Why am I not like her?

She has the most beautiful skin,

Remarkable appearance with red plump lips,

Everyone can’t help but wonder as she passes by

How can someone be so pretty?

One Day I came across the thought

Why am I not pretty like her??

I go back and stare at the mirror like never before…

Her body shape like an hourglass made my faint curves shy

Her spotless skin mocked mine with acnes and freckles

Her brown eyes with long lashes while I had bags below my eyes

Her plump lips versus mine that looks dreadful

Why can’t I be like her?

“Maybe because I’m nothing infront of her”

I again take my attention back to myself in the mirror

Just picturing her remarkable feature in my head makes me look ugly

makes me look like a trash, garbage and useless…

Why am I not like her?

I question myself with tears that can’t help but fall down my eyes

Its sad really
Because the only reason I haven't killed myself yet
Is because I don't want to hurt anyone
But the reason I want to **** myself is because everyone is hurting me

You are a novel
gathering dust on my shelf
but not because I don’t want to read
but because I’m afraid
to turn the page,
afraid of how you’ll end

she was not fragile like a snowflake.
she was fragile like a bomb.
and i didn't know which was scarier-
                                                        ­  her explosion or her calm.

do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.

The pencil scraping along the paper, forming a masterpiece taken straight from the mind and the nerves along my spine was a lullaby.
And so I drew a gorgeous, full moon and shaded its craters,
I drew furious ocean waves because my Science teacher told me there was a relationship between the moon and the ocean.
It was so intriguing to know the closer the moon, the more revolting and furious the waves.
But my Art teacher also told me that art is a form expression.
I was expressing my feelings, explaining our situation, and my brain and hand agreed to compare us to the moon and the ocean because that's what we were.
You were always so beautiful yet distant; watched and loved by everyone, but explored by few.
I was always so revolting and mysterious, no one willing or able to reach the depths and hollows of me; better maps of the surface of Mars than my vast ocean floor.
We were so distant and different yet I needed you to be.
You were always waking up every emotion I thought I had been drained of; turned my lowest tides to crashing, fierce waves; always dependent of your full or new state.
You are my moon and I am your ocean; so different yet it feels so right.
The ocean wasn't so realistic until I felt salty tears of it run down my cheeks,
there was no more silence.
I was at low tide, and I needed my moon.