I am a tree.
a tree goes through season of blooming
(and seasons of death where leaves fall off from sadness)
a tree is deeply rooted and steady
but winds can sway its branches.
and tree has delicate flowers that are frail
and need to be taken care of
a tree stands there and doesn't scream for attention.
people often don't appreciate the beauty of trees
but some special people that don't come around often
appreciate the tree and its flowers, its dying leaves, and imperfections

most of all a tree isn't perfect

I am rotting
every leaf ungracefully falling
used my branch for temporary support

I won't make the leaves stay
they've lost all their chlorophyll
they were causing unnecessary weight

I know its winter
its been winter for the past few years
I cant keep every leaf
but so many are falling off

I'm staying alive
because with every leaf that falls
winter is closer to an end
and spring comes nearer

*flowers will bloom

I am blue
blue comes in all shades
and so do I

pastel blue, small and quiet, almost unnoticed
electric blue, loud and bright, daring
turquoise, brilliant and fun, liked by some
cobalt blue, modern and simple, unique
regular blue, unappreciated and common, nothing special
navy blue, dark and mysterious, often sad

I am every shade of blue, at one time or another
but underlying all these shades
blue will always be sad

you are a tree
trees are so utterly unique and shaken by the wind
yet strong and rooted

trees do rot
but before that comes
millions of seasons

winter, where you are dying and everything seems to fall apart,
and your tears shed like leaves fall
spring, where delicate flowers peek out of unexpected places
and your laugh blooms like tulips
summer, where things are mediocre and there comes a bit of rain
and your heart feels moderate, like the temperatures
and autumn, where leaves turn gorgeous colors and so do you

it seems you've been through winter
and maybe you're still there
I hope you get your spring and autumn
remember there's summer in between

remember to stay rooted,
beautiful things are yet to come.

My parents still ask about you
And I roll my eyes
And pretend I never think about you

but every time it rains
you reappear in my mind
It brings me back to the day you left

When the clouds cried along
And the sky turned pale as my skin
On the fridgid June day

I don't know how to feel
angry or sad
and I'm still as confused as I was back then

For fifteen years
I've always exchanged the same words
"Goodnight, have a good sleep. I love you"

Tonight was the first night
That broke the fifteen year streak
Of you never going to sleep angry at me

I'm sorry mother
I really am
I'm sorry for you too

I'm sorry your hands are turning old
With random speckles,
And portruding veins

I'm sorry there's wrinkles on your face
And your greys reappear after two weeks
And you're having several pains

I'm sorry you didn't have a childhood
And you don't know how to smile
Not even for a picture

I'm sorry Ma
I'm sorry I'm having a hard time
I'm sorry I rub it off on you

I'm sorry for my laziness
I'm sorry you even had to have me
I'm sorry for my drama

I wish I could give you all you deserve
Cause Ma
I would give you all heaven if I could.

Bones
and skin
and an almost nonexistent tummy
were enjoyable to me

I loved my hip bones
and I was satisfied with what I saw in the mirror
I ate often until I was full

I thought I was regular looking.
And I had peace with my shape
until the voices came

"You're too skinny"
"You're abnormal"
"You have a boyish body"
"You're legs are sticks"
"Where'd your *** go?"
"You've gotta eat more"
"Where are your *******?"
"Your back is awfully boney"

And those words
deteriorated me
and I was left with no good thoughts about myself

And I wish I could scream
and tell them I'm fine
I'm eating well
I'm suviving fine

I used to like myself
But now I don't
And it's all them spewing out words

We all have this perception of self love
And how you can't love if you don't love yourself first
But I think we need someone to love us first
to tell us our bones are beautiful
Or our places of fat are meaningless
And to tell us we're loved

But they're hypocritical
Their critiques will never help
And I'll never love my bones again.