You like her because she's confident.
You love me because I'm smart and kind.

Her confidence is flirty and self deprecating.

It's not her fault.

It's not your fault.

My confidence is sarcastic, and witty, and viciously venomous.

You wouldn't like me if I were confident, I guarantee that.

But kindness and intelligence and beauty
Do nothing against the allure of confidence.

It's no one's fault but mine.

Sometimes
I still shake
From things
That are over.

Sometimes
I still feel
Sullied.
Blackened.

But sometimes
I put on your sweatshirt,
And I feel safe.

And sometimes
I hear your voice
And the tears no longer
Threaten to fall.

Sometimes
I'm not okay.

And sometimes
I am.

I try not to think about it.
About how "No," (or, more accurately depicted: "NO!")
Wasn't a valid answer.
Or how my first line of defense
Was the 4,000+ page Civil War Encyclopedia
On my nightstand.

I try not to think
Of the ways I've been reduced to an object.
I try not to think of my silent tears,
Or wanting to light my skin on fire.

I try not to think of my older brother's anger,
Or the confusion and passive rage
When I explained what it meant to my little brothers'.

I try not to think of my foster mother,
Who instantly accused me of lying
Because I was too scared to come forward with it sooner.

I try not to think
About how I still kind of hate her for that.

I try not to think
About the male friends who told me to get over it.
About the male friends who didn't believe me until they asked him,
And judged his behavior about it for themselves.
About the male friends who didn't understand what the big deal was.

I try not to think
About the female friends who didn't want to believe me.
About the female friends who left because I became too difficult.
About the female friends who left because they were no longer the center of attention.
About the female friends who didn't want to understand because it was too much trouble.

I try not to think
Of the way it destroyed my relationships, six platonic, three familial, and one romantic.

I try not to think
Of how I want to blame myself,
Even though I'm better off without those people,
All of them.

I try not to think
About how it destroys me
Little by little,
But only on the bad days.

I try not to think
About how I was messed up
Long before that.
About how I was a possession to my father,
So becoming an object to another man
Was really no different.

I try not to think.

I scream into the void,
I guess I do that a little too often.

But I still scream,
Just like I have a million times:
"BREAK ME. SEE IF YOU CAN DO IT."

I taunt.

I laugh, and continue, "I answer to no man or god, and both have tried to break me. I cannot be broken for long."

And I feel heat.
Fire seizing my feet,
My legs,
My torso and arms,
Engulfing my eyes.

I am burnt to ash,
Burnt to nothing,
Just an ember shimmering and glimmering
In nothingness.

But there is no song sweeter
To bring forth life again,
Than that of a bluebird's.

And as the soft sound of chirping
Fills the nothingness with a bed of grass,
And a tree for my Bluebird to perch,
My embers still shiver and shimmer and glow.

When the light goes out within my embers,
My Bluebird dives down from his perch,
And pecks at my embers curiously.

"Give her time," Whispers the wind,
The rustling of leaves in the trees,
The soft caress of the grass.

My Bluebird sits and waits,
bringing the embers cupped flowers filled with sweet water,
And shiny rocks that I might've taken a liking to,
If I were not ash.

And in time,
Under the constellations that dance within his eyes,
And the galaxies that play within his heart,
Painted across the sky for the wind, the grass, and that lovely little tree,
To see,

I am pulled from golden starlight and grey ashes,
Dark soil and green grasses.

A very high chirping is heard,
And fluttering and hovering, is a Hummingbird.

And though I am still a little damp,
And still dusted with grey ash,
I float and hover towards my Bluebird,
And though I once never answered to man or god,
I am happy to flutter and fly together.

And as he, a Bluebird, and myself, a Hummingbird, flew and floated and spiraled ever higher,
The darkness of the void
Began to grow saplings and blossoming flowers.

Nothing is broken for long.

Falling is easy,
Especially when infatuated.
Infatuation causes a false sense of trust.
So you allow yourself to fall,
Thinking that someone of interest
Would catch you.

But they expect you to catch them.

And sooner or later,
The weight of each other is too much.

They weren't actually ready to care for someone else,
You cared too much.

You were a means to an end to them.
Whether it be you were good for their ego,
Or you were an ****** just waiting to happen,
You didn't actually matter.

Don't worry.
I get it.
I've been there, too.

Falling is easy.

But flying is harder.

Flying is a choice.
It is making the conscious decision to let go,
To jump that cliff.
It's having enough control not to tense up
Every muscle in your body,
And brace for the inevitable impact.

Here's a secret, though:
The impact isn't inevitable.

Because when you fly, you're carrying your own weight.
And when you feel yourself faltering, you have someone who is flying with you,
Who will make sure you don't hit the ground,
And you'll do the same for them.

Because you care so much,
And even though you know the pain of losing them would be mostly temporary,
You also know it would permanently damage parts of you.

But, surprise, surprise!
They feel the same way.

You're more than hormones and pheromones and all kinds of other types of moans.
You make them a better person,
By being their best friend and so much more.

And trust me,
Flying is harder than falling.
You have to weather through storm after storm,
And cloudy days,
And lightning and thunder,
And lots of rain.

But you can do it,
For yourself.
For them.
For both of you, together.

Because, I guess the whole point is:

Falling is infatuation.

Flying is love.

And while falling is easy,
Flying is much better.

I burnt myself making dinner again.

This time it was my arm, not my hand.

I want to be better.
I have to be better.

I know I have to be patient,
But it hurts me when I see that sliver
Of... whatever it is, in your eyes.

Maybe it's disappointment.
Maybe it's fear.

I know I have to get worse before I get better,

But I don't want to lose you.

I'm floundering
Here in darkness.

I aspire to be perfect.
But I'll never reach it.

You used to call me perfect,
And I knew then too
That it was just a syrupy sweet lie,
Whether you knew it or not.
It was comforting nonetheless.