it's the color of your soulmates lips.
the color your cheeks get when you blow out your birthday candles and you feel happy,
actually happy to be alive another year.
it's the color of your morning coffee.
the color of your skin and how you love the way it looks in the sun.

i swear i was a tree in my past life,
for the way their branches dance in the wind,
i can feel that in my bones.
i want to dance with them too.

i am a piece of the blue sky.
there are parts of me that are sad like dark clouds that are about to cry.
but there are also parts of me that are as bright as the sun and sometimes,
if you capture my eyes
you can see galaxies and universes in them.

i love the way you lean in to touch my lips with yours.
the way your hands fit perfectly into mine.
how your voice sounds like soft pillows and the crisp crunch of autumn leaves.
the world is spinning for us,
soley us.

i was told by many that i don't really write when i'm happy.
i've always shrugged off the comments but now that,
i can confidently say i'm getting to a place where i'm mentally and physically happy,
it's true.
for words don't flow out as smoothly.
i want to cherish these moments, feeling the warm sun on my skin and smiling so much my cheeks hurt.
i want to hold these moments close and these moments are hard to describe in words other than bluntly saying them.
i woke up this morning and the sun shining through my window felt like a hug,
i didn't want to disintegrate into my sheets anymore.
i looked in the mirror,
i'm obviously breaking out but it doesn't bother me.
for i've even called my constellations cute and i've accepted them.
eating is slowly starting to feel okay,
very slowly but surely.
do you understand now how i can't put these small things into poems?
they are just what they are,
beautiful.
and if i don't create because i am this way,
then so be it.
for the first time in my recovery,
i want to live in the moment.

i wish i could understand why you did it.
but i don’t think i ever will.
why did you pretend to care for so long?
it was evident you didn’t, and still don’t.

i wish i could understand why i did it.
but i don’t think i ever will.
why did i let myself believe you for so long?
and; why does a a little part of me still believe

realistically i knew this would never work,
we would never work.
yet i let myself believe that what you said was true,
that you really were interested in me,
in pursuing a relationship with me.

but all of that blew up in my face, huh?

You miss a meal,
Then it turns to two,
A day passes,
And no one notices you.

Craving nutrition,
There goes a week,
Those many hours,
Longing for something to eat.

Using the same excuse,
"I'm not hungry, I just ate,"
The numbers keep dropping,
Was sixty-three, now fifty-eight.

You can't go back,
People are noticing you,
They say you should eat, and you say,
"You have something better to do."

It's harder than you think,
Just leave me alone!
Stop telling me to eat and drink!
If I need you, I can find my phone.

i remember leaving my aunts house,
another saturday barbecue they always had.
the cold winter air hitting my face and as my family and i walked to our car i already missed tonight.
i remember seeing fireflies and hearing frogs croak in the forest near their house.
smiling to myself,
i wanted to be like this forever.
but it's not anymore.
i haven't seen my aunt in months
nor my cousins
nor
my mom.
i didn't know time went by that fast until my birthday caught up with me again.
i haven't seen a firefly since the separation and it makes me feel like if those saturdays were ever real.

wants to be my friend, for I am poet-woman nineteen.

she is sweet but sad. super sad.

a good poet who wants to guide me.

but there/theirs is the odor, not faint, of wants wanting,
the pus of corruption behind the curtains,
the Wizard-ess of Oz's
special blackout curtains.

seen how easy, how her illusions,
my medium rare rejections,
morph into her delusions,

and her delusions devolve into
her conspiracy theories.

"SHE will be my mentor, poetess lover, teacher for no charge!"

my parents thinks it's great, she wants (to be) skin in my game.

my parents will find this poem accidentally, exactly,

how I do not want
to be skinned alive.

for I am poet-woman nineteen and still! now, long past
the point of being fooled, the point of no return.

and see no point,
have no intention,
of returning to either valley

no more con the my mind into letting my body
be-fused.^  

that ain't me babe.