My Baby

You don’t really want to be my baby.

It’s more than having a pretty face by your side.

I will only steal your joy and drive you crazy.

You only want to touch my developed, arousing body and steal my prize.

I am a monster.

I am the thing you hide from in your bed at night.

This pretty face,

This sexy body,

Is just a distraction from what is really lurking underneath.

I will tear you apart, limb by limb,

Piece by piece,

Until you are nothing, but a shell of what was once a human being. 

And you,

You will just let it happen.

Because who would deny this pretty, innocent being?

With that being said, 

Do you still want to be my baby?

Please Try

I am an unloveable, disturbed human being.

I am delusional and detach from reality on the regular.

I am a perfectionist who will only accept the best.

I am a monster who dreams about horror and destruction

However, I want someone to try.

I want someone to call me theirs.

I want someone whose love is on par with God’s.

I want someone who will pick up the pieces and put me back together.

I want someone to love me for my insanity and instability.

You don’t understand

You don’t understand.

You don’t understand the need to marry a powerful, demonic being.

The need to be completely vulnerable.

The need to be an evil partner.

The need to only be sweet to my partner and child.

The need to be babied and cared for.

The need to only enjoy the luxuries of life.

The need to destroy anything that comes in the way of your love.

The need to hide behind a pretty face.

Like me

And on the 12th day, the universe created girls like me

Girls who manipulate, lie and use to get their way

Girls who love to be babied by the men they take advantage of

Girls who daydream about harm, to themselves and others

Girls who will always choose violence and mischief

Girls who enjoy hurting people and watching them break into piece

Girls who hide their true selves behind an attractive face

Girls who only fear being ripped open and their unsightliness being displayed

We are not in competition

You and I.

Me and you.

We aren’t the same.

I am your competition, but you are not mine.

My tongue is sharp and I can cut you into pieces with a simple three word sentence.

My eyes can kill you with one single glance.

My hands are lethal and I could kill you with my thumb.

Any ill intentions towards me? Keep it to yourself.

You can’t go against me as I am what you can never be.

I am a leader,

I am clever,

I am intelligent,

I am stable,

I am charming, 

and I am gorgeous.

I am all,

You are nothing.

You are not me and I am and will never be you.

Romantic Urges

The urge to run my stiletto nails down his dark skin.

The urge to enter his dreams whenever I’m away from him.

The urge to learn dead languages of the world just to express my love for him.

The urge to perform binding rituals together whenever the moon is full.

The urge for him to leave bruises on my heart-shaped ass.

The urge to possess him and allow him to possess me.

The urge to turn myself into his worst nightmare.

The urge to cover ourselves in our own blood and swear to never leave each other.

The urge to destroy anything that gets in the way of our obsession with each other.

Why me?

Why would you be attracted to me?

The girl who will give it all up for you,

The girl who will choke you in your sleep if you do her wrong.

Why would you keep me around?

The girl who meets the beauty standard,

The girl who meets the Borderline Personality Disorder Criteria for Diagnosis.

Why would you want me?

The girl who gives the best gifts,

The girl who will set your family heirlooms on fire.

Why would you like me?

The girl who will protect you from any potential danger,

The girl who will throw you to the wolves.

Why would you love me?

The girl who will love you, even when the whole world is against you,

The girl who will turn the whole world against you.

Nineteen

Nineteen.

On November 14th, 2002, I, Ari, was welcomed into this ruthless, cruel world with pieces of humanity scattered around it.

I came in with a rough start. Having low pulses which lead to my mother having an emergency C-section while my father folded towels.

My childhood is a blur, but I had happy and sad moments.

My mother and father were interesting people and showed me what the real world was like at a young age.

Showed me how to be utterly cruel to someone and turning around and pretending like it never happened.

My mother was, and still is, absolutely gorgeous and I envied her as a child.

Thankfully, I took on her looks.

My father knew how to make money and used it to make up for his absence in my childhood.

Thankfully, I’m materialistic.

I was good in school, but the people at school weren’t good to me.

I learned how to manipulate and punch people in the stomach while giving them a hug.

Detroit kids ain’t no joke, neither are the suburban kids.

I can easily look someone in their eyes and tell them a lie with no mercy at all.

I can hurt someone and knows that it had to happen.

Someone has to endure it and it won’t be me anymore.

Now, I’m nineteen.

In college, transferring schools.

I have the potential to be a success,

The potential to be a psychopath.

I have the potential to mess up my entire life,

The potential to mess up someone else’s entire life.

I have the potential to be a horrible, disturbed human being who ruins everything they touch

At

Nineteen.

B.D or B.P.D

I feel high, jumpy and touchy. My mind races with millions of thoughts, some gentle, many violent. The consequences of my actions don’t bother me, I did what I did and I’ll do it again.

No care, no care in the world. No care, no care.

I take every opportunity to dance with anyone. I sit on fences and don’t commit. I try different things, different risks just to see the outcome. I’m a broken instrument, unable to be fixed.

No care, no care in the world. No care, no care.

I’m done, tired and slowed down. I feel no pleasure and the things I like seem dull. The number on the scale begins to drop, but I still look heavy. The only place I would like to be is in my bed, laying on my tear-stained pillow. Suddenly, self-slaughter doesn’t seem so bad.

I don’t care, I don’t care anymore. I don’t care, I don’t care.

I’m a regret. My demons talking to me again. I can’t sit in a single class without thinking about ways I could end it right there and then. The thoughts and headaches increase, I can’t be alone.

I don’t care, I don’t care anymore. I don’t care, I don’t care.

I’m hostile, violent and resentful. If you even look at me the wrong way, I will snap. I daydream about taking a hammer and bashing someone’s head in with it. It’s obvious I don’t want to be bothered.

Why, Why should I care? Why, why should I?

I’m unstable, I think about the terror I could raise, how I could ruin everything in a matter of seconds. My blood is boiling, my mind is about to explode. I could kill someone right now. Why? Because I do as I please.

Why, why should I care? Why, why should I?

Counting

When I was a kid, I would count up from one and imagine a big surprise would be waiting for me at ten. When nothing happened, I was confused and disappointed.

I think of you at one; the first time I saw you. Your smile at two and how it made sweet you were to me. Your lips on mine at three and at four your hands are running wild on my body. Once I reach five, you’re telling me you love me and your hands are running down my bare back. Upon reaching six, you become… distant and secretive. Onto seven, you begin to spin a web of lies that I am swept into. At eight, I find out and I break into a million pieces. You leave without feeling guilty about what you did. At nine, I’m alone, trying to find all of my broken pieces and put myself back together. And now, at ten, you’re back, acting like nothing had happened beforehand.

And just like when I was younger, I am confused and disappointed – very disappointed.