witnessing the ones she cares for the most drown themselves in the deep end of society
all due to the world’s distinction of “right” and “wrong”
seeking more than she could ever get
she’s dependent on those who are no longer near her
hearing the piercing words of others
questioning her own
glimpsing at the ones around her
then immediately looking at herself
am I good enough?
“perfection”
a term girls force themselves to believe in
an idea which is unrealistically unattainable for most
although it is impractical it has turned into a depiction of norms that are meant to stay intact
she fears for them- knowing that it is not ideal to follow the rules set
but she can feel herself slowly giving in to the demons inside her
curves.
reasonable enough to an extent people don’t stop and stare.
******* in every chance she gets.
starving herself-
because if she wants to be the girl people seek out for, it’s best to get rid of the unpleasant shape
stomach.
flat. tight. muffin tops- an abomination towards all females
a complete unattraction if she seeks desirability and validation
shoving three fingers down her throat
because if she does ever want to make the cheerleading squad it’s for the best to fit in the uniform first try, like all the other girls
thighs.
3-inch wide gap. nothing less, or she’ll end up putting herself to shame
face.
aiming high to look her best
secreting her under eye circles, concealing blemishes
forcing herself to believe that with these things she is hideous
and without them- she will achieve the ideal image of beauty
her body, a temple she grew up to cherish
now, a territory in which she conflicts sins upon
walking to the scale
feet set in place
neon numbers flash
134 pounds
she faces the mirror
sighing heavily
“it’s just not good enough.”
-c.alejandra

I spend more money
on books and *****
than I do on women
than I do on food
this is my necessity
my foolish bare necessity
this is my fire
my coal
my fuel

To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.

I am like cheap nail polish;
When first applied into a person's life I appear fresh, neat, immaculate.
But the next day I am chipped, broken, hurting.
It's not you, it's just the way you see me.
I put on a fresh coat to please you and make me seem fine.
But it's no good.
I'm not fine.
The new coats won't hide me forever.
Tomorrow is a new day.
Tomorrow I'll apply a fresh coat.
Tomorrow I'll be fine again.

Maybe some day we will dance
Holding hands in disbelief
As tears of joy
flow from our eyes
While the field of flowers
will cheer in salute
Maybe our eternity
will come to an end
And our day will come
to begin . . . just maybe

Just maybe I hope
beyond my dreams