meal a day but thinks she stays the same size. Every time she picks up a brownie she thinks of the people she sees on t.v. and every time she has cake, she thinks of the one million magazine articles on restricting calories. She used to have no idea a flat stomach was supposed to be beautiful until she saw advice on how to achieve it. She cuts back on everything. She controls. They tell her she’s getting too thin but she doesn’t believe it.

is sixteen and tearing herself into shreds in order for a thigh gap big enough to hush the screams in her head. She doesn’t “indulge,” ever. She can’t go out with friends, they expect her to eat. She damns her sweet tooth directly to hell. It’s coffee for breakfast and tea for lunch and if there’s dance that evening, two cups of water and then maybe an apple. She lies all the time until she thinks the words will rot her teeth. She dreams about food when she sleeps. Her aunt begs her to eat anything, even just a small cookie. They say, “One bite won’t make you fat, will it, darling?”

is seventeen and too sick to go to prom because she can’t stand up for very long. She thinks she wouldn’t look good in a dress anyway. Her nails are blue and not because they are painted. Her hair is too thin to do anything with. She’s tired all the time and always distracted. She once absently mentions the caloric value of grapes to the boy she is with and he looks at her like she’s gone insane and in that moment she realizes most people don’t have numbers constantly scrolling in their heads. She swallows hard and tries to figure out where it all went wrong, why more than a granola bar for a meal makes her feel sick, why she tastes disease and courts with death. She misses sleep. She misses being able to dream. She misses being herself instead of just being empty.

is twenty and writes poetry and is a healthy weight and still fights down the voices every single day. She puts food in her mouth and sometimes cries about it but more and more often feels good, feels balanced. Her cheeks are pink and they are chubby and soft and no longer growing slight fur. Her hair is long and it is beautiful. She still picks herself apart in the mirror, but she’s starting to get better about it. She wears the dress she likes even if it only fits her in a large and she doesn’t feel like a failure for it. She is falling in love with the fat on her hips.

She is eating out with friends and not worrying about finding the lowest calorie item on the menu when she hears a mother tell her four year old daughter “You can’t have ice cream, we just had dinner.
You don’t want to end up as a fat little girl.”

Why do we constantly do this to our children? /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

(via faithisbeingsureofwhatwehopefor)