I avoid those serious talks
Ya know,
The ones about everything you hold inside
Who doesn't?
Oh yea
Attention ******
But guess what?!
I don't brag about my problems
I choose very carefully
Who I want to talk to
Most of the time I don't choose anyone
But things like that
Really kinda do need to be talked about
Lift that weight off your chest
But
It's hard for me to get started
When someone asks
"How are you"
I made it a habit to say
"Okay"
like yea
I'm perfectly awesome
And a tiny part of me wants that person to detect something in my eyes
But it never happens
I'm either a super good liar
Or they just honestly don't give a ****
And I bet I could guess which
I just really have a hard time
Like I get the urge to invite someone to have a coffee with me
Just so we can talk about all the bad things
Get it out of the way
I know...
How awful is that?
But I feel like my life is a huge secret to everyone
I need friends who know how to be honest
Who care and want to know me
Good and bad
I can't handle fake people
Or those people that are addicted to attention
I don't want to be one of those people who want people to pity them
I don't want pity or anything like that
#1 reason why I don't talk willingly
I just want someone to listen
And hopefully understand a little bit
And I'll listen right back
I need some kind of
Normal
Non dramatic
Serious
Equal
Friendly
Talk
Those people that either don't say anything at all
Or they give you advice on your problems
That's what I like
Those people that listen and then say
"Oh well I have problems like that"
Or
"Oh well my dog ran away"
Or
"Oh well I went to comb my hair and..."
Subject changers
They direct everything towards themselves
Attention stealers
It's like
Come on
I can't talk to you
Nothing I even say goes in your head
All it does is make you think about yourself
When it's like
I'm asking you for help
And your talking about yourself
That helps me a lot
Thanks
But seriously
Just a friend to keep updates with
Share our current situations
Back and forth
Equally listening and caring
Please tell me you know what I mean

A failure, that’s all I really am when you look at me,
A useless pill popper, who’s self loathing hooks him, you see,
It’s a complex, I’m aware i’m worthless,
I’m standing at the edge, swaying, wordless,
Side to side, to and fro, left to right,
I’ll take the jump, quietly rid the world of me tonight,
I need a vacation, from the **** in my life,
Before I get to slicing up my wrist with this knife,
Saying goodbye, to everyone I thought gave a ****,
I wanted someone to care, but I think i’m **** out of luck.

i am not pretty because
p   r  e    t   t   y
isn't an adjective worthy nor suitable to be applied to me
Pretty does not make good
daughterswivesmotherstudentsteachersdoctorsloversrevolutiona­rieswriterssingershumans
Pretty is an inanimate unfeeling thing while
i am a life force--- a tornado or hurricane whipping through the air with riotgrrrrl gale force winds in the background, leaving pretty behind me in refuse
Pretty isn't synonymous with worth or good hearts.
Pretty isn't getting up in the morning and making breakfast for your  hungover friends
it isn't giving someone flowers just because you care
it isn't women in in trenches digging irrigation systems for villages
or building houses for strangers in another country
it isn't the first breathe of a baby in a midwife's arms
or the sound of women being liberated.
It has no sound at all.

I'd like to think that I am that feeling you get in the summer before a large thunderstorm rolls over the mountains
and pretty
                     isn't
                           that.
And in sparse occasions that I am deemed worthy enough a piece of meat to earn this verbal badge of honor-- 'pretty'
that feeling will never outweigh the hate and anguish my body went through to earn that
'compliment'
it will never outweigh the meals skipped
laxatives eaten
amphetamines snorted
or times my fingers have been shoved down my throat until the tips of them stung from stomach acid
my body is weary of me punishing it for someone Else's ignorance and my need to hear this silly word & my throat hurts from putting my fingers inside it
& i will be ****** if i spend another second of my life hating myself and hearing women hate themselves because we weren't told we were 'pretty' as often as we would have liked
So no, I will never be 'pretty' -- I will be much more.

Part I.

I tried to die
in the arches of your orchard heart
struggled for breath and bleeding
but my blood was not willing
it loves me like you never would
red lead weights
on the dogeared notes of last weekend
yellowing with antiquity
like the singing saints of Hyperborea-feigned
in paper cathedrals
if only we could see them
once
the moon waned
to these tobacco-trance stains
that creep beyond the door frame's edge
- dreams of Apollo.
You will sing in light
but your eyes will burn
and when the sky falls to night
the halls of your arms will yearn
and your song will laugh at you
in the hollow of its silence
if only my mouth could marry a love like that.
I often dreamt of lighthouses
then
you came from the water's edge
and brought the sea with you
stupid saltwater
sodium mouthfuls
nothing grows from you.

Part II.

Summer crept
in to the holes in your jeans
as the sky fell to dusk
we saw the sun die
under waves of golden clouds
summer kept us warm in to the night
now only the sea sings its praise
to the promise of the evening
a promise that will fall with Arcadia
and the loudest of silences
to the archaic indifference of apocrypha-lost
few others could speak
in a way that grew between us
with the colours of a love not yet lost.
Now all my books are burning
beneath the palm of your eye
your iris twists
and burns with the sky.