Scrape the sides of my stomach for emotion.
I know it's in there somewhere;
somewhere past the flesh-eating butterflies and yesterday's *****.

You say you'll help me swim,
But only when I'm drowning.
Those words **** my butterflies and fill their space with warmth.

Treading water in the murky pool of blood in my brain has never been easy;
a lifeguard may be just what I need.

You're not a physic,
You're not a doctor,
But you're helping,
And I can't thank you enough.

The world turns a dusty shade of indigo.
Peach lipstick smiles and damp car windows pull us miles closer.

"The sky was painted just for us,"
I want to tell him.

But truth be told, I don't even know the artist's name.

Maybe the inky landscape has always been here; viewed countess times by many such as ourselves.
The infinite dreamers who feel entitled to its beauty.

But I know the truth,
and I have a feeling he does too.
The world is not mine and mine alone.
It belongs to you and I and everyone between.

So as we gaze into the galaxy around us,
It somewhat comforts me to know that we are not alone.

Small girl, my young girl;
Picturing an older copy.
A makeup wearing, boy crazed machine of intellect and grace.
A rare thought but a strong one.

Older but not old enough.
Missing bolts and screws;
Somehow still working.
I see something in a mirror that makes my organs plummet through the floor.
I'm not her.
Never have been;
Never will be.

Big girl, but not large enough.
Hair fallen out and swollen gums.
Bruised skin and flushed face.
Ripped soul but a full heart.

The mirror tells the same story,
But in a different font.
My once hollow skeleton is now filled with music and chipped paint.
I am the same damaged goods.
I am ripped skin and muffled coughs,
Cookie dough ice cream and kisses on the cheek.

I'd gotten so lost from my former-self that I didn't realize something now obvious:
I never stopped being her.
I will never stop being her.

I will never be young enough, old enough, happy enough, brave enough.
But I am me;
and I am more than enough.

A broken bicycle left without repair,
a lonely ghost weeping in despair.
This is me, and I am this.
And as long as I'm living,
I will never be kissed.

A fantasy,
pushed far into the corner,
for he is a newborn,
while I am a mourner.

But suddenly I'm in his glow;
his golden heart upon my skin.
Now it's harder than ever,
to try and let him in.

I like him,
that's barely a fact.
I am a daisy and
only bees shall I attract.

He likes me,
this is flimsily known,
but if he is a sun,
he melts my bones.

Seventeen girls are lined up on a sidewalk;
Each one a year older than the one beside her.

Hello, One.
All things pure and graceful.
A perfect accident that would put a nebula to shame.
You aren't anything, yet you are so loved.

How do you do, five?
A cluster of merriment and wonder.
I'm sure you're well.
Tell the fairies I still love them.

Hi, Fourteen.
You're nailed in a blizzard,
And I'm sorry.
Lighting yourself on fire will not prevent you from dying.
You will make it.

Good evening, sixteen.
You are kind and harsh; everything you should be.
You're the girl every child is scared to become.

Hello, seventeen.
You're here, you're alive;
And that's all you need to be.
You've been cut, killed, milked and fed to dogs.
Yet you're still here.

But on the opposite side of the pavement, I see more.
Eighteen, nineteen, twenty.
I can see for miles.

I've only been able to read about the past.
I can mail old friends,
re-watch films.

But for the first time in my existence,
I can see a future.

I see girls learning, loving and growing in ways that I can't yet understand.

That's why I thank you;
All of you.
One through seventeen.
You have nearly killed me,
But I owe everything to you.

Close your eyes.
What do you see?
Darkness, maybe.
Or do you see colours?

Fluorescent , vibrant hues of wonders;
Dancing under your eyelids.
The sun, sending warm tangerine waves into you.
The moon, kissing you goodnight with rich inky indigos and blues.

Cover your ears.
What do you hear?
Silence, maybe.
Or do you hear voices?

Expired conversations that replay differently each time.
****** retro punk tunes you can't remember the names of.
You send yourself letters when no other sound can be heard.
Your address is never forgotten and nothing is left unsaid.
  
You don't need light to see.
You don't need noise to hear.
Just look and listen ,
and you will feel.

The poems you don't read
Are the poems I don't write.
The wandering thoughts and puzzle
Pieces that are never found or placed.
The urge to scream,
Or blend into a puddle of melted candy.

I know what you like.
You enjoy the colour pink and sound of pianos and feeling sad.
But the good kind of sad.

I know what you need.
You need to love yourself.
Or at least like yourself.
You need to breathe and create.
You need to dance and breathe.
Please.
Just.
Breathe.

The poems I don't type aren't raw
Or artsy or beautiful or ugly.
They are scared and lonely and everything that I can't put into words.

The poems I don't write are simultaneously the best and the worst.
I don't understand them and it terrifies me.
That's why I don't write them.