Selfish.

Image by Yuuta-apple

"If I ever meet God, I would tell Him this

That life is a coffee I never ordered.

I would grab Him by the collar and tell Him

Death is an americano you can't refill."

(RM - Always)

*

(This is a selfish poem.

This is about me and me and me and my selfish self.

Don't read it if you're easily offended.

Don't read it if my title post reminds you of yourself.)

For all this time I wonder what they meant by 'friend'?

I thought I had one or two before,

but now I'm not sure anymore.

Are you my friend?

Am I your friend?

I don't know.

You don't know.

All we did was laughing together but saying shits behind each other.

Is that what friend supposed to do?

If it is then we're friends.

You and I, both.

Oh, how easy it is to throw insults with a smile on.

All with one excuse, "Oh,we're friends anyway."

Oh, how easy it is to judge and blame without knowing the whole story.

Because of what?

Because we're friends anyway.

You can just brush it off and laugh it away.

And I'm left spending my nights plotting how to kill myself tomorrow or another day.

'Well, I'm sorry.'

Sorry?

Are you even sorry?

To you I'm just a fool who knows nothing.

I'm a kid.

I'm a coward. 

What else?

Oh, a clown.

A joke.

What I said was always wrong.

What I was thinking was always wrong.

My opinion is wrong.

My existence itself is wrong.

 It's my fault too for seeking validation in your words.

You can just say 'you're shit' and I'll believe it.

Does befriending me boost your self-esteem?

'Oh yes, this person is shit. Her mind is shit. I'm better than her.'

 To you my point-of-view is never important.

My story is never relevant.

Why would you hear me?

I'm a joke anyway.

"You are depressed? It's your fault."

"You want to kill yourself? It's your fault."

"You feel like trash because of what I'm saying? It's your fault."

My cry-of-help would probably look funny to you.

You won't believe me,

because to you I'm just a weird kid with a twisted mind. 

I'm always exaggerating.

I'm just a cry-baby. 

Sometimes I wonder,

should I slit my wrist in front of you,

and spill the blood on your bed sheet while you're sleeping?

Oh, the urge to see the realization on your face.

Yes, you're the trigger to all of this.

You and your hurtful words.

Should I be dead first for you to take me seriously?

Should all of this be "too late"?

But then you'd say, 'Oh my god, but she looked okay and happy before..'

Idiot.

I was faking smiles and pretending to be numb.

I pretended those words didn't just bulldoze its way into my head and left permanent scars.  

Left permanent scars and became a ghost.

The one that kept telling me, 

'You're wrong.'

'You're a mistake.'

'Everything you do is wrong.'

'Die.'

'Die.'

'Die.'

You gave birth to a demon inside my head 

and you don't even know that.

 You. Never. Know. That.

*

Why can't the world understand me?

I'm trying so hard to fit in and understand them,

but they never once did it to me.

Why can't they get what I meant?

Why can't they get me..