I wish I was beautiful,
with  diamonds in my eyes,
and flowers in my hair.

I wish I was sweet,
like the scent of subtle lavender,
and cherries on my lips.

I wish I was delicate,
like watercolor stained glass,
and you, holding me like I might
flutter away any second.

I wish I was lovely,
with my heart on my sleeve,
and adoration on my face.

I wish I was graspable,
like something soft to get you by,
yet something hard enough
so you'd never say goodbye.

I wish I was beautiful,
with light pink fingertips,
and a smile on my face.

I wish I could identify,
with all the words you call me.
But I am not as pretty or,
as fragile, or as lovely,
as you say I can be.

Her fingertips were bruised,
and her ribs were lined with dust.
Beneath the bones, all but crushed,
lays a heart, broken but blushed.

Her eyes were left with tears,
that not all happiness was real.
She would bend and snap,
if, it was all still black.

Her lips were laced with blood,
and her teeth were spilling lies.
He didn't care for how she was,
he left her own her own.

"It can be my fault."
was her favorite lie.
It was down on her hand,
it was under her eye.

It was like a hurricane,
steadily growing worse.
How could such a good girl
be burdened with a curse?

She's waiting for a statue.
That is not the way.
She's crying on the staircase.
That is not the way.

Her collar is warn and breaking,
her elbow holds a crack.
She pretends not to notice,
that she's drowned in blue
and black.

She pretends she isn't falling.
That is not the way.
She's telling her friends she's okay.
That is not the way.

She wipes off her mascara
and the lines all down her cheeks.
This is not the way.

II.

She cleaned up the coffee table
and the rips in the brand new couch.
She watered the flowers he bought her,
but made sure nobody knew.

"That is not the way."
he said,
but she only shook her head.

She always said she didn't notice,
the darkness on her back.
She was sick of hearing,
what might be the way.

Her friends said she seemed
different,
because she didn't call them
on Saturday night anymore.
Why?

"Listen, this isn't the way."
he said it again like
suddenly she might hear him.

"It's all okay."
"You don't understand."
"This is the way."

He didn't take it and
instead he packed her bags.
He said he couldn't take it,
he wouldn't let her sink.

He stole her like a story,
and told her someplace else.
He didn't let any darkness,
capture her with madness.

He swore that she was fragile;
she said that she was strong.
Never for once in her life,
did she ever might think she was
wrong.

III.

Somewhere in the papers,
was a name with a dark face.
When she saw the headline,
she tossed it off the stairs.

Her friends has lost their contact,
and her mother had worried her head.
She ignored all of the letters,
and bathed in the light instead.

She looked at him like dreaming,
and saw the light again.
She always overlooked it,
but it was always him.

He served her with a smile,
and held her pink finger tips.
She told  him she was sorry,
and that she should have trusted him.
But he told her to never
say that again.

I want to watch Sci Fi movies
in the dark, and eat raspberries
off my fingertips,
and drown myself in red velvet cake.

I want to listen to that song you played me
last week because you said it
reminded you of me,
and that I was so very special.

I want to make your famous
'everything-but-the-kitchen-sink' sundaes,
at 3 in the morning,
and watch horrible 80s horror movies.

I want to write down every reason
why I think you're so lovely,
and hide them in your house,
so when you find them,
you think of me,
and you're okay.

I want to watch you play guitar,
and make paper airplanes out of
sheet music,
because you are far too restless
to stay put all day.

I want to hold your hand,
and leave lipstick on your cheek,
and laugh at that silly joke
you told (again).

I want to draw you pictures,
and drink coffee in the dark;
eat ice cream in the Winter time,
and read the ending, before,
the start.

I want to send you roses,
and find one way to define love.
I don't know if I know it,
but I know one thing for sure,
that if and when I do,
I might only find it, with
you.

I cannot make decisions on my own.
I feed myself the comments of the people
who surround me, and make their thoughts
my own.

Life seems like a boardgame,
with way too many choices.
But I cannot make these choices,
for myself.

The color of my hair,
and the way my laces are tied,
do not reflect the way I may
want things to be.

I cannot choose
anything.
For myself, that is.

I let people mold me,
and form me,
and push their feelings on me.

I feel bad.
When people don't agree with me
I feel like I let them down.
I hate to disappoint
anyone,
but
I always disappoint myself.

I think you've covered up your sadness with
fancy perfume and that red lipstick you bought
in the 7th grade.

I think you erase each aspect of your personality
with cover-up and golden bangles,
and something else you read on the cover of
Cosmopolitan while you were waiting in line
at the grocery store.

I know you exiled every person who meant the
world to you because they began to know too much,
like how many times you brush your teeth a day
and what you pray for before you go to sleep.

You think I don't notice the way you look away
when you're surrounded by all your friends
and they're talking and laughing,
and you're "happy."

I think you smeared your red lipstick on
purpose because you knew I'd feel
too bad to leave you on your own
and I'd try to save you again.

Instead I wrote you a letter,
about why I think you're different,
and I taped it to your front door
and wrote your name on the front so only you would read.

So put on your red lipstick,
and gloss up your eyes again
because I am afraid you might be breaking,
and at least at one time those
very things held you
together.

Flowers should be growing,
not wilting at the touch.

They should be flourishing,
and blooming. With new colors every moment,
and a sway in their stem towards the Sun
that will help them only become
more beautiful.

Flowers should be cared for and watered,
not repaired, or mended,
or plucked from their homes to be
fixed someplace else.

I find beauty in prosper,
and in flowers.
In the new-ness that should come our way.
We should be blooming and growing
like flowers,
not falling, or wilting,
in grey.

I didn't even notice
the tears in my arms and legs,
because there wasn't one through my chest,
or through my paper heart.

The little slashes were endless,
but I ignored them all I could.
Tears in fabrics and laces are
easy to repair,
and I'll patch myself up quickly.

I changed my wear like paper clips,
and pulled all the tape from my hair.
I promised I'd keep it safe, still,
I tried to pretend I didn't care.

Crimple me,
and tear me.
Stash me in a frame.
Make me pleasing to appear,
and very nice to see.

Paint me like a china doll;
pour me in a vase.
I can be just as lovely as,
you'd dress me up to be.

But in the wind I falter,
and the water washes me away.
I may be 'nice' to look at,
but it'll never stay.