Hating yourself isn’t poetry,
Eating disorders are not poetry,
Mental illnesses are not poetry,
Addictions are not poetry,
Wanting to die isn’t poetry.
And it isn’t “life.” Part of life is not suffering from pain brought on by your shitty home life, or your brutal tongued peers, or what that person still did to you when you said “no.”
And it’s not the scars on your wrists or the empty bottles hidden in your drawers or the places you can’t go because the memories scream too loudly. It’s not the secrets you keep or the pictures you burned.
It’s not the “one more” pill you shouldn’t have taken, or the time you stood on an overpass, looking down at the busy roads and wondering what it would be like if you jumped. Nor will it ever be a broken heart.
Life isn’t poetry.