It was my cousin's wedding reception,
And I wore some creamy lacey dress
That had to be approved of by my mother
Before I shoved it in a bulging duffel bag to endure the
Six hours of Dunkin Donuts bathroom stops
And that weird stop-and-go traffic that makes me
Feel like the color green.
As I stood at the brim of the dance floor,
Trying to ignore the half-drunk staggering relatives of mine,
I thought about whether it's
Polite to pry your eight inch
Torture-o-thon heels
From your swollen toes
Before anyone else bothers.
There was a boy on the other end of the disco lights,
A silhouette that I knew to be slightly more muscular than the last time I'd seen it.
Just about my age, or maybe eight months older if you had to ask him,
Which I had about thirteen years earlier
With some sand in the crotch of
My Gymboree bathing suit.
I tried my best not to look over.
The lights mostly blinded me,
But I still wished to glance at him to see how straight his teeth were and how his acne had cleared up
Because of
Neutrogena SkinID Plus
Or something.
I could tell that he was looking at me,
At the too short lacey dress
And my straight teeth
And my peachy skin
And I wanted so badly to peek over.
I wanted him to ask me to dance,
Please oh God ask me to dance.
(Of course he didn't.)
He was a shy kid, even at seventeen.
He didn't say a word to me all night,
Even though we'd gone to the beach together
Since I was in Huggies.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
That I'm cute
Beautiful
Pretty
And I tell them that
It's okay that I'm not
Because I know I'm not
But I don't like being lied to
I know I'm not
Because I can't let tears
Drip down my cheeks
As they shimmer in the dim light
Of the movie credits
I sob until
My face is red and damp and puffy
And I'm clinging to your sleeve
And just crying so uncontrollably
That people sitting next to us
In the dark theater
Might glimpse over to see if maybe
I have a reason to cry so hard.
Does shehave cancer?
Is she missing a leg?
Did her crack-addict mother die when she was an infant?
Why is this bratty straight white blonde girl crying while watching Selma/Dallas Buyer's Club/The Help?
I have to brush my hair
Instantly
When I get out of the pool
In the summer
(Hopping from foot to foot of course
Because the sun has baked the concrete)
Because if I don't
It becomes a half-curly knotted mess.
And if I don't braid it directly after that
Then it dries
In resemblance to a Yield Sign
In a somewhat triangular form
And I'm chubby.
Not fat. It would be better if I were fat.
If I were fat then things would be
Proportionalish
But instead I'm just
A 5'2 and 3/4" girl
With DDs that no one wants
Because ***** don't count when you're chubby"
And baby fat that lounges on my stomach
No matter how many kilometers I row.
My fingers are too small for my hands.
My glasses make my eyes look huge.
My lips are forever chapped.
My cheeks are overly red.
My eyes are too dark to be pretty
And I know it.
I know all of it.
I've lived in my body for longer than you have.
So don't lie to me.
Don't tell me that I'm cute
Beautiful
Or god forbid pretty
Because I really
Really
Hate being lied to.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC
It made me
Sick.
The kind of sick
That books describe
As green,
Ghostly skinned
With red rust noses.
Sick to my stomach
Like when you wake up
At 2:00 AM
And realize that
Something
Is
Not
Right
Before you sprint
Down the hall
To the bathroom
And ***** pizza bagels into the
Pristine marble sink.
It made me sick like
When it gets so bad that
Blowing your nose hurts
Because the extra soft Kleenex
Have scratched your skin raw
Over
And
Over
Again.
It made me sick
When I realized
That it wasn't you that I loved
But the feeling of being loved.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
I guess I just expected
Something else
It happens every year,
I get excited
Hopeful
Giddy
That maybe
This year will be
Different.
Maybe I'll find an awesome friend
Who does my nails
And answers calls at two am
Like Nicole did
Before she moved to California
Or she could be like Kayla
Who would be silly with me in
Drama class
And use chocolate sauce for blood
In our Black and White movie
Before her dad died in combat
And she went to bury him in
Some foreign country
Where cell phones
Don't count
Or a boyfriend like Louis
That I could see a future with
Sitting listening to Relient K
In a college dorm
With a million years to spare
Before he left for London
But the girl in front of me
In English
Pops her gum for the boy
In the next desk
And could poke my eye out
With her fake straightened hair.
The girl in my drama class
Cakes on her mask and
Participates in pageant after pageant
And calls her anorexia
A diet
And I heard the rumor
That the boy I thought was cute
In chemistry
Was caught ********* his
Girlfriend
Under her desk in
Español Dos.
I didn't think my standards were too high to meet.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
I have a boyfriend
I shout to myself,
Pinching my upper thigh
And blinking away from
The sight of them.
She giggles and I notice
Her laugh is lopsided
And she's too short
To be that loud.
Her shoulders are too far forward
And even I notice the
Gross stain on her
Upper left canine
Between her braces
That are bright, neon green.
She's my best friend.
I don't mean to think of her in that way,
I love her like a sister.
But it pops into the front of my brain
When I see them together.
I don't even like him
In that way
Anymore.
I have a boyfriend,
And all he was
Was a whispered fifth grade crush.
That's what I tell myself.
He looks at her like
She's a million bucks.
Her crooked teeth
Earn her six cents,
In my opinion.
I take it back within a second,
But the thought was still there.
Jealousy makes me into a monster.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
My heart goes numb
And my stomach turns sour
When it becomes apparent
That best male actor
Has been won by a man
With an alliterative name
And I still have
The same number of
Oscars
As Leonardo DiCaprio
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC
He came to my house
Wearing his dark jacket and
Cold fingers
With no prior notice.
The doorbell echoed at
Nine oh six
And my mom said she'd get it.
I was watching Netflix
And shoveling semi-melty
Ice cream into my mouth.
He said hi to my mom
And he rushed up the stairs
Into my laundry-flooded bedroom
He wrapped his arms around me
So tight that I wasn't keen to let go.
He smelled like bitter outside
And broken trees
And choking regret.
I smelled like
Fake roses
And ***** pajamas
That were freshly cried into.
My shirt sleeves were wet.
When he kissed me,
I tasted like
The aftermath of
Black cherries
And sad music.
He tasted like love.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
I shattered today.
Shards of love
And splashes of blood
Scattered to the tips of
My fingers
And
Toes.
We were in Starbucks
And I drank coffee
And you didn't
And seven months of
Surprise kisses
And
24/7 text messages
Ended abruptly
Like a cliff.
The funny thing is,
I broke up with you.
It was still me
Who spent the last hour
Listening to our song
And bleeding emotion
Riding on tears
Into the sock monkey
That I named after you
Because I loved the middle name
Ryan.
You were over it,
And I was not.
You showed up
With the bite of coffee
Crawling up your nose
Expecting to
Break
Up
With
Me.
I'm not exactly happy that we think alike anymore.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
They sit in their
Wide neon cocoons,
Cozy and warm
With hot air
Dribbling out of vents
And swirling around their bodies.
A thin sheet of metal protects them from
Nine degree weather
And bone-freezing winds
And sheets of shivering ice.
And yet,
Every day at
Exactly
Six twenty-four in the morning
They come around
Like wide neon caterpillers
And slink toward where I stand,
Legs frozen to concrete.
Doors open,
Burning cold air rushes in
And rubs against them,
But they wait and smile
As I climb three tall stairs
And greet them,
Welcoming the nice hug of
Warmth
And
Coziness
And
Comfort
And love.
They love me,
A stranger.
They love me enough to
Rescue me from
Becoming an ice sculpture.
So I fumble with
The Thank You in my pocket
And ****** it toward them
In my haste.
It is enough for them.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 8:45 AM UTC
I glare at it
During last period,
Jumping too high
But not high enough
To reach the swinging rope.
I'm in history,
And some glazed-over teacher
Is pointing at the
Chalkboard which has
Tiny scratches that look like words
Scribbled all over.
But I don't look at my notes,
Because my neck is craning
Too far back
To look at the rope
That is
My two and a half hours of freedom.
A single note is released into the halls
And the students chace it
And I leap into the air
Because the rope
Is reachable
And I grab it.
I begin to climb.
I sit by you on the
Dirt-dusted tile floor
Outside the gym
And we work on algebra
Or english if it's a good day.
And don't get me wrong,
I hate the familiar stench of homework
As much as
The next
Hunchbacked highschooler.
The rope stings my hands
While I climb.
You numb the burn.
But I have practice
And the rope is easy to climb
And I reach the top
In two and a half hours
And you get into
The yellow sardine can
That goes to your neighborhood.
And all of my muscles ache when you go.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC