I often
wish        
you were mine
I often
forget     
you are not mine
I often
wish        
you loved me half as much as I love you
I often
forget     
that you do not love me half as much as I love you
I often
wish        
that this idea I create of you wanting me was real
I often
forget     
that you have your own idea with her
but
I'll always
remember that I will never be good enough to have you

j.f

gently placing two dainty daffodils
into a cracked vase                                              
holding it under a cold running tap          
and half filling it with water
the daffodils sway slightly                    
caught in the ripples and eddies                                              
made by the small space and flowing water            
their fragrance is thrown upon the place
as if wanting everyone to smell                          
their powdery yellow fragrance        
setting it onto the middle of the table                    
they live comfortably                              
until the water slowly seeps out the faint cracks
water staining mahogany wood
the flowers wilt long before they should have                
with life saving water spilt everywhere                      
they loose their brightness  
and forget their sweet smell    
to become lifeless nothings                          
settled into a waterless vase

it's difficult not to feel so empty              
a glass of water less than half filled    
when you know                
there are so many girls/women                
boys/men                        
who are bleeding
because they're over it                
they don't care anymore        
they're spilling blood
on rooftops                            
in bathrooms                        
behind locked doors            
but yet                                                        
they all have reasons                          
you can't judge any one of them                          

this is one of the reasons
why i don't want to become
a mother                                
why would i hold                                      
a dependent baby inside me                    
when i'm dependent also                          
and the world will corrupt them anyway                      
like it has to me
where my mother, wouldn't know if i stained tiles

it's called bubble wrapping                    
overprotecting your children                  
so they grow up and can't handle the world    
but really                                                                          
maybe their parents are just too      
terrified                                  
of what happened to them,      
to let it happen to their dependent child                

the thought of becoming a mother                                              
is difficult to me                                              
i wouldn't want to ruin a new life                
i'd hate to know i didn't fix it                
even if i never knew, guilt at the world
corrupting a child
my child                
would be too      
much      
too bear.

i remember the butterflies you gave me                                          
well, you were the reason they fluttered                                          
deep in my stomach, then migrated                        
to the depths of my heart                        
butterflies are small                                                            ­                    
flighty creatures                                                        ­                            
but they're                                                          ­                              
delicate and fragile                                                                  ­               
easily crushed
in the palm of your hand
how long                                                             ­   
will the butterflies                                                      ­          
inhabiting my heart                                                            ­    
live?                                                       ­       
before their thin,
delicately patterned
wings are crushed
into flightlessness