"1.When he tells you he loves you forever, remember he said it to me first.
2. The days you spend in his arms, once held me.
3. My smell will still linger on him.
4. If he tells you he will always be there for you.
I want to let you to know he told me he couldn’t make me happy anymore.
5. Don’t have high hopes.
6. he’s forever was 5 freaking months.
7. he used to tell me he couldn’t stand being apart from me, ” I will never get sick of you” a week later he told me I was clingy.
8. When we were cuddling on the train, he looked at me as if I was the only star in the sky, if he ever looks at you that way
I want you to know that he doesn’t give a **** about stars.
9. All that he means to you, mean’t everything to me.
10. The fact that your nothing like me, says more about our relationship then the whole **** thing.
11. If he leaves you for another girl, don’t cry.
Remember he did it to me first."

part i.
this was the first.
i ached for you to grow a backbone
as strong as the one
you always pretended to have.

you crushed the positivity and optimism
i falsely provided
in hopes you would find it comfortable.
it was never comfortable.

your mother peaked over you shoulder
to ensure you left me.

you made me stop smoking
but i never really did.
it felt like a dream beneath parking lot lights
as the smoke filled my lungs.

at least now i’m free.
does this mean i can **** other people?

part ii.
it was the summertime
your breath was as hot as the pavement
i willingly put my barefeet on
to meet you by the curb

you were at the beach
sober
i was in my bed
drunk.

you talked about faith
and constant comparison
of who you are and who you were
nothing was good enough for you.

i had no intentions of hurting you
letting you cry into the sand
next to a person who didn’t even know my name
but intentions aren’t always executed

i ripped your love from my chest
and tossed it to the side.

part iii.
it only took three months.
if i had to prioritize the losses of that winter
you are not ranked number one
not even number two.

i did not cry for you
it made me sick
you made me sick.

i clang to a bottle of whiskey
sulking in regret
but not for you
it was never for you.

i thought about your father
the way he exuded disappointment
the first time we met.
it was almost a game to me.

i thought about your mother
i imagine she cried and cried and cried
reminding you of who you were
to anchor you to the picturesque daughter
she had always dreamed of.

i thought about your brother
he was a joke to me.
the stature of a man
with the demeanor of a child.

we were never going to last forever
not even in my best dreams.

part iv.
this one was the worst.
it hurt the most.
i don’t think you cared.

why are you here

your main talent was making me feel
unloved
unimportant
unwanted
i don’t know why i stuck around

this one hurt the most.
forced conversation reminded me
we don’t have enough in common
and you’re not that interesting.

i knew everything about you
while you didn’t know me
how was i the person you loved
when you didn’t know me

why do you even want to stay
just go home.

part v.
this was the end.
finally.
i wanted to call you a liar
and tell you i never really trusted you
but i held it in

i don’t think i was in love with you
not anymore
not the way i used to be
not the way i wanted to be
not the way i pretended to be.

you always should have known
i wouldn’t be the person
you could live the rest of you life with
you never stay with your first.
i knew that in the beginning.

maybe we’ll get back together in the future
or maybe i’ll never hear from you again.

paranoia of the 3rd degree
in 8th grade
when the boy i liked IM'd my friend
and said the shirt i wore to church made me look fat.

shaking nervousness in a 12 year old body
overweight
moving a fork from my plate to my mouth --
a true horror
listening to girls read calories
off a box of vanilla wafers

pinching my stomach fat
wanting to tear it off
an 8 year old who asked her older sister
to help her get thinner

decades i've wasted looking so close at every piece of me
i know how i look from every angle without a mirror
i've memorized every defect.
critical sections studied under a microscope:
i am not anything but scientific in my process.

i blow myself up to disproportionate sizes
and then wonder why sometimes i lay in bed and feel

huge.

and other times

so small.

after a while you'll begin to realize that the constant scrutiny and study of your temple is fruitless
that the hungry monster behind your ribcage
that eats dark lipstick and winged eyeliner and name brand clothes and highlighting powder and contouring brushes
that you sacrifice increments of time to every morning,
night
every prolonged glance in a mirror...
fuels itself off the notion that the images we see on a screen are the standard for cultural truth.

i turned 21 and decided to throw away the microscope.
to change what images i saw on my screens
to eliminate the photoshopped waists and fill them with pictures of normal, happy bodies
and i began to see the body that i exercised,
fed vegetables,
watered,
washed,
nurtured,
as not fat or ugly or unwanted
but as a perfect home for myself
and maybe someone else
if i wanted.

because the cultural truth lies in what you see in other humans
not dancing shadows on a screen in a cave
it lies in the gentle rolls of your stomach
and the crinkles around your lips and eyes
and the pimples on your forehead.
there is nothing garish
about reality.

I've always been sad about the bathroom. The pink and black, hair and blood, tears and out of tune singing, thick and transparent. Whenever I step on the tiles I become afraid of the shower, that silver thing with wet holes, with cold stream and mindless embrace. But here I don't have the fear, only disgust, because the ground is all black and peeling and it sticks to my feet, and the coldness isn't clean, the coldness is only there because I've left it for just too long.





I keep coming back although I hate it, although each drop of water feels like a punishment and the soap bubbles are mocking my greasy everything. I keep coming back although it tortures me, because at the street I can hear the gazes pointed toward me, how the eyes shift when I try to catch, what is not said in front of me I know them all it rings so loud in my ears, I can hear them all. I keep coming back because even in the world of cruelty I still got to have a place to come home, to have something familiar, so I will feel less lonely and as if I had a purpose. It's a familiar pain, the kind of a hit that feels like a kiss. It's always like this, I keep coming back to the bathroom I do not own, I keep coming back and calling it my home. I've always been sad about it, the bathroom, home, I've always been

I coloured my world today
my hands smeared in pastels
canary yellows
ripe peaches and cardinal ochres
pink from a flamingo sunrise
a passionate cerise

Splashed
an array of feisty blues
a flamboyant turquoise
a topaz tango
a twinkling periwinkle

Streaked it with
beams of gold
contoured lilac smudges
lavender tipped edges
in custard pineapple floats

Splattered emeralds, toned pistachio
fern greens with swift finger strokes.

Tempered it with
muddy crusty earthy browns
rock coloured sandy mounds
reined in royal purple
the sensual blaze of a flaming sunset
the dark indigo of a gloaming sky
agate drops a few
a silver sliver of a crescent new

I coloured my world
with my eyes
my fingers, my hands
my hues
....just the way I wanted to