Romanticism

I am not beautifully broken.
I am not tragically tantalizing.
I am a walking disaster.

There is nothing beautiful about the scars that litter my skin,
Like constant reminders of times I was too weak.

There is nothing poetic about how many pills I've swallowed in order for the silence to end.

No amount of abuse I've faced could be turned into one of your fantasies about a boy in a band.

I get it, you've had a mundane life so you want to write about mine,
But what I have gone through will never be as black and white as you will write.
I can not be saved so easily by the boy in my history class just by him saying hello.

The voices in my head are not a broken record playing on repeat,
They are screams, as loud and violent as the ones damned to hell.

Both my past and my present are not as black and white as you will make them out to be.

They are a rainbow, filled with all of the colours of depression and anxiety, that all speak in tongues,
Because just like suicides,
The suicidal have their own language and you can not decode it so easily.

Just like you can not romanticise something so ugly