It seems that people need to be educated

Of something that kills me to see being misunderstood

Please, understand

Sadness is not poetic

Being cynical and hateful is not glamorous

It does not make you cool or interesting when you are constantly reminded

That you are not happy with the way things are

Self-hatred and dissatisfaction are not cute

They are not quirks

They are not tragically beautiful

They are just tragic

 

There is nothing lovable about padlocks and being pissed off

Locked up in layers of abhorrence towards the people who wrong you every day

With off-handed jokes about things that you’ve once mentioned bother you

And every time it’s brought up again under the forgotten confession of insecurity

Your handcuffs are just tightened a little more

But this isn’t any BDSM kink that people are meant to enjoy

A bit of whipped cream will not make the sex any sweeter

When I’m tied down to the bed frame that belongs to people

That think they know how to get over the depression they’ve never felt

Those that think that it’s easy to just get over it

That think that you’re overreacting

 

Overreacting over problems they don’t believe in because they don’t see them

Whatever happened to “seeing is not believing”?

What happened to fairy tales and unicorns

Wizard spells that could turn everything okay or twice as bad

What happened to those days when Santa Claus came to town despite only living in stories of Christmas

I’ve heard stories of misery

Back in my elementary school classrooms where we learned the literary difference

Between external conflict and internal conflict

External comes from things around you

Internal happens within your own mind and heart

But I know one comes from the other

 

External conflict of real-life tragedies

You don’t have to be Romeo or Medea to know what misfortune tastes like

But it’s a flavor that lingers on your lips and in your mouth

Growing more bitter with time and can’t be washed out with glasses of milk

No matter the gallons of drinks you guzzle down they all just go right to your head

Non-alcoholic spirits that can’t be cooked out for rum cakes

So even children can get a feel of liquor’s buzz

But I’ve heard that addictions only bring people into pits

And I’m tempted to give out enough drinks to give everybody the addictions to sadness

So they can know how ugly it is

 

How disgusting it is to stay up all night getting the fix you didn’t invite

Only to wake up with nails bitten down to the skin and headaches that came from sobbing in silence

I want to teach everybody the definition of beauty through antonyms

I want them to know just how much it is the opposite

Of the glamorous depression that they see in their favorite novels

But I’m no monster

The Wicked Witch of the West can now hold her warts and green skin with a sense of pride

Her cackling can join in with choirs

Because her broom stick is not for sweeping

 

It cannot clean up the mess emotions leave behind and it is not meant to

It is meant to fly

So she can fly away from the beauty she will never hold because Glinda the Good is there for comparing

And the Witch is there for comparing so she can feel beautiful to us

Us who believe we are at the bottom because minds are tricky business

I’m no monster to wish that upon anyone

Nobody can ever fall in love with a wicked witch

Wickedness is tricky business

 

Now we’re into that topic of nature vs. nurture

Nature of chemical imbalances in the brain that create some

And nurture of our twisted world that create others

That create sickness

Minds can get sick, too

I hear people make jokes when somebody starts crying

Because some guy decided to make a joke that triggered

I hear people tell others to “get over it”

When somebody is bold enough to share bits of their memories and open healed wounds for them

Yet I don’t hear somebody say “get over it” when cancer patients feel their infection

I don’t see people telling others that their diabetes or STD’s are fake and for attention

And I’ve never heard the words “vomit is poetic”

 

There’s nothing poetic about regurgitating emotions you’ve been trying to hold down

Making your nose and mouth burn and the sourness stick to your tongue

That’s why people run away when they feel it coming

To hide themselves away to cough up things meant to hold

And it hurts

Nobody wants to see that

I cannot count on my fingers and toes the number of books I’ve read

That have romanticized a teen girl in pain

Namely, the book I hate more than any other

New Moon

 

Bella Swan’s perfect boyfriend left her in a forest, and only her perfect friend can heal her

But her sadness, the hole in her chest, was written as beautiful

As something of “a love so strong it hurts”

That is not the love I want

She did not want to let him go, so she gave him a chunk of her sanity

But when overly-attached hormone-filled teenagers are dropped on their heads, things start to crumble

That is not love

That is the repulsive off-brand that replaces emotional development

With a messy melding of body and mind that leaves the heart confused

Bella Swan and Juliet had something in common

They left their loving fathers so they could get married

After being told that they wouldn’t have sex outside of wedlock

 

None of this is beautiful

Silly kids not being told how to protect themselves is not poetic

But there are still people who are fans of glittering vampires

And those who wish they had something like Shakespeare’s greatest love story

They are inviting pain

They are lusting for the misery that makes their favorite characters “interesting”

Having issues and lack of confidence is no way to find pride

Cuts, scars, are not accessories

They do not stand as bracelets or meaningful tattoos

A friend of mine posted a picture of the nail polish flowers she had painted for herself

And someone sent a message saying, “Your wrists are beautiful.”

She said thank you, but told that person that she’s not a fan of liars

That she is not proud of what she did back then

 

Battle scars do not make a person any less attractive

But the wounds themselves are not pretty

The leftovers of hatred or hopelessness that people leave on their own skin are nothing but distressing

This anger at the world is nothing but frustration nobody likes

How long would you hang around people who complain about other people, misfortunes, themselves?

How would you enjoy if people used your disfigurements as fashion statements?

If people thought your ailments were cute?

 

It seems that people need to be educated

Of something that kills me to see being misunderstood

Please, understand

Sadness is not poetic

Being cynical and hateful is not glamorous

It does not make you cool or interesting when you are constantly reminded

That you are not happy with the way things are

Self-hatred and dissatisfaction are not cute

They are not quirks

They are not tragically beautiful

They are just tragic