what a life it is
to live in love
with an ideal self.
to be in love with one
who doesn't exist,
not even in fiction,
only in the realm of your mind.
what a life it is
to look in the mirror
and feel your soul shatter
but when you look away,
you can pretend you are
the version of you that you see in your head.
I'm not the only one. I know it.
Biographers say that Sylvia Plath was in love with her dream self, encompassed in a strange egotistical fantasy.
I live in that same fantasy.
How do I make fantasy me
the real me?

Let me love you. Let me make out with you, then trail my lips from your neck all the way down to just above the waistband of your underwear. Just imagine the feeling of my lips hovering just above that sweet spot where your hot desire is growing. My warm breath across your skin, my lips and tongue and gentle touch in the perfect spot, igniting a flame in the deepest depths of you, striking a match in your heart. Imagine my hands under your thighs, just slightly holding your legs up while I kiss and lick and ****. Imagine how the warmth and tingling sensation will travel up your spine and into your head and back down your chest while you breathe, heavy and sporadic. Imagine how much harder you'll get when you see me come up to breathe, smirking smugly, my **** in the air, covered in lacy *******, my hair a mess from you sliding your hands in and out of it, my lips wet, my ******* aching hard and straining my bra. Think about running your hands all along those full curves, like two berries, ripe and ready to be picked. Hold them gently, as if one too-tight squeeze could break them. Kiss my lips as if one too-hard kiss could shatter them to pieces like a wineglass on a wooden floor. Touch me like I'm made of porcelain and listen to me moan "I love you. I love you. I love you."
Do you miss me now?

i am
a sinner.
my insides tainted, my sweet pink heart
is stained a dark deep brown.
my lips beg for more.
more of the sweet taste,
just a bit more of Heaven.
my brain shouts
"no!
not a single bite more of the wretched sin!"
my tongue tastes sour
my stomach lurches and up come my sins,
reflected in the concerned ripples
deep in your ocean-blue eyes.
the words sour, i retch and fall
lifeless
into your arms.

hot baths, breakdowns, too close, too loud. lost, alone, confused, worthless. self-image, self-confidence, self-love. questions. "What do you want to be when you're older?" "Where are you going to college?" "How are your grades?"
How are my grades? How am I! I'm breaking down every night, crying in the shower, trashing the organized file cabinet of my mind, scouring every inch of my consciousness trying to find out who I am. Emotionally unstable. Lost. Mentally unstable. Lost.
Ask me how I am.

There once was a boy with bones of obsidian and onyx eyes.
He held me as if all that was beneath my
thickly woven sweater sleeves was my
hollow crystal skeleton.
He held me up to the light like
seaglass he discovered on the beach
and let the sunset filter through me.
One night the onyx in his eyes was sparkling with glints of ruby
and what he didn't know when he
wrapped his hand around my neck and squeezed too tight,
reached into my chest and stole an artery from my rose quartz heart
and an amethyst knuckle from my ring finger,
was that beneath my rose-gold toenails
were leaden feet.
I kicked him swiftly in the groin and ran.
Then came a boy with sapphire eyes.
When he touched me, I felt polished and clean.
He was the first boy I let
take off my knitted sweater.
He stroked the smooth surface of my bones
and when he shattered them,
he would help me repair them.
Between the cracks of my translucent skeleton
are slivers of the shiniest sapphire
you've ever seen.

pink daisies
from my loving sister
smile on my desk.
their petals are sagging, but
their color is still bright.
their smiling faces bask in the sunlight,
bathed in warmth and light.
pink orchids among them,
and small pink flowers
of unknown name.
green leaves shoot out and frame the pink.
white baby's breath
and green ferns
are dying in a glass vase on my nightstand.
it's sick of me to keep dying flowers.
but they,
like me,
are withering.
the only difference being that they
wither gracefully
while i die
an ugly death.

december is near.
blink your eyes,
december is here.
here come the platters piled high with
sins.
is this really "the most wonderful time of the year'?
god, it all
looks
so
good.
the whispers curl around my ears.
no. no.  fat. calories. crunches. jumping jacks. calories. fat. weight.
the holidays aren't about family.
this is war.
this is about self-control.
this is about my honor.
on goes the lip gloss, the too-big dresses
so nobody notices how fat i am.
"have you lost weight?"
stop making fun of me.
"aren't you going to eat?"
i'm nauseous. lies
i already ate. lies
i'm eating later. lies
don't touch me.
don't hug me.
don't speak to me.
surrounded by sins
calories
fat
bait for their traps.
*just one bite?

floating, flying, faltering smoke.
a cloud in the brisk winter air.
orange tip bouncing in the 4 AM darkness.
the silence before dawn is the perfect time
to smoke a cigarette.
watch your worries floating with the wisps of smoke.
away, away, away.
dissipating.
dissipating.
the boy you love is gone.
dissipating.
your confusion still remains.
dissipating.
he couldn't fix you.
breathe in.
only you can fix yourself.
breathe out.
birds chirp.
dissipating.
a car drives by.
breathe in.
the stars watch.
breathe out.
the sun is coming up.
dissipating.
a little fire over the horizon, the sky pink like the soft, innocent skin of a newborn.
dissipating.
your wayward heart throbs.
breathe in, breathe out.
the smoke floats.
your confusion remians.
the darkness.
dissipating.
dissipating.
dissipating.
breathe in.
breathe out.
breathe in.

i try to woo you with my
slightly poetic words.
speed up your wayward heartbeat,
bring a red flush to your kissable cheeks.
normally, my attempts are futile.
you reply with an indifferent "okay", and i am silent.
i am lost as to how i can make you fall in love with me.
i am not a cute girl who wears sweaters and drinks cocoa and reads.
i am a confused girl who changes daily, feels lost, loves self harm, and reads.
i wish i only knew
what kind of girl you desire.
i would be that girl in a heartbeat.

Poison courses through my veins,
jealousy erodes my bones.
The acid of negativity is leaving me nothing more than a shell.

Golden days
Golden rays
Golden streets
Golden wheat
Golden strands of gorgeous hair
Golden dandelions in the air.
Golden ring
Angels sing
“Praise He who created
Everything”
Golden tears
Golden years
Golden leaves
Golden keys
Beautiful, loving heart of gold
Gave up beating
in days of old.

Religion has always been shaky ground for me.
I believed in God
until I was 11
and he killed off my baby sister.
After that, I had no God.
When I was 13, I began to pray again
and wear that sacred cross
around my neck on a dainty chain.
When I was 15, I fell in love with you.
I stopped praying.
My cross was replaced by a silver heart pendant.
A symbol of your love.
I fell asleep waiting for a text
from you every night,
so many nights in a row that praying became so out of routine that I didn't even try it anymore.
Now, you've left.
I have no God, once more.
Faith is such a scary thing. It's like walking out onto a frozen lake without checking the thickness of the ice first.
Tragically, our ice was paper thin.
I've fallen into the deep, cold waters of heartbreak.
My heart is a block of ice now.
Amen.

click-clack
my ever typing keyboard
keeps my family awake.
click-clack
my words pour out.
senseless confusion of teenage years.
not yet wise, but too old to be dumb.
i'm too young to start my life, too young to have experiences,
so i write about people who live.
click-clack*
soon i'll lose motivation as my mother utters a groggy
"Lights out, sweetie."
"Okay momma. Goodnight, I love you."
a walk to the bathroom.
brush my teeth, crawl into the warm covers.
thoughts i can't fathom into words
still running rampant in my
young mind.

i'm stopped at a red light.
it's dark.
my cigarette bobs
up and down.
the traffic driving by
creates a soothing sound.
i am free.
i'm gone from that confining place.
i smell smoke and night air.
the light is green.
green means go.
go to the great perhaps.
live like your life is a book.

You, my darling.
You've tried so hard to be soft, beautiful, quiet, slim, polite, perfect; a rose with no thorns.
Don't try to be something you're not.
My love, do not let the world chop off your thorns. Hang on to them. They are the difference between you and the wildflower next to you, and the orchid beside her. You are all different.
Don't cut off your thorns.
Love yourself.

flushed cheeks
from your cold walk here.
your red jacket
scented with smoke.
white snowflakes
rest in your fluffy hair.
is your hair blonde or brunette?
i always wonder.
you're so smart.
but you're such a ditz.
your hair is ***** blonde.
your eyes are the color of a winter morning's sky.
a beautiful blue-gray.
the kind of eyes
that are gray when sad,
blue when happy.
i crave that blue
but lately i've been getting your gray.
i miss your smile.
that smile you think is yellow?
the teeth you're sure are crooked beyond compare?
they're adorable.
you're perfect.
smoke scented, snow laced you.

the sky is gray and so are your eyes.
the rose you gave me is as red as the tip of your nose in the winter
and the blue ocean waves are the same color as the veins in your hands.
your eyes flicker like the flame of a candle when you're angry.
i remember how i felt when you first held my hand every time i put on a sweater fresh out of the dryer
or when i take the first sweet sip of my morning coffee.
i remember listening to the wayward beat of your heart as we snuggled
and the rain fell outside.
i see your face when i wring my hands and i
hear your voice in my dreams.
i see you in everything. i must be falling for you.
the thought of you leaving makes my stomach hit rock bottom.

she used to be a collector of the shards of broken hearts
but now she collects whole, happy hearts, the hearts she's stolen
jumping in jars on her bookshelf.
her petal lips part in a demure smile
she shows her teeth because she no longer has to hide ****** fangs
her delicate hands are covered in baby-soft skin,
washed clean of bloodstains
she likes to bake now
instead of ****
and she writes poetry
instead of obituaries

snow.
glittering
rainbow colors.
the sun shines.
isn't it ironic that
although the sun melts the snow,
the sun still makes the snow look so beautiful?
we appreciate its beauty
hell, i'm writing ****** poetry about it!
while it is dying.
melting.
disappearing as we watch it.
a beautiful death.

i'm an angel with a loaded gun
and a razor sharp tongue.
don't love me,
i'll **** you with a smile.

i love to be sad.
not because it's beautiful,
no,
cutting your skin is not beautiful.
it is ugly and messy/
i like sadness because it helps me keep
my sharp tongue in my mouth
and my lips closed tight.
don't you say things you regret when you're soaring up in the happy sky?
i do.
it is not beautiful.
but what is also ugly
is losing interest in pleasing your partner
and reading your books
and eating
and drinking
and living.
it is not beautiful.
it is a hindrance
but i love it.

YOUR LIFE IS NOT A BOOK.
DISTANCING YOURSELF FROM EVERYBODY
DOESN'T MAKE YOU DESIRABLE.
IT MAKES YOUR FRIENDS LEAVE
AND YOUR PARENTS WORRY.
LAYING IN BED ALL DAY
FIGHTING NONSTOP WITH YOUR BOYFRIEND
WATCHING NETFLIX, BINGING ON CHOCOLATE AND HATING YOURSELF AFTER
THESE ARE NOT POETIC THINGS
YOUR LIFE IS NOT A BOOK
NOBODY IS GOING TO LOVE YOU FROM A DISTANCE
NOBODY IS GOING TO NOTICE LITTLE THINGS
LIKE HOW YOU TALK WHEN YOU'RE SAD
AND HOW YOUR EYES LIGHT UP WHEN YOU THINK OF THAT BLADE.
NOBODY THINKS YOUR MASOCHISTIC TENDENCIES ARE "CUTE"
NOR ARE THEY "NORMAL" OR "NICE" OR "GOOD"
NOBODY WILL GET YOU HELP.
YOU HAVE TO DO THAT.
NOBODY WILL LOVE YOU IF YOU PITY YOURSELF.
LEARN ABOUT THE WORLD.
LEARN ABOUT YOURSELF.
FIND OUT WHAT YOU LIKE TO WEAR
FIND OUT WHAT YOU LIKE TO DO
AND DO THAT.
GET HAPPY. NOBODY ELSE CARES IF YOU'RE HAPPY.
YOU HAVE TO SAVE YOURSELF FROM YOU.
YOU ARE NOT A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS.
THE DAMSEL IN THIS STORY
SAVES HERSELF.
JUMP OUT OF THE CASTLE, RAPUNZEL.
GET HAPPY AND GO LIVE.
LIFE IS SHORT.
DON'T WASTE IT.

I'm so restless. I could scream. Pent-up energy bubbling and moving inside me and making my movements fast and erratic.

the sky is frosty gray today. gray like smoke from my glowing cigarette.
snow dances on my windowpanes.
the world is a black and white picture.
i lay on my bed, wrapped in tear-soaked sheets that still smell like you,
your jacket wrapped around me.
the roses you gave me are dying
much like my love for you.
i know i promised you forever,
but my forever will be short.
the lights wrapped around my headboard
glitter and twinkle through the blur of my tears.
i still love you.
i am a lost teenager, just trying to find her way.
you are helping me into the dark forest of sadness
when i crave the bright, warm sand on beaches of peace
and softly rolling waves of pure innocence against my toes.
the smoke floats in front of me,
and i feel more lost than ever before.
you've made me lose myself.
i've lost myself in the haze of smoke, where i can see only you.
your sadness is my sadness; your happiness, mine.
is that love? or do you have too much control over my emotions?
these are my feelings. they are not yours to dictate.
i am a free bird. i am smoke floating on the cold winter wind.
i'm sorry.

you've got the voice of an angel
and your words are lyrics to the song of your heart.
you move smoothly like a melody
and you flow into my arms.
you are harmonic and smooth and melodic.
you are the music of my life.