I tell her:
you will not
be ugly if you
cut your hair

because when
she was small the
kids called her
fat and the

boys called her a
boy which was
okay but not

so this long hair
was a rebellion
as she proclaimed
i really am a girl

i really am a girl

i really am a girl


won't you believe me?

I had a dream
I was still trying
to outrun you,

what was that?
5th grade? I could
hear you behind

me, a thick breath
that got closer so
I ran faster, no

no, I cannot lose to
you again, I can't
be ugly, I can't

be alone on the playground
anymore, I can't be alone on
the swing-set, I can't go home
until this is done. No, Sierra, I
can't be the outcast again. I

can't beat you
can i? I just have

let go.

You said thanks for
the closure and I
tried to hide how
wide my eyes got
all this time and
I was hoping maybe
maybe? maybe? maybe
what? Maybe, maybe.
What was I hoping
for?

inside there was a
spat b e t w e e n my
bones, a wrenching
in all the sockets
every single
curl in my
brain was unfurling
but all I could do was
pinch the calluses on
my palm with a calm
ferocity, he does not
want me to c o n d e m n
myself but i was already
******* in, concave and
ready to collapse.

There's still so
much I have
to talk about

I'm tired of feeling guilty
over not doing lifts, or only
six squats, wondering why
my thighs look fat at the
gym, but okay at home,
stopping mid-crunch because
i can feel my ******* skin
i don't want to abhor the
body that I live in.

if only the sun shown a bit brighter
but these streetlamps will have to do
they seemed to glow when he would
kiss me, he's gone spelunking in my
heart to dissolve the mites and tites
where my reality teeters on emotion
and the soles of my feet may disband
as feet and the ground as ground, but
here the upheaval of roots can only be


good

a skyscraper counted down
the red seconds until I woke
up and i stood naked on the
streets of a dream waiting for
my alarm to go off.

******* for
being exactly what you
hated me for calling you
no I don't regret it because
it's true you
*******
you're a liar
you're a ****
you're a man

He says they're weaknesses
the reasons, I mean. The reasons
why he couldn't say anything, when
they called me a *****. When they called
me crazy and awful. I desperately try to
process those weaknesses, because there
have definitely been times where I could
not say anything either. Yes, I was
silent in the presence of my adversaries.
And he watched me take the blows
he lent an open ear to their
curses and listened
without a word. Without a word
he took none for the team and walked
from the field. So I rattle the fence and blow
from the sidelines, I tell him
You really don't know this kind of loneliness
do you? Because it's been this way since I was
little, since before lunch tables, since before nap
time. I say,
You really don't know this kind of loneliness
but I'm beginning to wonder if no one does
because everyone has their own.

we all want to be
opened or discovered
but I want neither, I don't
even want the want the want

He was like the thunder
8 miles, 7 miles, 9 miles,
suddenly, three. Suddenly
gone. Suddenly,
rain, suddenly
none.

she said that it's not true
that you have to love yourself
for someone else to love you but

it is true and it resonates with me.
I can't rely on somebody else to
build me up only to find I have
nothing to fall back on, not even
self-love, so all I'm trying to say
is nobody can love me until I
love myself and I can't
even do
that.

i sometimes wonder
if all the inspiring quotes
you see make you think
that all of them were the
opposite of
me.

you're living under a warm
pink light and I can see you
holding her hand between
the wooden seats in that
cafe

there's a glass of cold water
on my desk and I'm about
to go to bed.

we aren't pretty
enough without
filters, we like our
faces better with
faux overtones
people like
us better with
faux overtones
but really we
just want to
be loved
in honest
to god


daylight.

the last time we
spoke with our
voices, i asked you
why won't you sleep
with me on skype? and
you nervously smiled, played
with something between your
fingers. i asked again, why?
I felt you aimlessly search my
face before you said, I don't
want you to see what I've done
if i accidentally roll over.

I hid beneath the covers and cried.
you said
[                          ]

I always relented when
you tried to put cayenne
pepper in the dishes you
made for me. Spicy things
open up the taste-buds you
lectured. And no matter how
much I'd poke your shoulders
you always managed to put
a pinch in. I claimed to hate it.

This morning I poured hot salsa
onto my breakfast and ate it without a

problem.

all the lights were out with the
exception of one orange creme
porch light weakly splayed through
the sliding glass door and it made
your face look like the purest
pastel I've ever seen in my life--
a-not-quite-brown but not-quite-yellow
and it moved across your lips when you
spoke, touched your tongue when you
paused and looked good on everyone on
the 1st floor of your parent's house
probably because i was delirious
and your dad had just driven 3 hours
in new years traffic to come pick us up
in downtown Seattle after your car took
its last breaths and we lost Joe as a friend for
the next
two years.


today
i finished the diary I started
on January 1st, 2014 at your
house before anyone was up
and I had fallen asleep in the
chunky gold necklace from
the night before, tucked into
the couch with my feet stuffed
beneath Brett's thighs, listening
to her voice--and Christina's and
Josh's and also my own startling
contributions in rhythmic breathing--
at some point you whispered that I was
sleeping (only half-true) because this
particular moment was insignificant
but happens to be one of the only things
i remember


that pastel color and making tea
the next morning wondering how
far away i'd be in ten seconds
and here I am,


here i am.

I once had an affinity
for apple butter and
slices of roast beef.
Everything in the
world has always
mattered to me,
so yeah, I have
been stressed
since birth.

There is still a place
in my heart for you
and I hate it
I hate it
I hate it
I hate it

I'm sorry your mom is
such a raging *****, I
know that picking
ice-cream is hard and
I would have given
you all the time in
the world. So don't
cry, don't cry, don't cry
because if your own
mother doesn't love you
then
I
will.

Make a wish on your necklace clasp
he's thinking about you when you
sneeze I wonder if you see hallmark
cards and think of me, if you read
Monte Cristo and wish I was
Haydée, if you grow flushed
during that chapter of The
Great Gatsby where your
voice broke twice and  
you let your head fall
back, I miss the ways
I could make you
do that.

My thumb
is poised above this
send as if it were
some rock on the
side of a cliff and this
happy birthday
were the town





below.

my anger has manifested
into sore throats, the perpetual
swallow, even while you sleep--
that no saliva, cotton ball in your
chest soaking up the living, leaving
me high and dry, contemplating
the meaning of every idiom,
every moment, every customer
that orders five 20oz mochas
and doesn't leave a single
tip but works on the block
and complains about local
business.

(in the silence
he is doing the
worst of things)

(I'm afraid that
one day he will
say, I'm so sorry
so sorry, I did
what I said I
would not)

(but my fear is
unwarranted,
that would mean
that I wanted to
believe--that I
trusted in what
I should not)


so in the end
it's still my

fault.

warm inside
introverted but
i love the chatter
lip tint, gold eyeliner
beautiful around
familiar faces
no one would
ever break me
here. this is my

family.

I wish I were
the red dirt
outside my
window who
takes the rain
in stride and
drinks heartily.

it makes it harder to forgive
when the person apologizing
isn't sincere.

I am afraid
that certain
people are

you