I’ve never received a flower
Or even a rose
But I’m a guy
So it’s acceptable I suppose
No kisses
Or sweets
No treats
That signifies ones feelings for me
No token of ones love
But I have gotten
Disappointment
Watered with hate
Planted in betrayal
Fertilized with lies
And maintained by fakes
Roses are Red
But my roses are dead
And crumble beneath my feet

“Don’t talk to me in that tone!”
Yes, mother, I apologize for my insolent self.

“Why can’t you be more like your brother? He’s younger than you!”
Yes, mother, I apologize for my insolent self.

“You need to lose weight! You’re too fat!”
Yes, mother, I apologize for my insolent self.

“I am the mother! You are the daughter! I own you!”
Yes, mother, I apologize for my insolent self.

“You are such a disappointment.”
I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry mother.
I’m not the daughter you expect of me.
I will be better.

Why am I never good enough for you?
You comment on my flaws, constantly, diminishing my already low self-esteem.
You compare me to others, saying how I should be more “like them.”
Will you love me if I’m compliant with your every wish?
I’m sorry I’m not your perfect daughter.
Stop reminding me that you love my brother more than me.

I’m sorry.
For being who I am.
For being different.
For bringing you pain.
For not being enough.

Please. Stop. Don't.
Your words. Won't leave.
My head. Hurts.
I don't want to listen.
Make it stop.
I can't take it anymore.
SHUT UP!

I’m sick of listening.
I’m sick of you.
I hate myself.
I hate you.

I know.
I should be more like him.
I know.
I am not perfect.
I know.
I do not have your love.
I know.
You hate me.
I KNOW.
I’m a disappointment.

I was 6 years old and my mother
said I had words in my mouth
that came from an old woman's tongue.
Words and letters came to me
before I knew how to
open my unripe jaw

I was 8 years old and my teacher
told me to speak more
that the words I had on paper
were too grand to be ignored.
- but I was too silent and too afraid
of all the mouths that would open
before I could whisper "Just wait."

I was 11 years old and my brain
spoke so loud it was screaming
at my tongue to move
but before I formed a syllable
but before my jaw opened
my raised hand was ignored.

I am 18 now and my heart
finds comfort in the secret familiarity
of bleeding what my brain cannot
release onto pages and pages
of blood
of sweat
of tears
of poems that mark the place of a girl
well beyond her years.

Stuck between war and peace
Can’t win the fight
Won’t bend the knees

Stuck between cradle and grave
Can’t be a prince
Won’t be a knave

Stuck between the earth and sky
Can’t plant some roots
Won’t let it fly

Stuck between night and day
Can’t silence it
Won’t let it say

Stuck between the head and toe
Can’t keep it in
Won’t let it show

Stuck between a truth and lie
Can’t breathe in life
Won’t let it die

Stuck between joy and woe
Can’t burn it down
Won’t let it grow

Stuck between a yes and no
Can’t make it up
Won’t let it go

There's so much wisdom in an oak,
with its' dying breath,
of that tree-
I admired the courage it took to change.
Baring a naked soul after shedding layers,
Reds, golds, and oranges-
Cascading down the streets.
In my moments of mourning
I realized-
We don't hold funerals for trees.

—V.H.