I'm not sure what exhaustion plagues me more; fatigue from depression/stress/anxiety/workload/socialization/emotional upheaval or fatigue from explaining why a woman with a liberal arts degree is important in a man's world.

I wish I could say something beautiful.
But all of the words I dance with keep stepping on my toes,
like the boy I danced with in 8th grade that told me
he was surprised by how graceful I was for my size.

I've always carried other people's grief and anger around in my extra pounds,
storing their feelings like I was preparing for winter
and I've never been graceful about it.

I fall and I stumble and I slip but at least I didn't step on Brandon's feet when I was so nervous about my first kiss following the Sadie Hawkins dance.

I wish I could say something beautiful,
but all of the metaphors I try to grow never bloom.
Because I overwater them the way I overwater all of the loved ones in my garden and all of the wildflowers in my lungs.

I've been told my thumb is black, and not green, because I never know when to stop piling fertilizer upon seeds that will never sprout,
and when to stop piling unreciprocated love upon the people that I care about.

I wish I could say something beautiful.
But my voice is always silent like lightning or booming like thunder
and I've never learned how to make it fill a room like the sound of rain,
without being a natural disaster.

I wish I could say something beautiful.
But I still have a hard time looking into a mirror without picking myself apart,
like diagramming myself for autopsy before I've ever even pulled the trigger.

How could I ever produce something beautiful, when I can't understand the work of art that I am?

How could I say something beautiful, when I stand in my hallowed exhibition hall and refuse to paint my walls because I'm so afraid of making mistakes?

How could I say something beautiful, when I'm afraid to frame my best qualities because what if other people think that they're overrated? Overrated like seeing the Mona Lisa in person and still not understanding what the **** she's smiling about.

How could I say something beautiful when I've never been able to appreciate the different hues and shadows and brush strokes that fill my skin and my mind and my mouth?
I've never been able to appraise and value myself because I'm afraid I'll never sell and never find a home.

How could I say or create or become something beautiful when I'm so preoccupied with imitating others' paintings instead of allowing myself to be my own masterpiece?

I wish I could say something beautiful, but maybe the most beautiful thing I could say in this moment is that beauty is in the eye of the beholder,

and kid you gotta be beholden to yourself instead of those critics in your art gallery.

trauma drifts down through the branches of my family tree
like summer pollen

It’s not the cage or the perch but the feeling of being a thing that’s so smart and so social, surrounded by - ironically- an infinite misunderstanding
From beings who think that they know you
It’s novel to speak but not to be heard,
to have wings but not fly,
to be smart but not think,
to have the beak and the claws
but only if they’ve been dulled to a reasonable human comfort-
the saddest thing about being a parrot is to be loved only when you’re restrained, and desired/admired only until you are had.


God forbid she ever bites

𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠?
𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚙𝚜
𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗
𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠
𝚠𝚑ich 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝
𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑ich 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝.
𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍
𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜
𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚜
𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠
𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜.
𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚙𝚜
𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗
𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜
𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎
𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚝,
𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠
𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎.

You plant the seed
of a light delusion
you plan to read
to make conclusions.

The seed is growing
you water the plant
delusions are bowing
in tortured mind's enchant.

Day by day they grow
strengthen their grip
you go along the flow
of delusion's craftsmanship.

You say I am being emotional
What a crime
That only one of us feels