It's taken me years
Of writing and reading,
Living,
Giving and receiving,
Love
To realise;
Love is simple
It's humans
That are complicated

As we sit down to our dinners,
as we open our romance books,
people die.

We sip our water;
their guts spill open.
We study our notes;
their planes crash.

We live;
they die.
We breathe;
they suffocate.

We are testaments to chance,
to luck, to possibility.

We are not products of God.

We are blind goats trotting on our path
before we perish, suddenly,
and vanish into death.

What if every little thought
That lives inside your head
Instead of hiding away in there
Was spoken out, was said?

Would you be embarrassed?
Would you hate your mouth?
Would you rather be mute
Than let the truth come out?

What if every little thing
That people thought of you
Instead of being tucked away
Was heard, was listened to?

Would you be ashamed?
Would you cover your ears?
Would you rather be deaf
Than let the truth come near?

And what if every image
That passes through your thoughts
Was freed from its prison
To roam until it rots?

Would you be disgusted?
Would you look away?
Would you rather be blind
Than see your thoughts at play?

Steps for Life:
1. Wake up and brush your teeth twice and use mouthwash.
    Make sure your teeth are pearly white.
    Floss so your teeth don't rot with grim.
2. Drop in some eyedrops,
    so no one can see that you cried.
3. Choose your clothes.
    Don't choose something that isn't name brand.
    Don't choose something that's ugly or unflattering.
    Wear your waist trainer so that your waist can be thin and your
    stomach is flat.
4. Get your makeup together.
    Wear the right color eyeshadow, make sure your lashes long enough,
    make sure you choose the right color to match your outfit.
5. Pick the right shoes.
    Choose the heels that are in season.
    It doesn't matter if they aren't comfortable you have to wear them to
    be cool.
6. Go to school
    Go to school and suffer.
    Hang out with the popular kids.
    Be rude to other girls and criticize them for not having the money to
    afford clothes like yours.
7. Come home.
    Lift a few weights to keep your arms thin.
    Swallow a nasty concoction and have dinner so you can rid of it.
8. Repeat for the rest of your life because you won't ever be good enough.

To a girl, why is life about the size of your thighs?
The thinness of your waist.
The color of your eyes,
The color of your skin.
The flatness of your stomach
The shape of your jaw.
The length of your legs.
The way you walk and whether or not you fall.

They hid the pain.
Because pain is beauty.
And beauty was all that matters.
The biggest goal is to be popular but to be popular you have to be liked.
No one likes an unattractive girl.
No one likes a girl who isn't pretty.

To be popular, to awesome to other people, to be cool,
You have to make yourself suffer from the pain that is beauty.
You can't eat anything you want if you do you'll gain weight and you'll be fat.
You can't eat all 3 meals because you'll get fat. Instead, you have to eat a bit for some energy but then force it all back up because too much food will ruin your flat stomach and no one likes a girl who's fat.

You can't eat certain foods because it's messy and people see your face being a mess than say goodbye to your popularity because no one likes a messy girl.
You can't join certain clubs and you can't get straight A's. This is because no one likes a brainiac girl or all the other fantastic words.
You can't wear sweatpants if you aren't required too. Sweatpants aren't flattering and if no one likes you then neither should you.

You will suffer in silence
Because everyone thinks that you're fine.
You have to follow a strict diet or else your popularity will die.
No will see the cuts on your thighs because that's the only place they won't show.
You can cut your shoulders, your wrist or stomach but people will see and think of you as a depressed emo and no one wants to be seen with that freak.

Society has girls be trapped in a box where they follow the same horrible routine.
Inspirational people say that the box is paper and you can just break it to be free.
If the box is paper why am I so weak?
Why can't I break it?
Those inspirational people are wrong.
The box isn't paper.
It's stone.

you promised
we would
meet each other
one day.
we would go
crab fishing
and drink some wine,
looking at the sunset
a little bit drunk
on the sandy beach.
smelling the salty air.
it was just empty words.
meant everything to me,
and nothing for you.
I am just a bunch
of flowers you
got tired of
watering.
hanged me on your
wall, my flower soul
dried like a desert.
dead from all the promises
you made.
beautiful but forgotten.
and it was so
simple for you
to just buy a
new bunch
of flowers.

When I was 7, I knew exactly what Love looked like.

I knew Love had blond hair, blue eyes
cute freckles and a crooked smile.

Love was the fastest boy at recess.
He would push me on the swing set so that my feet flew
and touched the cotton wool clouds.
He shared his snacks with me because
well, 7 year olds are gentlemen like that and
I knew that we were meant to be.

Until we weren’t.

Because 7 year olds grow
and change
and from one day to the next
they are no longer the same.

Love now had brown hair, and brown eyes
so dark and rich I melted into them
like chocolate between fingertips on a warm summer day.
We read books together
like the true intellectual 7 year olds we were
and bonded over
stories about cats in hats?
It wasn’t the world’s most groundbreaking love story
but it was our love story
and that was good enough for our little hearts.

But that love faded away too.

I, in turn, grew and changed
and moved away.
I juggled languages with sports
and friendships and hell
the struggles of being a teenage girl
!
that I didn’t even stop to think about
where Love had gone.
I figured I would see him in the hallway
at some point
maybe
but he was definitely around somewhere!
We were probably just taking different classes
and had slightly different interests…
But I knew I’d run into him eventually!

It took me 4 years to come across Love again.
I hardly recognised him at first—
he had the same dark eyes, but this time his
skin was the colour of the coffee my dad drinks every morning.
His jawline was sharper than any knife in my kitchen
and his cheekbones were higher up on his face.
His dark eyebrows grew wildly across his forehead
but his grin was unmistakable.

Love had grown at least a foot since the last time I’d seen him.
He was an athlete, except instead of running at recess
he now ran sprints for the athletics team.
Love’s love for books hadn’t changed either
but he’d replaced the stories of hungry caterpillars
for novels, and plays, and poetry.

It was when Love made the same joke
and I heard him laugh the same laugh
that I realised Love didn’t come in a fixed package.
Love was not something you ordered online
that came delivered with a pretty ribbon at your doorstep
a dress you could try on and send back if the fit wasn’t right.
Love doesn’t have
a religion
a nationality
a sexuality.

Love is someone
who listens when you tell them about your day
even on the worst of days
not necessarily to give you advice
or because what you have to say is particularly exciting
but just because they want to know.

Love is someone
who you can talk to at any time of the day
the person at the other end of the phone at 3AM
when you need to cry because everything is wrong
but also the person who will take you to the park at on a Sunday afternoon
when the sun is shining, and the birds are chirping
and your worries
are wrapped in a soap bubble
and gone with a gust of wind.

Love always thinks you look beautiful.
Love likes your hair both up and down
thinks you look great in that bikini
that your makeup looks good today
but that you could also do without it.
Love thinks you’re prettiest when you’re smiling
but that’s not to say you’re not pretty when you cry.

Love is not always the person you would expect.
But do not judge Love for the body it comes in.
Judge Love for their taste in socks
and Disney movies
and candy bars
and sports teams.
For their opinions on politics
and peanut butter
the importance of family
and the new Snapchat update.

These little quirks which define Love
are what will decide whether you are meant to be.
NOT the body you encounter them in.

of one thing
i am sure
and that is
that i am
unsure of
myself
and it’s funny
how i can’t
sleep but my
chest closes its
eyes and hums
with a heartbeat
that is unsure of
itself, too.
i try to morph
into a body
i don’t feel
belongs to me
just so i can
fit somewhere
fit in somewhere
and i tell so
many stories
about the
universe, it
forever feels
like i am trying
to remain lost.
i am unsure
of myself;
connecting the
moles on my
skin as if they
will spell out
something bigger
so i can feel
like i matter,
at least for
a little while.
i sleep beside
myself, stare at
a reflection
so unfamiliar
i couldn’t even
identify it in
a crowd of
strangers, but
i am trying.
and one day
i’m sure i’ll
be sure
of myself but
until then,
i’ll morph into
someone i can
be proud of
and hope that
the universe
sends me back
to myself.

i do not understand
how people can write poems upon poems upon poems
talking about romance
two people
in love

how could they give so much of their affection,
their attention,
their love to other people

when i can't even find the courage to say the words
"i love myself"