I feel so ugly
I avoid mirrors and
Distract myself with 'responsibilities'
In hopes that maybe I won't remember
What I look like for one day

I feel so ugly
I'd rather play with my dog than be 'out there'
He'll never have a look in his eyes
Or word in his mouth
Laced with judgment
Or honesty

I feel so ugly
I stare at old pictures
And cry
Because I always thought I wasn't
Beautiful
Even when I was

I feel so ugly
I reject their love
When I remember I'm in this body
I remind myself
That they are all probably lying

I feel so ugly
When I speak,
I surprise myself
Because hearing my voice
Reminds me
Of this body
That is
oh so ugly.

if it makes any difference

i like you either way

in myself i find
the desire to exist in such a manner
that requires nothing of me
other than softness
and kindness
and yet in myself i find
only a bitterness and sourness
and that boring, bland
sadness that had never really left
and was only just hiding
because it was afraid of the light
and i had been fighting my way
to the sun for so long
but it’s so bright
and i’m so tired
and the darkness from before
sounds like such a comfortable home
to return to

i’m sorry i’m not who i think i am.
was i ever?

all i know is
everyone around
me is unhappy
and i guess
i am too

i am not enough of
what i need to be
and too much of
what i am
sometimes the ribbons just
cut me to pieces
i talk to myself and say
“god i just love you”
and i respond back sometimes
i’m just not sure what i say
the days hang low around my waist
you may catch a glimpse of me
sliding conversations in my pockets
i get home and drop them on my desk
rewind and review
i forget my umbrella a lot
and it’s not like i’m afraid of the rain
i’m afraid that i'll enjoy it so much
that i’ll pull fire alarms
just to start the sprinklers.

i think he breaks more
than he puts himself together;
because once he shatters,
he doesn’t try to piece things back up.
instead,
those million pieces
break into another million pieces,
and then he is dust
that won't blow away.
instead,
he wilts in the back of the universe,
watching the dead activity around him;
he is only collected
not put together, i guess.

i've written and posted
seventy three poems
on this website for the sake of you
and for the sake of my own safe keeping.
this makes seventy four.
seventy four poems that i've written
and still i don't think
i ever really
said
anything at all.