i have never understood when
someone tells me that snow is beautiful
the shimmer of white dust
settling like a veil on the now dying grass
the grey clouds they’ve descended upon
the yellow of dog **** giving it its only color.

how is that gorgeous?
don’t you want to make a snow angel?
let’s go sledding!

i want the summer
i want the springtime
i want to open my sunroof
feel the cool breeze on my skin
take of this ******* hoodie
go outside
go on a walk
look at the trees
remember that people exist.

i’ve never liked flowers
i don’t have a good sense of smell
but I would take the pain of a beesting
over the tears of a snowman any day.

I don’t like it.
I hate that I love it.

I hate that I love obsessing
over something that isn’t real.
I hate that the reason I love it
is because it’s not real.

Because it’s a fantasy.
They are a fantasy.
They are my daydreams.

I am stuck inside my own mind
A reality created by the fabric of my imagination
And I love it
And I dread who it’s made me become.

I no longer exist.
I am a shell of a person.
In my right arm is his love interest.
In my heart is his other.
My leg holds his best friend.
And he has snuck his way into
the deepest crevices of my mind.

Now, in my soul, or,
the remainder of it
Is her.
The self insert.

The one who holds my anxieties
My fears
My denial.
She is who I am not
She is who I hate
She is the me who will never exist.
Because I don’t want her to
Because I long for her to.

I’m so thankful for each one of them
I’m thankful that when I no longer care to exist
They are right there with a petty argument waiting to be had
Or a date night that needs planning
Or the exact words I need to calm myself down.

I also hate them with my entire being.
I hate that they love the food that I don’t
so I owe them a cheesecake or green apple candy,
and after one bite I’m sick of it.
I hate that when I’m doing something important
my mind drifts off to live their life, their fantasies.
I hate that even when they’re miserable,
at least they have each other.
And I don’t.

I hate that I speak of them constantly.
I hate that I’m not just me.
I hate that one day they’ll be gone
and I’ll just be an empty shell
With all but the absence of a soul.

You are not a wolf, my sweet.
You are not all that’s wrong with your world.
You are not the silver bullets
your fingertips let slip away,
you are not the knife at her throat.

You, my darling,
are a prince in disguise.
You, my dear,
are the bloodied rabbit
who wriggled your way from the fox.
You, my love,
are the villain who escaped
the prison of your own imperfect poison.

You are the laughter I feel on my lips.
The cracked song of a crinkled French lullaby.
The memories of a duet passed down through the ages.

You are the pain in between my heartbeats.
The open door after a wave of tears.
A bandage that will only separate
from a soul after a lifetime of picking.

You are the sweet, sugary lies I could only hope to believe.
The maze I long to get lost in.
The fountain which clings to my youth.
The fairytale I choose to believe.

You are tied to the girl who fell at your hand.
You traded a wrinkled suit in order
to join her in within the stars.
A crown of gold for the shine of a barrel.

You are tied to the girl whose blood matches yours.
The girl whose purple flowers you’d never trade
for the twinkling power of another’s eyes.
A hero in denial with other matters at hand.

You are tied to the girl whose future
lies in between the pages of a story.
The girl who ran into the woods
leaving your soul empty as the blackest of nights.

You are not an angel.
You are far from a demon.

I am unfinished.
I am not yet me.
I am not complete.

I am not who I was yesterday.
I am afraid of who I’ll be tomorrow.
I am unrecognizable.

This is not my face.
There are not my hands.
These are not my words.

I am a paradox.
I do not exist.
I am hidden from myself.

I am joy.
I am pain.
I am an enigma.

How do I know who I am
when that fact changes
every day
every hour
every minute

Do I exist as a point
or as a timeline

I am who I will be in twenty years
and as the little girl who held up
three fingers when she said
the word five.

I am a mystery.
I am an open book.
I am myself.

A girl, I met when she was just a baby
A girl, who I am now just starting to see as more
A girl, who is strong, and smart, and opinionated
A girl, whose ability to become friends with anyone
will always perplex me.

A girl, who is my sister
A girl, I hardly know
A girl, who I’ve known the longest.

A girl, who never answers her texts
A girl, whose favorite color is grey,
or orange, or whichever color I find most
disgusting at the time.

A girl, who likes her hair up
A girl, who likes her sour sweets
A girl, whose sport means
the most to her.

A girl, who loves
A girl, who is loved
A girl, whom I miss dearly.

You push me,
shout at me,
pull me around
like I exist as a form of playdough;
one which molds at your touch,
like you are my creator,
and I, just your masterpiece.

Like I am an object,
a toy,
some plastic, a bit of wire.

Even if that may be,
even if you reduce me to
be held in the eyes of a child,
is that all I am?
Am I not more?

Does a child not feel?
Not love?
Not play?

How is a child’s love any less than yours?
How am I any less worthy?

I am not a ball of dough.
I am not to be rolled around.
To be pushed;
to be shoved.

I will not let your words penetrate me.
I will stay guarded;
strong.
I will not unravel under the thread of your fingertips;
I will only be picked apart by my own.

Resilient.

Like the last breath of a flickering bulb,
those sweet sorrow seconds of a candle
right before the flame dies down.

I am a flame, and I will be fire,
and I will not be stopped.