Thirteen – A Poem by Ian Lepkowsky

Thirteen

I’m thirteen years old and I’m screaming so loudly inside of myself that I can barely hear anything besides my own thoughts.

My fleet of insecurities. Like maggots seeking to devour my flesh. Incessant and repulsive.

Jesus Christ I fucking hate myself.

Fuck.

I didn’t ask to be born.

I am disgusting. I am ugly. I am fat.

No girl will ever kiss me. No woman will ever marry me.

I’m a creep. I’m a fucking creep and I know it. But there’s nothing I can do about it.

I’m a freak. I’m a weirdo. I’m a loser. I’m a geek. I’m a nerd.

I was born this way because God fucking hates me.

Was I Hitler in a past life?

I am afraid of everything.
The worst will always happen to me.

My stomach churns with acid because if the world doesn’t devour me from the outside- in, then I’ll devour myself from the inside – out.

I gnaw into my skin until blood gushes forth from the side of my fingernail.

I regret it instantly.

I always do but it doesn’t stop me.

I have absolutely no control over myself.

I have no control over anything.

Nothing but the long deep gashes I carve into my left arm as the markers of my most morose memories.
I’m fucked up.

Twisted and Sick.

Evil lives inside of me and it constantly hungers for darkness.

Rage.

Violence.

Blood.

There is nowhere I can run.
Nowhere I can hide.

Only Darkness and more Darkness.

I’m so invisible that I’m suffocating.

I’m cruel and abusive because I want to make you feel the way I feel

To birth child and sibling into the realm of tortured souls.

Don’t worry my friend. I have enough Evil and Madness inside of me to consume us both.

Self-preservation is all that matters. And all is self-preservation.

No one feels what I feel.

I am special in the worst way.

I could take more lives than Columbine.

Got no guns though.

It’s not my fucking fault.

I already told you I didn’t ask to be born. Kill me if you have to kill me.

I’d do it myself but I’m terrified of…

You know…

No.

Not God you dipshit.

Karma.

What if that bitch makes it worse for me the next time around?

What if she makes me a cripple?

What if she makes my kid a cripple?

Fuck that.

I’ll at least try to pay my debt this time.

Besides.

I’ve got an aching suspicion in the pit of my stomach that suicide might be what landed me here in the first place.

Like maybe I was Hitler in a past life.

Round and Round it goes. Where it stops, nobody knows.

I’m so God Damn repetitive. competitive. repetitive.

I’m here because I want to win so fucking badly. Because I know there’s a prize at the end with my name on it.

Am I strong enough?

Maybe.
Yes.
I don’t know.
I don’t think so.
Maybe.
I don’t know.

You can’t fucking tell me what to do. No one can.

I’m not afraid of death.

It is torture that fills my nightmares.
It is life that scares me most.

I won’t tell a soul.

Look at my smile and nothing else. Avoid my eyes.

Pretend that I am okay.

It will be easier for the both of us.

Ian Lepkowsky

Ian is a passionate writer searching for personal transformation through unconditional self expression. He's also a philosopher, artist, and creator that's interested in video games and food and stuff.

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