Fire burning brightly
Lulling me to sleep
Lapping my face with warmth
Beside you i feel safe
But fire, my dear friend, you have          
a dangerous streak
Heating to burning;
Comforting to disturbing

But right now you’re lulling me to sleep
i’m not watching you close enough to see
as you leap out at me.

You are soooo pretty
This hallow phrase is practically screamed in a girls ear daily; serving as a reminder that her worth lies in how much mascara she clumped onto her eyes or how cinched up is her size.
The praise that we give little girls has to do with the way she dresses or how her curly locks bounce.
We love to tell them, "you are so cute!" because all of a sudden, her mouth curls into a silly little grin because it is already cemented in her brain at age four that she is worth her beauty rather than her character or her brains.
Then in adolescence it seems mom is just grappling to let her poor child know that she is still pretty even though puberty has her popping pimples and crimping her hair with an iron that smells like burned rubber.
Our attempts to fix insecurities are just confirmations of their priorities in our society. So we set these twelve year olds down the path of knowing that the parts of them that are praised, such as silky hair and shiny blue eyes are where they need to focus. and that there should be shame related to what goes unnoticed giving many grown *** women the desire to hide their not so skinny thighs and soulful chestnut eyes.

It makes me feel invisible
and for some reason that hurt doesn't make me burn
instead it just feels normal. Because to love is to fear, a feeling
I would rather just skip over. But your ignorance is bliss
in a stale saltine crackers sort of way
it takes me back to childhood sick days when I felt miserable but kind of settled in.

Tell me you didn't mean it
Tell me that to you, those words are cheap, rolling off the tongue like butter
but when I hear those words
I think of all the pain that they bring with them
I think of the compromises
of the self sacrificing
of the vulnerability
of the loss that comes inevitability

Did you mean it
I think you did
but to make me feel better just tell me you didn't.

I feel displaced

Like if I let my guard down for a second, my intentions might be misplaced.

And who is here to reckon with this, it would be simpler if my perpetrator had a name; but I think it's just me to blame.

Displaced; misplaced; intentions unseen;
easily erased.

Maybe if you were able to see me you would understand I only want to be known. But to be known takes being seen and being seen takes being known. We are 0 for 2 and I don't know what it means to cry for help so I just stay here unseen, unknown, displaced or maybe misplaced.

I no longer know.

Your personality is like a good cuppa tea.
Wowee you’re just exactly who I want to sit with me.
You somehow have this way of giving people an ability to be free
Just like different types of teas you’re able to help with different kinds of needs.
Like the way a piping hot chamomile calms and comforts
The way a spicy chai can gives me boldness
Green tea energizes and inspires
and the way peach can bring me to the home that is out of physical reach
You are my cup of tea
The friend I want to keep with me.

Standing there in a big crowd.
I have whisky in my hand, a friend by my side,
and couples surrounding me every way I look.

There's something so romantic about a girl standing alone with a guitar singing out her heartbreak. Her loneliness envelopes me and I think of your face, and all of a sudden I feel alone in a crowd.

The last thing I want is to feel this unfufilled desire for your affection so I say **** that and take another sip.

But the fact is that it is three songs later and I haven't really been listening but instead experiencing. How can one girl with a guitar singing out sad songs have such an affect on me, whisky in hand, a friend by my side, and couples surrounding me every way I look.

He would sit at his desk
Wrinkled skin, white hair
eyes fluttering as he dozed in and out.

Russian at his core, like ***** on the rocks everyday for 50 years, like spokoynoy nochi and a kiss before bed. His voice, rough and grouchy like sandpaper, yet sometimes sentimental and soft as he would tell of his youth spent meeting movie stars or of his trips across the world. He always enamored me with his stories which he told with a glimmer in his eye and a chuckle in his throat.

I couldn't always please him with my unruly hair, quirky fashion sense, and lackluster cooking, but he always chose to love me and show that he enjoyed my presence.

As a child I pretended to take care of him with my doctor kit and on that day I wished for it to just be a child's game once again.  I wished that I could kiss his boo boos and wipe them away as if it were magic.

I wish I could sit next to him and ask him advice one more time. I wish I could hear more stories of his glory days.

But I have ***** on the rocks, and spokoynoy nochi running through my head before bed to remember him by.