The Artist

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When I was younger, I wanted to be an artist.
I wanted to be like my sister who made her room her own personal museum of art,
complete with a shooting star as her cieling and a 9 by 12 beach to keep her warm, 
even in winter.

The twist came when I was 11 
and the paintbrush became a razorblade
and my skin the canvas. 

6 years later, I stand before you, still unable to tell you why blood became my favorite paint.

6 years later I stand before you a girl most people didn't notice
until I was gone.

Then, I had more "best friends" than I could count and people that hadn't spoken to me in almost a year felt they could stand up for me? And yeah-
maybe I sound bitter.
Like maybe I should be a little more grateful, but maybe-
you wouldn't have had to "stand up for me" 
if you had tried standing WITH me when I needed you.

I stand here, 17years old, a soldier of anti-depressants and klonopine
that I chase down my throat every Morning, Noon, and Night
like shots of formaldehyde.

But this isn't for me,
not really.

This
is for the girl who skips her meals because she wants to look like THAT Victoria Secret model
because Society has convinced her that THAT model is the definition of "beautiful."

This
is for the boy who thinks he isn't good enough for the girl he's liked for two, or maybe more, years
keeping his love notes and lyrics inside his head.

This
is for the bulimic whose bile is familiar to the point of sweetness 
and to the star athlete who is too afraid to try out for a school play.

When I came home, I heard the rumors of where I had been and why and at first!
I laughed.

But then I got a note:

"Wish you had killed yourself."

....Wish you had killed yourself....
and something inside of me EXPLODED like blackmarket TNT 
built up by years of loathing myself and being DONE
with feeling llike I was only worth 13 barbituates to my stomache lining 
and a memoir 
half a page long in the yearbook. 

Because it wasn't even about me.

It was about the people I'm leaving behind in June! 
Leaving behind my best friends, my REAL best friends, 
to a plague of killer notes and their authors,
who are too afraid to leave me their autograph.

Now I know I sound like I want attention.
Like I'm another "crusader" to end bullying.

But maybe, I wouldn't sound like "another crusader" if you had listened
the FIRST time
I tried to kill myself;
the FIRST time
I got anonymous hate notes and

DON'T tell me I'm exaggerating, because that's what they are:
Hate.
In its purest form.

So listen to me now,
Stand with me now, 
Hear me now say that 
We are: The beautiful
We are: the fearless
               the brave
                      strong
                      brilliant
and kind epitomized in body and soul.

Too many times do we look in the mirror and see nothing but I beg you,
look closer,
because you are there.

Not as ashes but as a phoenix rising like rebirth from the flame.

Broken heartstrings do not make a broken person, I promise. 
I know.

This is for you.

I stand here 17 years YOUNG,
coming in and out of clinical depression,
cleaning the scars that tell my story- the one I am not ashamed to tell-

For you. 

Even though my canvas has train tracks that lead to nowhere,
my canvas is for you, and yes,

Please feel free to touch the art.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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