Hundreds of photos are taped on the mirror,
Each displaying the innocences of youth.
Pillow fights, birthdays, graduations,
All with you and your friends.
But one stands out to you.
Way too much, in fact.
It's a picture of you.
Of her.
Just her.
Smiling that naive smile,
Standing there all awkward and modelesque
A filthy combination when you think about it.
And as sick as it may be, you think it.
As bad as it may be, you say it.
That you envy her.
That you hate her.
No longer is she an eleven year old girl,
but a source of rage and thinspiration.
A very deadly comparison, in fact.
You pick out her fatal flaw, beauty,
and how she lost it as she got older.
She wore khaki shorts that day.
The kind that kids wear in private schools.
They were lose, but her thigh gap, visible.
Her knocked knees made it modest, though.
But still, rage fumes inside you.
You then focus your attention to her arms.
The long sleeves revealed what they truly were.
Her fingers could enclose her arms,
But yours can barely get the job done.
Her fitted tee didn't really help your case.
No signs of puberty, but she was still gorgeous.
At least more beautiful than you'll ever be.
Her hair flows to her armpit,
And you're lucky that yours reaches your chin.
You watch her until that smile's a teasing smirk.
She's nothing but 64 pounds of evil.
She just wants to make you feel bad.
What happened to you?
Why did you have to gain 33 pounds?
And all of a sudden, it's all her fault.
That you're disgusting.
That you're a filthy bitch.
The next thing you know, you're reflections on the floor,
Looking like an unfinished puzzle.
The photos are scattered randomly.
But one stands out to you,
Way too much, in fact.
It's the picture of you.
Of her.
Just her.
Smiling that naive smile,
Standing there all awkward and modelesque.
A filthy combination when you think about it.
You rip the photo and throw it to the sky,
Letting it dominate you.
Letting each piece touch you.
And as sick as it may be, you think it.
As bad as it may be, you say it.
That you envy her.
That you hate her.
Lost at
sea,
all the broken home kids
sail far, far away.
Too.
Making up
memories.
Cause the real ones are better left
unsaid.
I just want someone,
to grab my hand & tell me,
I'm beautiful.
We all need a reminder
of our value.
Every now & then.
Feeling worthless is a popular trend.
She preserves her horrors in her bones
every detail carelessly engraved into her structure
every bump along the way creating a signature braille of her history
a silent story told by the curvature in her body
a girl crying on the inside
wheels of fake smiles and emotions move her
she is a mere puppet to a life she cannot control
the scars are too deep
she is too broken
she cannot tell her story
silenced by horror
her bones narrate.
Tear-shaped drops flow from my veins,
As my razor opens them to the outside world.
Chaotic but lively, each leaves a scarlet stain,
Trailing down the inward curve in my thighs.
They sparkle through the burning pain,
Crystaling into the perfect jewel.
Each laceration exposes their delicate artistries,
As they meander past each other like window rain.
Purer than water, this lovely red draws something special-
It's flawlessness, all the way into the shower drain.
My lips feel heavy,
as I watch you fill yourself
with toxic waste.
Disgust bubbles hotly,
but no judgement
will I ever speak.
After all,
I wouldn't want you
to judge me for my
cup of ice against your
plate of pasta. My dark
circles against your
rosy cheeks.
Shaking tremors
make me tap at the
table in between us.
What do you see
when you look at me?
Beauty? Or bones?
When I look at
you, all I ever see
is a life I will
never have the luxury
of living. Mouthfuls of
treasure I'll never
be able to think
of consuming.
When I play pretend,
I always pretend
to be you.
And it's always
better than I
ever think it will be.
Even when the
consequences of
being you fill
my mouth with bile
over a pure white
basin, the memories
are still worth it.
Still enough,
to get me through
another week.
letter addressed
to the girl
too rush hour
to take the scenic route
dear fast line,
i know you didn't
choose this.
i know how hypnotizing
those yellow lines
can be but
if you keep
chasing that pavement
you'll run out of fuel
and i can't promise
your parents will
find someone like you
again.
and they'll wonder
what set your eyes
on the highway
when you come
from such a
michigan avenue father
and middle lane mother.
may i ask you
how your gps
forgot your home address?
i guess it happened
with time.
one less trip turned
to two a year.
your mothers tears
turned to sighs.
she kissed me twice
for you.
one for your forehead
another for you Ford.
may it keep you
when you go
where her God can't.
since her knees
are too soft for kneeling
she nodded toward the ceiling.
flashing God
her grin lines and gray hairs
like see, i bare stripes
just like your son.
yes i sin and i saint
but this ain't about me.
i need you to keep
my daughters.
too many fathered
ain't got fathers.
too many men
haven't figured out
the price of absence
is far more than
a gallon of gas
a six pack of beer
and a bachelor pad.
too many children
grew up with the half
the guidance.
only knowing
to trust Magellan
and Garmin
with a backseat God
who only gets to drive
when the light ain't green.
there are too many women
caught between
crash driven children
and the cross walk.
to the girl
who hasn't flashed
her break lights for miles
choose your exit wisely.
don't wait
til the last second
to switch lanes.
the end game
is much closer
than it appears
in your side mirrors.
I enter my room.
I search for the blade.
This feeling of death will never fade.
Maybe it was the drugs, the pills, the weed.
Maybe it was the feeling i wouldnt succeed.
Maybe it was my parents fighting at night.
Blaming me for their on going fights.
Maybe it's me, yes that's it!
Now tonight this will be it.
I will slip away and no one will care.
Not even friends who said they'd be there.
Still too young, not ready to go.
So much to live for.
I guess I'll never know..
i am leather bound
to last night's conversation.
while thumb thick
in good intentions,
i am beginning to think
you never knew me
as much as you
think you did.
dear, tell me
what has hooked
your jaws into spouting out
these pig tailed assumptions
of me?
you see, i've never been
quite as crisp tide white
as they made me out to be.
always a little fade to my denim.
didn't you know
some stains
can't be washed off?
some fingerprints
can't be dusted
or steamed out in the dew
of a 4 am shower.
and sunday knows
i've tried.
and still try to make it
plainly clear that i left
my mother's baby
somewhere between the arms
of brooklyn.
left her, all koolaid stained
tongues tied to the push pop
fantasies i'd held until
i was about kush high
to a grasshopper.
abandoned her
pb and j sandwiched in an alley
with a trash bag
criss cross applesauce
knotted around her lovely
to keep her just
as warm and naive
as she never had been.
had you ever noticed
the gauche in her grin
wasn't nearly as golden
as it should've been?
and her paperback bone
seemed to fold
a tad too easily.
of coarse
spines aren't meant to
break like that
but they do.
divorce and dysfunction
has taught us that
it all falls down
someday so don't
weep for the jericho
in my bones
but at least acknowledge
that its there;
that there are bruises
too light to be convincing
but they still ache
when you stroke them right.
that some nights the pains
of resurrection memories
out shine those
of the crucifixion.
certain skins must be shed
when your convictions
leave you broken
and the stars you sin beneath
begin to gossip
about your shadow.
and your shadow
finds its way
onto the floor of living room
while it watches you
let yourself be made
into one of the victims
you write poetry for.
when you're trying to bottle
God and grandeur
into the barrel
of the gloc your mother
grabbed in anticipation
of spilling herself
in the wind
when the wednesday's
got too lonely.
listen
stop trying to card me
before accepting
my truths.
i've traveled too
far for niggas to not
assume i've been
in the dark before.
drop my shell
and see the inside
mash called me
has been spilled
and shattered
and reassembled
and shattered
and scattered
and reassembled
and splattered
and bent
more ways
than i can yoga
position myself in.
when you asked me
how could a 17 year old
know the pain of this world
i wanted to tell you
to roll up you sleeves
and unzip your pride.
yes i am 17
but i know everything happens
for a reason and i know
being broken makes
you grateful of the
pieces that weren't obliterated.
i know you can't be
flexible without stretching
and i know how it
feels to be stretched
between 4 states
two parents
and 1 divorce signee.
i know what a blanket does
for someone afraid
of the shadows
and i know you can't
have shadows without light.
i know that florida fern leaves
are consistently stormed on
and never curse clouds for it.
i know i am beautiful
and i know how many
days it took me to find out.
i know i am made of those days
and those days
were born of a maker.
i know my mine
met and got married
and made me and my sisters
and mistakes and i know
they paid for them
in cash and criticism.
i know my father is a good man
and i know good men
lie awake at 4 in the morning
making plans to fix things.
i know my mother loves to laugh
and i know laughter
is the easiest way for her
to cough up her worries.
i know she almost drowned
on dry land before
and i know she was one of
the best swimmers in my family.
i know i am still learning
but i've learned
we know a lot less
than we realize
and feel a lot more
than we recognize.
If you only knew that my life was harder than rock,
You'd know why I have a heart of stone.
If you only knew why I hated kindergarten,
You'd know that a mister touched me in those spots.
If you only knew why I'm so defensive,
You'd know that I had no choice at home.
If you only knew why I cringe at the sounds of babies,
You'd know that I've lost my own.
If you only knew why I get uncomfortable at lunch,
You'd know that I hide in the bathroom, tasting my food all over again.
If you only knew why I don't keep secrets anymore,
You'd know that's how I enabled my friend's suicide.
If you only knew that I'm ready to explode,
You'd know why not to piss me off.
We live in Glass Boxes.
Made up of love, joy, and
happiness, anger, pain,
and hate. We knock on windex'd
walls, shouting for
someone to break our
boundaries.
No one's box is made
the same. Everyone's glass
cracks different ways. The
sun sends patterns across our
skin, staining us with
experiences that build who
we will become.
I press my nose to the glass,
fogging my walls with
the haze of heavy breathing.
My eyes squint for you,
searching desperately for your
Glass home...but no matter
how hard I try, you're
always just out of sight.
I hear on the wind that your
glass is changing. Chipping
away to the pressures of
Heroin. It's all I can do not
to claw my walls. I know these
bleeding nails would be
my only triumph.
So I sit in my Glass Box, bitter
at the rays of color that
turn my home into a rainbow
prism. The paradox of it all
enough to make my head pound.
Is it even fair to be happy?
When you're off, all alone,
drowning in you're own pain?
