Please don’t call me beautiful
when your hands are between my legs,
and god forbid you say it as a seg-way
between you’re so hot
and my caution, your response
you’re sure you don’t want to?
I’m pretty sure the way my body looks,
nineteen and stress-infused with an Oreo belly
isn’t really what you pictured beneath my blouse,
and I’m positive you didn’t listen
to the story about my dad and the bad prom dress
because you cared. It was just sentiment. You said it was beautiful,
but really you wanted me to believe the act
like a description in the Playbill
and ride that trust all the way until the curtain dropped.
Please don’t call me beautiful
when the word ******* is before it
or if we are ******* because making love
is for married couples and you don’t even want me
sticking around for the ****** sunrise that peers
underneath your shade every morning.

Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m crying—
crack me open and watch the colors bleed
like a painting that hasn’t dried. Admire
the light that peaks through the clear parts
like a windowpane, no blinds.
Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m laughing,
when I’m reading my favorite part of a book,
when I’m stuffing my face with peanut-butter
pretzel bites and I haven’t washed my sheets in weeks,
and I’ll know you can’t be lying
because I’ve listened to the waves your heart makes
when you’re sleeping and I’ve called your smile
to the surface many times when you’ve tried
to deflect it back inside. You’ll know that
and you’ll know I’m beautiful.  
Call me beautiful
when you’re not even trying.
Call me beautiful when you’re by yourself
and the smell of my hair is still on your pillow,
or the memory of how dumb I sounded
singing my favorite song breaks your heart back
to the best little pieces.

My sister was my first ward.
When GOD saw fit to send
her to me he forgot to include any warnings.
She would drink all the juice,
and play with all the toys.
She was cuter then me, smaller than me,
and could not sin. At least that’s what my family thought.
I didn’t know it was possible to love and hate that hard until we grew up.
As a fledgling guardian I had to do well in school,
respect teachers, and keep out of trouble
because she followed in my wake.
I was her windbreaker that protected her from the storm.

My overprotectiveness of all Double X chromosome
carriers is pretty much her fault.
I made plans at night on how I would keep us both safe
if we ever had the misfortune of being alone in the world.
I blazed trails and fought demons
so she would never know darkness.
And I failed.
I made her hate me and the weird thing was I was content
with the hate because she was safe.
She’ll never see the horrors of the frontlines.
Never know my scars.

It’s taken two years to get my best friend back.
No matter what happens or the gap that may arise
she will always be my friend.
Now I’ll always mess with her, give her advice,
answer when she calls, remind her of her embarrassing moments,
and I will always be the first to defend her.
She’s my littlest one and I’ll have her back until the day I leave this world.
Love you lil sis sis.

To the green eyed goddess
I must admit that I have never written
about my muse before, so this may sound strange.
You see she is a green eyed goddess.
Her hair is spun heaven’s gold
and she moves with the grace of falling leaves.
When she dances the stars shine brighter
and my world becomes peaceful.

But what makes her a goddess is internal.
The fire inside is a warm light that says all are welcome.
Even when she is fighting the demons inside;
she always has a smile for me.

Words are under her spell.
She takes those twenty six and creates like paint on a canvas.
A master chef who makes a feast for all to enjoy.
A pure soul who takes everything life gives her and makes it beautiful.

That is why I write to the green eyed goddess.
Praying that for a moment, I can use words to summon the sun
into her darkness. That I can make her smile one more time,
and know that the world is still at peace.
Her hands were made to create,
so I will use mine to protect.
So know you know about my muse.

Any man would be blessed to have a goddess in his life.
Possessing all the wisdom, beauty, and grace
worthy of the Greek pantheon.
He prays and makes the appropriate sacrifices
to win a steadfast Hera
to his wayward Zeus;
a queen to his king.
That one girl who could start a war
with a glance.
They seek that one perfect goddess.

Yet I have a problem with that preconceived notion.
My eyes have been opened to the fact that goddesses
walk around us every day.
Women with the wisdom of Athena helping boys
learn what it really means to be men.
Hera’s who hold the family together no matter the cost.
Hestia’s who makes sure there is always a place to call home,
whether it’s a college dorm or rich estate.
Demeter’s who even when their love is taken
they still find a way to brighten the lives of those around them.
Praise to those with the spirit of Artemis
who won’t a silly thing like gender
stop them from achieving everything they want.
Also just because she doesn’t look like Aphrodite
to you doesn’t mean she isn’t one to me.

So thank you to all the goddesses in my life.
You helped to make me a hero when I could’ve been sent to Tartarus.
Never forget that you are special and never settle for less.
You inspire the muses.

The ***** of my eyelids fall,
delicately dripping onto my cheekbones,
powdered, ripe with a pink flush,
matching the creamy pigment I smooth
between my lips before a cacophony
of laughter runs up my throat and out
my mouth. My lashes, black, have been curled
neatly in a spiral that follows my green irises,
my gaze landing on your hands—
but that’s not it.

Just know, I am more than a pretty face.
I am more than the picture you have in your head
of the clothes peeling off my body
like a cocoon—watch me morph—
in the dead of your blackness, calling sweetness
to the surface. I am more than this exaltation.
I am more than the late night phone calls
or the kisses on your cheek.
I am in the breath you lost when I smiled, and I

am in the scratches on your back, the fickle
end of the lock you latched. I am in the noise
that fuzzes in your head, the empty space
haunting you in your bed. I am more
than what you expected—
but that’s not it.

I am also the beat behind these words, the puddle
that gathers from the spill on the floor. I am the mind
that molds. I am the truth that finds. I am the beginning
of every bitter end. I am more than a pretty face.
I am the exhale at the end of the race. Here I am.
I am the kind of hurt that’s still sore, and one day
I am going to be so much more.