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You're a beautiful mystery clad in gorgeous enigma.
You're poetry that looks good in a skirt.

There's an orchestra on your tongue, playing the sound of your voice like a melody I can't forget,
matching the tempo of the drums in my heart
and the broken strings of my violin compliments.

You are a notebook, a yearbook, a sketchbook, a burn book,
every facet of you written in swirling cursive,
rhymes and famous signatures snaking between cinnamon hair and cleverness.

You are a pen running out of ink,
bleeding dry in Barnes and  Noble Moleskin journals,
but that's okay because I have more ink,
and you can borrow whatever you want from me--
store it in the heart you stole if you're bored enough to hunt my words for the pieces.
You have the key already.

You're the first dream of the boy too scared of nightmares to sleep again.

You are the taste of honey and cigarettes on the lips of the first girl that boy ever kissed,
because she was a rebel and he needed a hero
who wore boots instead of Mary-Janes
and band t-shirts instead of blouses.

You are the rose he drew when he was bored,
an outline with potential,
mysterious, entrancing, incomplete,
not yet ablaze with the red of desire
because he was never good at finishing things.
You are a dictionary. Your picture isn't just under "beautiful."
It's under "dangerous" and "witty" and "myth"
because Medusa bowed at your feet next to James Bond and Edgar Allan Poe,
and you're too good to be true anyways.

You are a poem, a telltale heart beating inside a lesson in vengeance,
temporary only because nothing gold can stay.
You've walked past where the sidewalk ends (certainly the road less traveled by)
and come back far more darling than any buds of May.

(You are the paperback novel he read under the covers,
the flashlight only bright enough to show paragraphs,
and every new page unique in shape and form
while the text remains the same.

You are the raw words read aloud by the daring poet,
standing beneath midnight moon,
the power of the throne,
the breath of a whispered promise falling upon the ear,
the warmth of kisses on the cheek,
the passion of all hope there ever was in trust and truth.

You are the fire in lightning,
the sparkle in the snow and the glitter in the rain,
the fierceness of the wind and the gentle, soothing peace,
the blazing chill of winter and the roar of summer's heat.)

But you're still a mystery.
A beautiful,
beautiful
mystery.
 May 2013 Brittany Elizabeth
J
I say "I'm just tired"
Because I can't tell you
I can't tell you how I just want to cry
All the time
Because sometimes I feel so hopeless
Because sometimes I feel so different
Because I'm strange and left out and rejected
I can't tell you how my heart is broken
That the most beautiful boy I've ever known doesn't want me
Because I can't tell you what I did
Because I don't want you to see the ugly inside of me
I can't tell you how I hate my body
That I nit-pick and try to perfect it every second of every day
Because I feel trapped in this physical shell
Because I just want to be beautiful
I can't tell you how ashamed and alone I feel
Because I'm different
Because I'm an oddball and I don't fit in with any of my many groups
Because I'm never good enough, never bad enough
Because I'm never enough
I can't tell you any of this
Because I don't think you really want to hear it
Because I don't want to burden you
Because I know I'm being stupid
Because I feel too insecure to tell anyone anything
Because I don't trust people anymore
Because you'll just hurt me
I can't tell you any of this
So instead I'll say,
"Nothing's wrong. I'm just tired."
I've been tired a lot lately

— The End —