I used to paint pretty pictures on my skin.
My brush collection was wide,
Filled with box cutter razors, the blades out of pencil sharpeners, and knives.
I used to melt my shaving razors and rip the blades from their homes,
Nessled them deep within my flesh to warm their steel bodies with my blood.

Am I painting pretty again, Mommy?
Am I making you proud yet, Grammy?
Looking into the glass windows of my home like they were funhouse mirrors,
Twisting and distorting my hourglass figure until I could no longer recognize my own skin.

I used to own a hall of mirrors.
Collected my demons behind the glass.
Big and small,
Tall and short,
Thick and thin,
Each mirror distorting your body image more than the last.

I used to collect knives.
Steak knives, butter knives, utility knives, butcher knives.
Each blade glistening with crimson.

Oh how I miss my children.

I bet you think it rude to speak of my past gory collections so fondly.
As if cutting myself open to let the bees rattling inside my veins free was the animal abuse.
Well I'll have you know I've finally set them all free.

Now my true healing may begin.

Now I collect flowers off the side of the road.
I collect feathers
I collect poems
I collect words
I collect men
And finally,
I collect myself

Everything would be easier
If you would walk away from me

But you won't
You'll leave me in limbo

Forever

When he touches me, I can feel your hand in mine.
When he kisses me, I can feel the heat of your breath.
When he ***** me, I can feel your hands on my hips.
When he sleeps, I can feel your heart beating.
When he looks at me, I can feel your eyes on my soul.
When he leaves me, I feel like you did all over again.

Write a line or two, get a decent rhythm.
Write one line that sounds wrong.
Erase one word, replace it with another.
Re-read the whole thing to yourself.
Read it out loud.
Shut up because you sound awful and you're not a spoken word poet no matter how hard you try.
Erase the whole thing.
Try to start over.
Trip on your words.
Lose tract of the topic.
Forget this poem was not supposed to be like the last one.
Erase it again.
Try to come up with a title to inspire yourself.
Fail.
Listen to music while staring at your pen.
Write a ****** poem about not being able to write a poem.
Kinda like it.
Feel inspired.

This has been the official tutorial.

When I was young,
I would play with numbers more than the toys in my trunk.
I would talk about science like it was the language if love.
I would play in the dirt as if I knew I belonged there.
When I was young, I had a sense of wonder.

When I got older,
I left the numbers on the pages of my algebra textbook.
I broke up with science and gravitated more towards English and poetry classes
I stopped playing in the dirt and began yerning to live underneath it.
When I got older, I wanted to **** myself.

When I get to where I'm going,
The boys who dismissed me all those years ago will ask for my hand.
My poetry will lay upon the pages of text books.
Maybe I won't want to **** myself.

But that's part of getting older, isn't it?
Moving on from things that made your heart sing?
Is this what it means to be an adult?
I envy younger versions of myself.
They all had this way about them that would draw people to them.
But I guess I lost my charm while I was breaking my own bones.

Maybe one day I'll get to where I want to be.

How dare you look at me that way.
Make me take you out of the little box that I hid my feelings for you.
How dare you treat me like you wanted me.
Then turn around and leave me for her