Maiden and Queen
Spring and Death
The duality of a girl
Who is forced to be more
And confined to be less
O Persephone
Goddess divine
Lover and avatar of little girls
Who must hide their ****** hands
Under petal pink skirts

It is easy to see your story as a tragedy
Poor lost blossom
Forced to suffer underground
Delicate petals
Wilting under a heavy Hand
It is hard to remember
That some flowers
Bloom best in the Dark

Give me pain and do me *****
I want to die before I'm thirty
I like it rough, don't pull your punches
I look my best when I've been gutted
Drown me in the river I made crying
I want to look pretty while I'm dying

Blood pools at your feet, it is yours
And you feel nothing
Watching as it swirls down the drain
This is who you are
You are a victim
You take hits
You bleed dry

Blood pools at your feet, it isn't yours
And you are screaming
Sobbing as you scrub it off
This is not you
You are not a fighter (but you fought)
You do not hit back (but your knuckles are bruised)
You do not heal (but scabs are forming)

Maybe the reason stars are disappearing from the sky
Is because we pluck them one by one, like flowers
And place them in skyscrapers, celestial floral arrangements
Close enough to touch

I never think of you
No, that's not true.
I think of you all the time

When I'm listening to a song
A movie
Or a show
I wonder if you’d like it

When I’m just sitting
Sometimes, I wish
You were there with me
(So I could make you laugh)

When you don’t text for a while
I try not to worry
(it doesn’t work)
And I hope nothing is wrong.

I say I never think of you
Because there are no fantasies
Of us in a movie
As superheroes
Spies
Or rockstars

I don’t dream of what it will be like
In ten years
Fifteen
Or twenty

I am so enamored with
What we are right now
Who you are
How you’re changing

I don’t need what-ifs
Or dream worlds
When what I’m living
Is better than anything

That I could have ever
Made up
In my head

It feels
Like I am ripping out my insides
Every time we speak

And instead
Of answering
You look at them
And write notes
In a book I do not get to see

At this point
I'd take ink and paper
Over the emptiness

Little girl
Made of glass
You have grown
Far too fast
Straight plains of skin
Have become curved
Striped with unfading bruises
Harsh and purple against fish-white skin

Mature for your age
That is said kindly to you
Surprised murmurs follow
Your fathers favorite guessing game

“Whats her age?”
He asks, innocence crinkling his eyes
Guesses of sixteen and seventeen
Outnumber anything else
Thirteen, you feel proud

It’s not his fault
That you start to believe these strangers
Mature for your age
Isn’t that the same thing
As being old enough?

Everything is heavy
A blanket that feels like a sheet of granite
And eyelids embracing gravity like they were old friends

Or maybe I’m just weak
Frozen statuesque like
One I saw in a museum, all chicken wire and saran wrap
Nothing of real substance
The outline of a teenage girl

My head is a cotton ball full of angry hornets
Fuzzy and unfocused but full of unrelenting pain
That comes back again and again
Issues don’t disappear just because they’ve already
Made themselves known

Maybe real girls have to get up
Get dressed, brush their teeth
Go to school and raise their hands
Or their skirts

But I’m not a real girl
I’m Pinocchio in reverse
And my strings have been cut
So I’ll stay in my box,
If you don’t mind

I opened the box and the cat is, in fact, dead
It died while we were all scratching our heads

We killed something small because we think
Our thoughts are more important than something that breathes

Maybe it’s easier to keep the box closed
Because then it’s alive, as far as we know.

Everything’s fine, long as you don’t look
We keep our eyes closed so we stay off the hook.

What they don't tell you is
it's impossible to be comfortable with yourself when you're a teenager
you're growing and changing and the world
just keeps moving faster around you and
whenever you ask it to slow down it goes
faster

What they don't tell you is
it's okay to want to fix yourself
being broken isn't a pre-req for being cool
or creative
or cared for
those songs comparing you to hurricanes
won't always be right

What they don't tell you is
it's harder to survive some days than others
Even if you don't need pills
or a therapist
or rehab
living can get too hard no matter what
and it's okay to not be okay

What they don't tell you is
its more than just easy to wake up some days
Even if you need a shrink
or meds
or to go cold turkey
and you're never gonna stop yourself from counting seconds
but instead of a countdown clock
just make them matter

Pretty girls get what they want
That’s the background radiation you grow up with
Princesses in every color (dress) waltz across your screen
Pretty curled pigtails and pink ribbons get you more
Than comfortable jeans and the Saints jersey your uncle bought you
“What a pretty girl!” your nana coos, reaching into her purse
Pretty is important, you decide.
So you ask your mom if she can curl your hair for school tomorrow, pretty please?

You’d be pretty if you smiled more
It’s leered at you at the bus terminal
After a long day of work, or school
But you take it to heart anyway
Smiling your way through life
Becoming a magazine cut-out of a girl
With a flawless smile glued on, even when you're tired
Or sad
Especially when you're angry
You decided pretty is important
More important than feelings, than yourself
So you ask your face to stretch a little wider for you, it doesn’t hurt too bad, right?

She was asking for it
He grumbles on the stand
His voice was rough against your paper thin skin and your magazine ready smile
He's right, you realize, as the jury starts to nod
Must have been asking for it, they think, you think
As they wash away his guilt, wash away what he did
Hes squeaky clean now, but you still feel rotten
Your insides decaying as your perfectly composed shell starts to crack.
She must have been asking for it, everyone thinks
Don't pretty girls get what they want?

Once
a girl ripped out her heart
put it on a platter
and gave it to the one she loved

But
they left it there to rot
blood goes brown
flies and maggots crawl
muscle goes hard then soft, too soft

Then
she put it back in (it was starting to smell)
forced it to beat
it wasn't the same

And
she couldn't feel pain
or love
or joy
or anything
Ever Again

Words are becoming hard
Phrases that used to flow like rivers from my fingertips
Must be drawn out by force, inch by painful inch
I am so afraid of my own writing, of its mediocrity
Why does this hurt? Why are my words hollow now?
I think of all of the stories in my head
And i want to cry, to scream
They’re blocked by this wall of something that might be fear
But it might be disgust too
Disgust in myself, disgust with the fact that I used to think in words
But now I think in snapshots and when did I change?
I want to stop growing, to regress to black and white
I want to see the blinker on the screen, the disappearing black line
And I want to be filled with determination, not frustration
What will it take for me to look past where I am to where I want to be?
What will it take for me to start walking, to get up and wipe the tears away
I want to be a writer again, oh please let me write again
Words, please, I am sorry for leaving you
It was my fault, my fears, my stubbornness
I only want to do what I’m good at
But I want so badly to become good at you.
Words, take me back?