katiej - Hello Poetry

I know myself like the back of my hand. I know my strengths, weaknesses, body curves and scars accompanied. I know I am beautiful. Like stained glass, I dance happily as colors when the lights hit just right, An entourage of beauty and serenity that I am Unequivocally representing as the day breaks, As yellows, oranges, greens, blues. Everything was beautiful about me, From the top of my head to the soles of my feet. I am all of the colors. I am a rainbow after a stormy day, A beautiful gown form-fitted onto that of a powerful women, I am a Queen dancing the ballet before throngs of people. I dance to dance And I dance to laugh And I am beautiful to me And that is all I can ever ask for. When I met you, I saw you as another version of me: Stained glass, too, Just cracked, Needing a friend to glue back in the shattered pieces, Help you be whole again, shine those colors the same way again. And I loved you for that. Glass can be seen straight through, though. Color or not. You knew that. You saw that. You took advantage of that. That, Being my beauty, my confidence, my spirit, My power, my naivety. I didn’t know. I didn’t know you weren’t here to appreciate the art But to tear it down and try to repaint it as your own. I trusted you to accept the me that I knew-- The yellow of the sun, The green of nature’s embracing twines, Even the blues of the leftover tears from the purple bruises of my bad memories. I guess you accepted me, in a way, But not how I wanted you to. Not as me. You manipulated me. Told me that different wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t pretty. I feel like I am nothing, puzzle pieces being rearranged to try and create a design I wasn’t designed for. You told me things that changed me. I started seeing myself As dried paint in the reflection of my mirrors. I no longer danced. I lacked potential. I wasn’t going to turn into something beautiful. And then I remembered, After months of being clay shaped into your project, That I am not a project. I am not an object. I am not subjecting myself to any more neglect. I am in this body forever. I look in the mirror and finally, after months, I stare back at me: I am a cracked stained glass portrait. I vow to make something new with my broken pieces. I tell myself, I am beautiful, Whether you can see that or not. Every day, all day, Months on end, And eventually, I start dancing again, Leaping again, Bouncing in front of mirrors and laughing and smiling again and I stop making monsters into men That I believe will love me for me. I love me for me. And all I need is me. And that is all I can ever ask for.

0

Apr 19, 2019

Apr 19, 2019 at 9:31 PM UTC

Me

I know myself like the back of my hand. I know my strengths, weaknesses, body curves and scars accompanied. I know I am beautiful. Like stained glass, I dance happily as colors when the lights hit just right, An entourage of beauty and serenity that I am Unequivocally representing as the day breaks, As yellows, oranges, greens, blues. Everything was beautiful about me, From the top of my head to the soles of my feet. I am all of the colors. I am a rainbow after a stormy day, A beautiful gown form-fitted onto that of a powerful women, I am a Queen dancing the ballet before throngs of people. I dance to dance And I dance to laugh And I am beautiful to me And that is all I can ever ask for. When I met you, I saw you as another version of me: Stained glass, too, Just cracked, Needing a friend to glue back in the shattered pieces, Help you be whole again, shine those colors the same way again. And I loved you for that. Glass can be seen straight through, though. Color or not. You knew that. You saw that. You took advantage of that. That, Being my beauty, my confidence, my spirit, My power, my naivety. I didn’t know. I didn’t know you weren’t here to appreciate the art But to tear it down and try to repaint it as your own. I trusted you to accept the me that I knew-- The yellow of the sun, The green of nature’s embracing twines, Even the blues of the leftover tears from the purple bruises of my bad memories. I guess you accepted me, in a way, But not how I wanted you to. Not as me. You manipulated me. Told me that different wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t pretty. I feel like I am nothing, puzzle pieces being rearranged to try and create a design I wasn’t designed for. You told me things that changed me. I started seeing myself As dried paint in the reflection of my mirrors. I no longer danced. I lacked potential. I wasn’t going to turn into something beautiful. And then I remembered, After months of being clay shaped into your project, That I am not a project. I am not an object. I am not subjecting myself to any more neglect. I am in this body forever. I look in the mirror and finally, after months, I stare back at me: I am a cracked stained glass portrait. I vow to make something new with my broken pieces. I tell myself, I am beautiful, Whether you can see that or not. Every day, all day, Months on end, And eventually, I start dancing again, Leaping again, Bouncing in front of mirrors and laughing and smiling again and I stop making monsters into men That I believe will love me for me. I love me for me. And all I need is me. And that is all I can ever ask for.

78

They haunt me more than I admit. I am not a firm believer in them, yet they plague the four walls of my home. They're not faces. They're feelings. 4 A.M. feelings of sweat-stained sheets and sleepless nights. 3 P.M. too long showers and stale cups of coffee. 7 P.M. laying down with day old clothes on my back. They won't leave here, and it makes me ask myself: Are they staying out of spite or do I keep welcoming them back in?

0

Sep 21, 2018

Sep 21, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC

Ghosts

They haunt me more than I admit. I am not a firm believer in them, yet they plague the four walls of my home. They're not faces. They're feelings. 4 A.M. feelings of sweat-stained sheets and sleepless nights. 3 P.M. too long showers and stale cups of coffee. 7 P.M. laying down with day old clothes on my back. They won't leave here, and it makes me ask myself: Are they staying out of spite or do I keep welcoming them back in?

11

Last week, if I were flooring, I would be carpet. Like in the way of, how easy it is to get stained. how hard it is to clean once it is. how it just never seems to quite "fit" with the rest of the interior, "especially not in this house". But mainly it's in the way of how it is walked on. Their feet drag through it, causing the slow damage, with little care for something that requires such high of maintenance. Depression is like a carpet. I know why people rip it up now. I envy those who can.

0

Sep 21, 2018

Sep 21, 2018 at 1:18 AM UTC

Carpet

Last week, if I were flooring, I would be carpet. Like in the way of, how easy it is to get stained. how hard it is to clean once it is. how it just never seems to quite "fit" with the rest of the interior, "especially not in this house". But mainly it's in the way of how it is walked on. Their feet drag through it, causing the slow damage, with little care for something that requires such high of maintenance. Depression is like a carpet. I know why people rip it up now. I envy those who can.

13

They're not all inside-- Like the feeling of your bony fingers gripping my thighs-- Some skeletons we choose to hide.

0

Sep 21, 2018

Sep 21, 2018 at 12:57 AM UTC

SKELETONS

They're not all inside-- Like the feeling of your bony fingers gripping my thighs-- Some skeletons we choose to hide.

3

It is the color of fire In her eyes the first day we met. Not a raging flame, but calm, Like the embers warming on cold days. The flame that comforted me, Warmed my core and my blue heart And the sunshine that reflect in her eyes felt like a native language I needed to learn. I didn't know how much passion you could find in reds and oranges until the summer day I met her, Leading to playing with our mothers lipsticks and dying our skin all different shades of pink. That day I also learned of how fast reds and oranges spread As her eyes spread through me emotions and hope like a wildfire in a forest. It's the opposite of me, yet, It's colors I've grown very fond and familiar of.

0

Sep 20, 2018

Sep 20, 2018 at 2:41 PM UTC

Red + Orange

It is the color of fire In her eyes the first day we met. Not a raging flame, but calm, Like the embers warming on cold days. The flame that comforted me, Warmed my core and my blue heart And the sunshine that reflect in her eyes felt like a native language I needed to learn. I didn't know how much passion you could find in reds and oranges until the summer day I met her, Leading to playing with our mothers lipsticks and dying our skin all different shades of pink. That day I also learned of how fast reds and oranges spread As her eyes spread through me emotions and hope like a wildfire in a forest. It's the opposite of me, yet, It's colors I've grown very fond and familiar of.

13