the saddest thing I can fathom
is the fact that the last thing most people ever see
is a ceiling

I stared at my nakedness in the bathroom mirror
And all the dips and curves my lines made
And I tied my short hair down to my head
(I am womanly
I am smooth
I am strong)
My belly protrudes with the secrets of the world
And my ******* hold the prayers of many
(I am warm
I am rough
I am weak)
My hips carry the children of the night
And my lips speak the words you are so afraid to say
*(I am here
I am there
I am gone)

I am still bound to
freckles like stars you can't reach
across rosy cheeks

I am still drawn to
curly hair flattened by heat
around rosy cheeks

I am thinking of
smiles that never show teeth
etched on rosy cheeks

the first time I ate them
I felt guilty
because all I could think about
was you staring at your ceiling
you were too afraid
to look at the floor
but I'm going to be honest
I want to try more

trigger warning: bullying, alcoholism**

i went adventuring today looking for a creek but i could not find it and it reminded me of looking for salvation in green eyes and looking for hope in blonde haired beauties and being disappointed when everyone turned out to be only human
i went adventuring today and i took my dog with me and he seemed content but the eleven year old boy walking with me seemed afraid, seemed anxious, afraid to be with the leaves and the trees and i feel bad for this kid
he gets bullied at school cause he smells like kerosene because his no good dad won’t clean up the house and hides his alcoholism under the guise of ‘back pain’
the kid has started hanging out with a man that his mom used to date, his birth father, and when he talks about things they do together, he says birth father, but the way it is said you can tell he means real father
the boy has always gone by his birth father’s last name, even when he didn’t know him
i hope this boy doesn’t look for salvation in blue eyes and brown haired beauties. i hope he finds salvation within himself

the boy who didn’t know himself yet. he held my hand before he became he. he asked me out before he was himself. i said no.
2. the girl who holds my hand and tells me i am ****. she thinks many people are ****. i am one of many crushes. how many times do i have to say no?
3. the person from my french class. we are friends. they don’t love me anymore. they never asked. i wouldn’t have said no.
4. the girl with bottle blonde hair. she was the first one i ever kissed. now we don’t talk. i should’ve said no.
5. the person who took pictures of me in the park. they don’t know me very well. i don’t know if i can say no.
6. the girl who knew me in seventh grade. she sends me messages me daily. i don’t know if she knows the word no.

I am thick and proud
I have thighs that do not always fit into my jeans
my arms are not made for sleeveless tops
everyone told me my face was too round for a short hair cut
but I disregarded their warnings
because I know that I will never be happy
unless I wear short sleeves in the summer
and cut off all my hair sometimes
i do not have to listen to anyone's opinion of myself that puts me down
because I am perfect as I am

my thinking is too rigid
too organized
i already know what i'm gonna think before i think it
no spontaneity
no muse
no one/no thing
to make me choke on my words
to make me drown in thoughts
no repeating
repeating
repeating

i'm beginning to miss drowning

It is said that
One third of all of the trees on earth
Are located near the arctic
And that when the snow melts
It refreshes the earth's atmosphere

When I see you
The snow around my heart melts
And I am refreshed

a feeling unknown that I can't chase without fear
because you are near
creating thoughts I've never had
don't do this to me
every time I think of you, I want to touch your skin
for every poem I've written about him, I've written three about you
getting them out is the hardest part
hello, I love you, and I know your full name
I wear what you gave me to remind me of you
just because you don't think I would doesn't mean I wouldn't
kindly take me
love me
mind my heart
never let me hurt you
or give you the impression I don't want you
perhaps it never will be
quit I won't unless you
relish that you don't feel the same
someday I hope to hold you
taste you on my tongue
until then I will write poetry about you
varying in length and meaning
will you know what I'm thinking?
x rated thoughts I never thought I'd have happen in my dreams
you mean so much to me the way
zero other people do

my lips have cracked
and are crackling with spit
it is 12:20 AM and i've been home less than an hour
i saw a movie with my best friend
ate two cinnamon buns
but the pounding in my head will not subside
soon i will supernova
turn into a black hole
my gravity so strong that no light is let out from the inside--


has it already happened?

i have never written a poem
i've only pounded out my fear on a keyboard
i've only slung my blood onto a page
i've only cried and screamed and hoped that someone would hear me

i've tried to write poems for the ones that i love but they always come out as hatred
i've tried to write poems for the ones that i love but they always end up about death
i've tried to write poems
i've tried to write poems
i've tried
i've tried
i've--

i'm in that awkward place between prose and poetry
what am i trying to say?
every line break ends a sentence,
ends the phrase,
as if i am speaking out loud or crying in the biggest stall in the bathroom at school
it's the only one with a toilet lid- we all know what that means
sit down and sob when you've ******* up
walk out
act as if nothing ever happened
it didn't
it is just another line in the story of God

i hope i was ****** enough
for you to write poems
about the way i ‘left you’ too

I am no longer natural
Deep brown as I was
Covered in wringlets
I pressed myself out
Like ironed toast

I am a variation on auburn
More like my sister
Yet clearly unnatural
I almost regret it

I bleached myself out as if changing my color would change where I came from
I am someone else
And I wonder
Am I ashamed?

Almost every time I ***** I cry. It’s like a habit, a song. Puke, tears. The first time I remember it happening -when I was 9- I sat up straight in bed and vomited all over myself. It stained the mattress and got all over the wall and my bedsheets- projectile stuff. Real nasty. I got out of bed, took off my clothes, went to my mom’s room, and started sobbing. Even at seventeen, I still almost always cry when my stomach betrays me, when the bile mixes with spit and I’m running to the bathroom and seeing stars as I feel pain erupt through my body and out of my mouth and nasal cavity. There’s nothing I can ever do to stop it. And afterwards, I always cry.
Maybe that’s why, when I could tell the friendship was ending, I cried so much that first time. When I could tell we were growing apart and my soul was rejecting you. You were rotten steak and I hadn’t eaten meat in five years. I couldn’t handle you anymore.
Do you ***** when you panic? Is that why there was such an explosion in the middle, bile mixing with bile? You didn’t want me to be mad at you, so you puked on me and gave me a reason to be angry. Yours wasn’t so rotten though, nothing your body couldn’t keep down. Are you bulimic or an emetophobiac? Did it scare you when you couldn’t breathe and you rejected me from your body? Or did you do it on purpose? Afterward, did you cry?

There is a girl in my French class
And she is beautiful
And she is lovely
And I want to be her

This girl in my French class
Has perfect eyebrows
Has perfect lips
And she is beautiful
And she is lovely
And I want to be her

There is a girl in my French class
And she is interesting
And she is smart
Has perfect eyebrows
Has perfect lips
And she is beautiful
And she is lovely
And I want to be her

This girl in my French class
She is wondrous
She is talented
And she is interesting
And she is smart
Has perfect eyebrows
Has perfect lips
And she is beautiful
And she is lovely
And I will never be her

my first book was about you
and it described everything perfectly like the way you looked at me when the sunlight filtered in through your window
I never could escape from your soul-hold if I tried
but
I don't want to try
I think it's lovely
I want to hold onto you until my dying day when the sun is setting on my life and I want my last word to be your name
I want it to roll off my tongue like the Italian I tried to learn in your house
I want it to reverberate around the world
I want everyone to know that the last thing I want to think about before I die
is you

I am afropunk
I am not what is protrayed by mainstream media
There is more than one black experience
They make movies about me

My hair is not it's natural color
I've pierced the skin behind someone's lip
And when I grow up
I want to be in a band

There is the chance that I might change my mind later on
But that doesn't give you the excuse to ignore my existance
There is more than one black experience
So stop pretending we're all the same

my facebook block list is full to the brim with hatred
misogynists, racists, those who use terms like "feminazi" and "it's not **** if you tell surprise first"
my Facebook block list has family members who bad mouth my mother as if she (and I) can't see it
there is one aunt who keeps a tally of money spent on gifts not asked for
one uncle who sits (joblessly by choice) on a high horse
one cousin who wonders why his mixed bag family doesn't like his confederate flag tattoo
my Facebook block list started with a man who found my phone number and began sending me text messages at night despite my non-response
there are two R names- boys whose crimes send flashbacks up my spine
a good way to earn a spot on my Facebook block list is to be a white apologist
"white people should be allowed to say the n-word!"
"slavery was like a billion years ago"
"white privilege doesn't exist"
another way is to not recant your crimes after you're called out
"she was born a girl"
"who cares, it was just a joke"
"you're not some feminist hero"
my Facebook block list (unlike most of the people on it) is non discriminatory
all types of haters get on it
and once you're on you're probably not getting off

I drink too much caffeinated green tea at midnight
I take offense to things that, honestly, I probably shouldn't
I like to be right
And being wrong makes me indescribably upset
I am at fault
I am made of faults
I am made of broken glass and melting ice and those strange reflective substances found at the gas station at two in the morning
I am me
I am a hot mess
I am wonderful
I am alive

nothing like you and I
there is nothing like you and I
nothing is like you and me
me and you
there is nothing like us
we're not peas in a pod or
peanut butter and bread
or two heart beating in synchronization when the moon is full
there is nothing like us
and I think that is beautiful

there is a light at the end of the tunnel
it is me
I am flourescent
I am the best version of myself
I  can be good
I can be bright
Just wait and see

hide in the shadows, hide in the shadows
do not be seen, do not be heard
do not let them know that it is you there
they do not know that you have left your unconscious secrecy
they do not know yet that you are willing to talk
hold onto the secrets that you keep a little longer
stay out of the light

Everyone wonders whether the glass is half empty or half full
But no one ever asks the stuff that's in the cup what it thinks
See, I can feel all of my edges, where the tension begins at my surface
I truly know
And I know that it's not really whether the glass is half empty or half full
But what you do with the stuff inside of it

the words slide off of my tongue and I think I am going to be sick
how could it happen like this?
in the back of a storeroom covered by nightfall
I spill all of my secrets
about how I am barely sewn together
and I'm holding on to nothing
and I cry
and you care
you give me advice about being myself and how everyone will love me
and even though it has nothing to do with the situation
it helps
to know
you tried

The first time I went to the guidance office
(without being asked)
I was crying

You see, my friend had killed himself the night before
And I was having a hard time coping
He was 2 weeks away from graduating high school

We weren't going to school together at the time
But we lived in the same neighborhood
He was close to many of my very close friends

His mother was an addict
His father was abusive
He was forced to move in with him despite the fact

Some kids had decorated a tunnel in his name
There were pictures and poems
I left flowers and ribbons

The police officers told us that the pictures didn't look like him
When he was asked how he knew Cal
He said, "I met him on Sunday"

His only reference of a beautiful soul was
Him hanging above a bike path
By a rope he kept hidden from his family

Yet he claimed to know him
When he probably didn't know his name
Or what he did for us

They covered the art with paint
Claiming it was "vandalism"
This was the day after the funeral

I recanted this to Ms. Jackson
She told me he would want me to focus on my school work
She sent me back to class

They ask us why we never open up to them
How can we open up when the system is broken?
This isn't the story of a young boy's suicide

We are supposed to build trust with those who are around us for seven hours a day
But how can we
When they turn us away as we're crying?

the boy is at my house again
and he is excited to be away from
a house full of needy children
and needier father

the boy has been hurt in a different 
way every single time he has come over here
I am beggining to worry about him
is it all an accident?

he still hasn't mentioned blue eyes and brown hair

the visiting boy has lost something- a figure in his life
ten years have gone by and the boy considered this man a father
(though the last few years a ***** one)
and now that man is gone

the man is nothing more than a robe on a door, a stain on a floor, a lie of what happened to his three children
the visiting boy's siblings are confused but will recover- they are young
he, however, knows that the story of 'an accident' isn't true
his eyes search mine for answers i am unwilling to give

                i don't want him to imagine
                what a bullet going through
                brain matter sounds like

Trigger Warning**
I often imagine how I would react if it turns out you have died
It would explain why you haven't responded to my text messages
Or why I haven't heard about the purge
purge
purging you do
or the fight
fighting
fighting your parents are a part of
I imagine myself getting a single lined text message from my mother and knowing exactly what it means
Knowing exactly how you went
Seeing your last moments in my mind
"She is gone"
"She's passed on"
"She's not here anymore"
I imagine car crashes and pill bottles and blood in the bath tub
And I know you've seen all this too
I imagine this moment so often that it often blurs with reality for me
Every time I hear an ambulance my heart stops and I think
"This is it. Be prepared."
But a text message is never received
A phone call never comes
And I am left wondering,
Do you hate me? Or are you preparing for your death as much as I am?