I tried so hard for so long, to fit into those images of skinny, tiny white girls,
All cappuccino froth and soft edges,
Tried to tear away at myself, believing there was a hidden white layer under all this brown,
Trying with desperation and urgency to be one of those girls, the ones that boys actually want,

The " so small she makes your hoodies look cute " girl,
The " delicate as a flower " girl,
The " she makes me feel powerful " girl,
The " wrap her in my arms and protect her from the world " girl,
The " tiny enough to fit in my pocket " girl,

But all the diets, slimming shakes and workout routines in the world, could not make me into that sort of girl,

Into something I am so clearly not,
Because I am not " hot " enough for you,

As soon as I feel a little bit pretty,
Your voices ring around my head,

But little girl you are quick to forget that your body is a battleground,
And men will try to claim parts of me as if they are war trophies,
Their eyes, colonial soldiers, trying to tear away at my barricades,

So I scrub away at my skin,
Trying to find this pretty white girl inside of me,
The one who " laughs at all your jokes "... even the sexist ones,
The one who " gets along with all your friends "... even the ones who wolf whistle at me,

The one who would,
Look like a supermodel,
But dresses real modest,
The one who gets along with your parents,
But not enough so that they're disappointed when you dump me,
And if I am being honest,
I just can't see me,
Ever myself apart to be that.



So to 13-year-old me,
Remember this well,
Brown may be the colour of dirt,
But brown is the colour of earth,
And earth brings things to life,

Earth raises mighty trees from the ground,
And earth put us here in the first place.

And just because you aren't small and delicate,
It doesn't mean you are useless,
You may have stomach rolls but so did the early statues of Aphrodite,
And people worshipped her as the goddess of love,
All of the women Rubens painted were curvaceous women,
Hailed as beauty queens,

And you know what that means?
You are enough by yourself.
You do not need someone else to determine what makes you beautiful,

The anatomy of a broken heart is a complicated one to navigate,
All twisted tunnels of disbelief and heartache,
Rough and rocky roads of deceit and mountains of wool pulled over my eyes,
A core rotted through with your lies. 

You made me into a bubble, close to popping with anticipation,
Or nerves, I was never quite sure,
You lured me in and then I was trapped,
You ran laps around me until I was dizzy.

You planted popping candy into my veins,
And filled my stomach with butterflies.

I read this thing somewhere which said,
" Not just God hears your prayers,
The devil does too,
And sometimes he will answer them for you,
He doesn't always show up with all flames and pitchforks,
Sometimes he shows up,
Dressed as all you have ever asked for "
And I see that in you,
Often, there are times where I think that is what he sent you here to do.

I imagine that he just dropped you into my life,
All 3am, tired ocean eyes,
And all of your sweet lies,
All soft edges and messy hair,
And all the times you showed me how little you cared.

For such a long time I beat myself up over the fact you didn't like me,
Desperately seeking for you to fight me,
Give me a real reason for why you didn't love me,
That perhaps it was because you " just weren't ready for love ",
Or maybe because you knew that you would " just end up hurting me ",
Not because you just didn't see,
See the love I had for you,
Or how I wasn't the type for you,
In those bittersweet moments of infatuation,
I would forget that the devil sent you to me,
And when I would come around and remember that,
I was angry at the fact I ever loved you.
At the fact I ever prayed to the skies for you.

They say that " to make art is to bleed without the use of a sharp instrument ",
And as I am writing this,
I am thinking,
You are watching me bleed.

You were the sort of boy that parents warn their kids about,
A cautionary tale if ever I saw one,
A smooth-talking, beautiful boy,
Who smokes, drinks and skates,
But wait,
Here's the best bit,
He has a smile which I swear is as bright as starlight,
And people gravitate towards his planetary orbit,
He collects interesting people in the same way a kid would collect interesting stamps,
He doesn't even need to know them,
They just appear.

You had Saturn in the ring-like labyrinths of your palms,
And your words were the milky way,
Linking together galaxies of thoughts.

I know that he threw you into my life,
An answer to all my prayers,
But also my downfall,

For the devil wrapped in silk is still the devil.

They say not to worship your bad habits,
But it is hard to when they look like the thought of loving you.

There are boys who win you over smoothly and romantically,
With roses and candle lit dinners,
And then there are boys who shove their hands down your throat and rip out your guts,
And leave you standing there,
Bleeding out...

There are girls who are as sweet as syrup,
A warm stickiness that never really washes away,
There are girls who are like dandelions,
Soft and gentle,
Who disappear like dust at a single touch.

They tell me that even when the Titanic was sinking, the musicians kept playing,
And I'm thinking,
How as my body hit the water like springtime roses coming alive,
Like whiskey hitting ice,
When I was sinking below the surface,
You just stood on the deck and watched as I drowned...

How beautiful must a black woman be before you mourn her?
How heroic must a black man be before you grieve him?
How cute must black children be before you lament them?
How many cultures must you steal from indigenous people before you begin to see their missing women?

How many women must die from unsafe abortions before men become comfortable with women having rights over their own bodies?
How many corpses of innocent people must there be to make leaders fight for justice?
How many LGBTQ+ youths must take their own lives before governments begin protecting them?

When does it end?
When does enough become enough?

This heart of mine,
It's just a glass jar full of tissue paper butterflies,
It flutters from place to place and finds easy homes in another's collarbones,
Never has the phrase " be still my beating heart " resonated at a holier frequency with me,
This was supposed to be a question,
Not some " diary of a tortured artist " explanation,
Not a poetic confession, or whatever it's become,
I just wanted to know that if I was to listen,
I'd still hear the 8o8 beat of my broken heartbeat,
Because all my heart is,
Is just a glass jar full of tissue paper butterflies.