I’m not sure when
or if
I was
ever taught to love my
body.

I can certainly talk
about the day I learned
to hate it though.
I learned that I was fat
when I was six years old.
I was let in on this
secret
by girls that
will never understand
what it feels
like to take up
too much space.

I’ve been grabbing at
the extra parts of myself
for more than a
fifteen years,
trying to pull them
taut
trying to be small
trying to be soft.

I wish I could
talk to my younger
self and tell her
that we are all
on a planet
that doesn’t even take up
1/1000th of this
Universe.

We are almost
non-existent when
looking at the expanse
of everything that
exists.
I feel relieved for
a second
remembering this
but
I feel bee-stings
when the realistic
overpowers
the optimistic
“sure,
the universe is gigantic
but you
are still large
among the tiny”.

I’ve run into friends
I haven’t seen in
awhile
and
explained my body
to them,
disclaiming my existence.
“I’m trying to
work it off”

I’ve been
apologizing
for my everything
below my neck
for 15 years.

In the past year and
a half,
I gained 50 lbs.
No one told me,
and I held it
like a bubble
in my mouth,
as if it would pop
at any minute
and the world
could be as ashamed
of myself as
I was.

I’m down
20 pounds
and I wish I could
say that I started
doing this for myself.
To be a “better me”,
I didn’t.
Everyone knows
why I started it.

Despite my ever
evolving
state of mind,
I’ve learned self-love
15 years later.

I’m doing better,
I’m existing better,
I’m getting better.

There is no intersection
between
who she is
and who she
will be.
The two do
not connect.
They feel like parallel
lines while she stands
idly by
watching
her future
flat line
in to a chasm
of space she no
longer understands.

Right now feels
like a steady pilgrimage,
there are no hills
there has been no ******.
I don’t know
why everything
feels stale right now
and neither does she.


I have told her
that she will
have to work.
She will have
to try.
Talking
about her hate
won’t work
anymore.
She knows.

I have smiled at
her.
She won't make
eye contact.

She doesn’t
smile back,
she keeps her eyes
locked on the grain
of the wood beneath her.

I love her,
but she doesn’t
return the favor.
She hasn’t in
months.

But
I think things will
change.
I think they will
be better soon.
I looked
at her in the mirror
the other day, and she
no longer sees me
through
peripheral vision.

I hope
one day
she will remember
everything
she was
before all
of this.

This is a pattern
of my self loathing
and I only write this
because I think
it is changing.
I will have to
bear with
myself.

I told
myself
“I love you”
in the mirror.
I didn’t respond,
but I did
smile.

If there is
no other message
for you tonight,
take this with a grain
of salt.
You are not
the saddest parts
of yourself
they are apart of
you,
you don't need them
they need you
and it will change,
they will change.

I will change.

I tried
to run my hands
through my hair
realizing I’d never
get to be anyone else.

Every tangle I catch
is another
stretch of road
I won’t see,
every knot
is the buzz of
bees in my gut
when I think
of what I don’t
know.

My biggest
regret
is I will never see
my past selves.
The lives I
lived before this one.
The people
I met, and
the things I saw.
The words I spoke
and the experiences I had.

My life
hasn’t been lackluster,
I’ve seen enough,
but not a lot.
I dream about courage,
and what
it would feel like
to stand
in a different place.

I know Nebraska
well enough to know
that it doesn’t love me back.
My feet
are arched,
they deserve more
than this
flat
land.

I love this state,
it seems that
we are in the middle
of everything
but
it flat lines
into oblivion
and I want to be a tick,
I want to be a pulse,
I want to feel.

So forgive me when
I say that
I need more
than this place
sometimes,
I need more
than this life
sometimes
I need more
than myself
sometimes.

Right now
I’d fall down
a flight of stairs
if it means
I'll have a story
to tell later.

I do my best
to punch the sky
I envy it
for continuing
to see more than I can.

My hands
are getting caught
in my hair,
and maybe I just need
someone else’s for awhile.

I have a problem with
keeping my own secrets.
I don’t know how to
stop talking.

There are words
we should reserve
just for ourselves
and I can’t quiet
myself long
enough to remember that.

It scares me to think
that there is nothing
left for me.

I pull the words
out of myself
and then  wonder why
it makes me so sad.

It’s my own little
double standard.

My will power
runs low
and I can’t hold on.

It scares me to think
that there is nothing
I haven’t said.

It scares me to think
that everyone knows
what I’m about to say
before I say it.

I’ve always wanted to be
hard to read.
But I open my mouth
and I read myself.

My secrets
are rarely
serious.
They're never
even very
exciting,
but they are mine.

I hope one
day there is something
I take with me
when I’m gone.

I hope one day
there is something left
for me.

A sentence,
even a few words
that even God
doesn’t know.

Because you know
what Alexis,
it's nobody's
*******
business.

When I look down at
the ground
we are huge.
Our feet bear no resemblance
to their surroundings.
We disturb ants
on their way home
the hill,
we interrupt
the conversation
the locusts
were having
before we arrived.
When I look down
at the ground
I see lives
that could
go on without
me.
Their lives
would still
be intertwined
with one another’s
even if mine was not.
That’s comforting.

When I look up at
the sky
we are small.
To the birds we
are no bigger than a
leaf.
The galaxies
show us
lives once lived.
They’ve seen
years of life
I will know nothing about.
We are smaller
than one billionth
of our
universe.
My knowledge of
our sky extend
no farther
than what I can
see.
The sky meets the
horizon,
and the sun rises and sets
even if we aren't
there to see it.
It goes on forever
and we are a minuscule part of that.
That’s comforting.

When I look straight
ahead.
I see you.
That’s comforting.

Do you know what is common?
Anger.
Hate.
Sadness.
Disgust.
Judgment.

I am not strong
enough to tell
you that
its easy to
stick with
happy.
Sometimes happiness
can be the most
exhausting
emotion.
Happy
has no wiggle room
you either are
or you
aren’t.

I am not strong
enough
to tell
you that
its easy to
stick with
love.
Hearts
don’t heal
easy.
Some take
years
and even then
they’re still
tender.


I am strong
enough
to tell
you that
sad is
to difficult
a burden to
bear.
Sadness
wears on your
bones
like barbels.
It gets so
hard to
keep up.
Sadness
clouds your
mind
until all that’s left
are burnt
edges and a
few remnants
of happiness.

I am strong
enough
to tell
you that
love
will heal you.
Love will
straighten your
spine.
You will
see life
with a clear head
and a full heart.

I don’t
care to be
common

My words have
become muddled.
Nothing sounds like
poetry anymore
and that scares me.
I don’t hear like
I used to,
but
my sight
is
impeccable.

I’ve seen more
shades of green
than I even knew
could exist.
The sky doesn’t
set like it used to.
I used to see only yellow.
Now I see orange
And gold
And red
And love
And hope
And peace
And strength
And passion.

I should have written
about that
sunset
because it was beautiful.
And no memory I have
now
can even begin
to aptly describe it.

I haven’t written
in 83 days.
That time accounts
for two birthdays
twelve days of
camp counseling
one death
five pillows
one relationship
six bottles of Mike’s Hard
one sun tan
thirty-seven dates
and
one-thousand nine-hundred and ninety two hours
worth of
poems I
I was too lazy to write.
How dare I?


My words
aren’t so easily spoken
anymore.
My mind is reeling
for the correct
letter
to type.
I’m back to
poetry
and I
never should
have left