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Etched in floor boards,
underneath the **** rug
were my initials before they
changed.

Carved into my forearm
was my favorite date,
when I had changed and
become a better person,
but the scar healed over.

I have lost the original sting,
the pain I had given myself
to make me feel again.
And I shielded it with bandages
and ugly rugs that hid my pain
and my floor. My low points.

I am a curve ball without a
place to land,
and though I hate it,
it is starting to feel like
home.
A pretty little photo frame,
dusted every day.
The pretty little picture frame,
on the mantle you will stay.
A pretty little something,
to brighten up my day.
Oh, but, only when I say.

That pretty little frame,
but the photo seems so faded.
It's black and grey and worn,
but don't bother to repair it,
don't dare be that warm.

Ignore that little photograph,
it's not as pretty as it once was.
Wait til need replaces it,
this has never been its home.

That pretty little photo frame,
is broken by the guidance.
That pretty little picture frame,
has fallen and grown dark.
That pretty little something,
is not pretty anymore.
Because, alas, I have decided,
it is not my favorite anymore.
I do not let my horoscope define me.
The stars have also been a reminder that
I am far smaller than I sometimes feel,
but they have not written my life for me.

I disregard the nature of the Taurus
and the instinct of the Leo,
and I decide to write myself instead.

I do not allow my bruised legs and
black lipstick to show me for a deviant,
but I also forbid my floral braids and
ruffled skirts to show me as naiive.

I put aside my daisy crowns,
and burn my tattered jeans,
because I am not a symbol
of the articles I wear
nor a victim of how they
draw me up.

I hardly let my fair skin and my
green eyes tell anyone anything
about me that might make them cry,
instead I tell my pout and my feet ro
tell them that I am stand-offish and
do not crave the questions.

I do not let my lashes draw the boys
or my shape attract the men.
I paint myself in tainted colors
and wait for hell to make its mark on me.

I am discovering that,
I hide too much of myself to be a person,
and am fading into an idea instead.
hmm..
I had spent years in circles,
chasing things that do not exist.
I had dug through the dirt, finding nothing,
and had spent long hours in the rain.

I had dug several pin holes for growing,
but my seeds never did sprout.
I would cross all my fingers, then hold my breath,
but still I spotted no stems.

I had wept when the waiting grew longer.
Alone in the dark, was my least favorite place
and my flowers did not keep me company.

I had spent years holding onto nothing.
False fed hope was the source of my life.
The hope that I might see my flowers,
not the dirt, nor the weeds, nor the strife.

One day the rain had stopped falling,
so I tore all the thorns from my knees.
I hoped that maybe the silence,
might bring some life to my seeds.

By the time I had realized that
years had gone by,
I was lost in my garden and thoughts.

For years I had given all of myself
to those who did not give back.
They took all I had to give and
still did not love me back.

Plagued with the thought
I was taken for granted,
I lifted myself to my feet.
I could not stand the sight of something so lovely,
who did not see the same in me.

Just as I had decided,
I was leaving it all behind.
Something so soft and tender,
caught the corner of my eye.

In the back of my garden stood brightly,
a beautiful Daisy so tall.
A beautiful little flower,
who had seemed the loveliest of all.
It took more than a list of reasons,
and an empty bottle of wine to convince me.
I am worth what I have to offer,
and what I have to offer is slim.

I have designated the role of Savior,
to myself, the one who has always fallen.
Especially when mirrors are shattering,
and pencils are breaking,
all because I cannot handle my emotions.

I am weaker than I imagine and
I am stronger than I tell my friends.
I have lost the ability to portray myself
as a fighter should.

My list of reasons is running long,
as to how pathetic and self-loathing
I have come to be.
I find myself in mirrors

but I crack each one I see.

I cannot stand the sight of me

especially when I am breaking at

my seams.

Do not mistake my vulnerability for

my weakness, or my valleys

because I swear that it is not.

I am just as fragile as I was yesterday.

And I suppose like fallen soldiers,

with every if and or but.

But i cannot dig myself out of my coffin

because they have already poured the dirt

and I am stuck.

But you trapped me like a victim.

I reached for you  with my hands.

but you shuddered and ignored me

and left me in my place

where I could not escape from,

and could not keep my face.
Tearing at the seams,
of the string that keeps me wound.
Ripping at the stitches of the
patches I've created;
I am far too broken now to
become whole again.

It left me in a sudden,
and I should have started running,
but I settled in this place to call
my home.

But now I've lost my something,
and I wish that I was running,
but Im glued and sewn into my
solitude.

If I were alone, I'd be better,
but I'm torn and I'm sewn into
a sort of, community sweater,
where I cannot detach myself again.

Dreams fell as they were dying;
I swear I should have been crying,
but I was filled with a sadness
that I cannot re-create.

So, tearing at the seams,
that I though might keep me collected,
but I've realized lately that,
I'm never long connected.
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