I hate my body.
I am a walking embodiment of disappointment.
I pick at my face and my hair.
The girl beside me is beautiful
And she hates her body.
She is very meticulous when it comes to her image
but when she stops and looks in the mirror
She is disgusted by what she sees.
Why does she hate her perfect body?
her peers scrutinize her appearance daily
and tell her she is not beautiful.
Her friends hate their bodies too,
for reasons just the same.
It's a vicious cycle that I wish to break.
I will learn to love my body some day
but for now,
I do not like my body.
at least that's what my friends want me to think.

I had a foster parent who was
Active duty, military recruiter, Army branch.
I remember him distinctly because of one thing:
His tattoo, which stated a morosely true fact,
"Only the dead have seen the end of war."
I questioned him on it, one day,
To be answered with a gruff response containing,
"You'll learn when you get in the service."
And now that I have left them,
Left his house, and been placed in a group home,
I've only thought about one thing:
Serving my country like my foster father does.
And to do that, albeit in a completely different branch,
I would be truly honored.

if I brought you flowers would you know
your grave all prettied up
a token of my heart
a caring for you still expressed with beauty
do you hear my prayer
know of the ache that you left behind
do you know how lovable you are.