people make me hate me

What is love other than knowing

That I get so in my heart that

My mouth spits out blood clots

Instead of words and my eyes ache

From the tears a child never was allowed

To cry. And my fingers bleed because

I chew and I bite and I gnaw on my hands

So I cannot speak the emotions my brain

Can't understand. Understand that when

I'm violent and wild it's in not anger but

Grief and sorrow. And see that I push you;

I push you away so I can be as alone

As when I was a kid. When I was truly myself

Before I became the summation of all

The things I thought people wanted me 

To be. As no one wants you to be your best

But instead want the best version of what

they were so Disappointed you weren't.

What is friendship, If not this knowing feeling

That resides within like how every tiny 

micro facial tic is a memory held in my body 

but my brain and I will never know. 

Never remember, but live it everyday. 

How every thing I see and I say is either 

a blackout or repeated Record skipping, 

rattling muffler style, Memorized.

As I pick friends like they pick a football team, 

it was near and it was familiar

But never second guessed If they liked

football at all. And what is to Solitude?

How can I ever be alone, if I am

Indeed someone I'd want to be around?