"at that point, i don't really know what i felt. it was not invisibility nor visibility. i felt like i was floating in the unnoticeable, kind of there, kind of not there fog. Fog is clouds that were supposed to be up high and exalted, but somehow they are brought down. Fog is unreasonable, with no practicality and almost good for nothing. i guess that's what i was too."
-(midnight narrations in October)

like a turntable,
your voice spins like a vinyl inside my head,
the vibrations of your laugh echo a melody,
my smile becomes a reflection of yours
i'd wish to paint you the way my eyes envision you,
you'd admire such an art in the midst of not knowing the muse.

i used to get flowers every month. they sat at my table and withered away but at least they made me feel something. it's been almost two years since dead petals grazed the table. i stare at an empty vase and wonder if i am capable of being loved. the way i love you. i feel so heavily but you are not there to balance it out. there are empty words and looks that mean nothing. i haven't seen love in your eyes in months. you may think its an over exaggeration but i've seen it many times in others. so instead i feel heavy. every tear swallowed like the two ton weight that anchors confidence. instead of feeling empowered and independent i feel belittled. not worthy of admiration, looking in the mirror, bending and ******* in pieces of me i wished were different so i could be more for you. the absence of your words i searched for was deafening. i became immune to others compliments because if it did not roll from your tongue it did not matter. i told you everything about me, undressed my stories and untucked my fears. but you are still buried, clothed, a wall and a guard between your soul and mine. at times you still felt like a stranger.
a stranger i love very much.

i wish there was a way to draw out how i feel,
the tornadoes inside of me and the tangled ***** of yarn in my head.
the knots that form, a failed crochet, a product of walking in circles with my eyes closed. the colonies of goosebumps that race down my spine, searching for a finish line, for when my words are matching up but i can't seem to form a specific thought.
threads of this were movie scenes, an essence of cinematography or the warmth of a color. brush strokes i had visualized but never translated. melodies that made me feel but i could never explain how. inside of me were messes. dried up paint from a palette i never used, only created because i liked the colors. words i strung together, poking my fingers with the needle each time i didn't have the confidence to say how i felt. the fear of what others may think when they know i feel so deeply. there was an entire sky full of stars, dotted with each sentence i couldn't seem to spit out.
i couldn't overcome the fear of saying how heavily i feel even though i love you so much. there were moments where i bite my tongue til it bleeds so i don't tell you words that will never reciprocate.

it was getting harder to find the light

3 am

Eyelids are heavy

Thoughts are stirring

Merging, into new ones

Forming something magnificent

Chills down my body

Feel like hands trying to tickle

And my eyelids want to shut

I want to exasperate feelings

And sleep with a clear mind

Thoughts are out of line

Or unrealistic like hallucinations

I dream of going back in time

And fixing many things

Making myself into something

Something not inferior

Something that is not

Too diffrent or too the same

Critique comes from being

An individual, a follower, or a wannabe

Meanwhile I'm thinking

And trying to create;

To create the most beautiful colors

That I will see when I die.

you think you’re in love and this is the one and this is it. you may be right, but before you move heaven and earth and split the sea down the middle to make it work, take their hand in yours, turn the lights off, turn your computers and phones and the tv off. shut yourself off from the world. is this someone you can sit with in the darkness? is this someone you can sit with in silence? is this someone you can spend hours doing nothing else but counting the distance between lightning and thunder? because life is more than a forever of picture perfect moments - it’s darkness, and silence and interludes in which you hold your breath. forever should not feel like forever, it should feel like no time at all; it should feel like a blink of an eye; an interlude between the lightning strike and a thunder.
-marina v.

once you're gone people will remember things they were blinded to before, but one thing will resonate, like sound waves that never fade. its how you made them feel. what you stirred inside of them. what you provoked that not every individual could. i'll wish my remembrance to be echoes of laughter and vibrant emotion, thunder full of passion, an outlook resembling fresh air. a melody full of rhythm and soul, i wish to fill lungs with winds of tenderness and mouths with sweet gooey nectar. ears with flowers blooming so rapidly they become hanging gardens. eyes fixed on the one above. a new perspective, heights i'll forever wish to show you.

coffee breath,
9:42,
violet pigment under eyes,
tiresome sighs.
three hours and forty- one minutes of sleep,
my mind says no,no,no,no
my eyes are heavy
and so is my mood

heart sunken deep as eye bags
wondering if you actually care.
those blue-green eyes,
are they analyzing my feelings,
or algebra?

i just want you to feel the same way,
which is a way i have never felt before

mushy, gushy, stupid poems,
hopeless, delicate Juliet searching for Romeo in her peripherals

little Juliet, wake up, wake up,
go be the lioness you're accustomed to be

You were like nicotine for a while
you filled me up
and I felt whole
but I didn't think you were toxic

I remember like yesterday
how you took my delicate hand
with boney malnourished fingers
with green and purple veins
and you gently kissed it
and for an instant I was fascinated

But from those couple of seconds
that were called an instant
I became completely infatuated
with my head in cotton clouds

But it's been almost a year
and you've moved on,
onto your next victim

And theres a hurricane of of emotions
because you've informed me
that you are happy and whole
(Which was what I was trying to make you)
but it hurt because it wasn't me making you happy

It was the girl with simplicity stamped on her image
and freckles that you probably enjoyed counting
it was not the millions of pages
I had written to you
trying so hard to make you
love yourself like I loved you

And I still sit and wonder about you everyday

And when the teacher asked
us to write about the best day of our lives
my mind swerved back to you
but I knew that you were a few seats behind
probably writting about your freckled face girl

I still remember
the warm ambrosia
I felt fill me up
like blood in veins
and marrow in bones
when our fingers intertwined
and you stared into my soul

I wonder if she feels
the nicotine and ambrosia too

i could lay awake trying to solve expressions, equations, puzzles and mazes
as to why things never worked out between us,
between a whole list of people i had become temporarily mesmerized with,
a short infatuation in which my mind convinces itself that these people have no fault, that their actions are pure, that they mean what they say, that they yearned for consistency.  
the incandescence of the person they portrayed in my head dies out, and soon enough they turn into a silhouette i brush by, a figure i used to know, someone who knows the bits of me i could give away, a little bit of my light fading away with them.

my mind soothes the trembling thoughts,
and reminds itself that these people were not for me,
we did not speak the same language,
we did not sing the same song,
their fingers did not trace over keyboards lovingly,
the sides of their hands were not smeared with ink,
their bedside tables did not hold journals that housed pages lined with emotion,
they did not yearn to caress they keys of a typewriter to create a sonnet to soothe the soul
their thoughts simply superficial,
sentences with no structure,
a pathway toward something strictly physical,
not enough to feed my hunger for words.

the hands of emotion were able to eat away at my heart
the eyes of longing were able to scare away the ones fearful of commitment
the tongue spoke languages of affection that drove away the ones who enjoyed the cold
so i stood alone,
creating my own warmth
with hands to myself, eyes closed, tongue on paper.

you told me fear was an illusion made by the devil
to impair our lives and blur our vision
now all i see are flames of fear and my body is burning in temperatures of hell.
i never thought i would use the topic of drowning in a poem
i would always complain about the girls who wrote they were drowning in depression
when their serotonin levels were doing just fine
or the girls who said someone drowned them after breaking the lifeboat of love,
when they can pick themselves up if they use their muscles
but you are the reason i am drowning for the first time,
the cliche, stupid, senseless drowning topic,
you are drowning me in security and structure and formality
i am asphyxiating with security up to my throat, almost vomiting up words of rebellion because of constant confinement
i would rather drown in the ocean because i know there are treasures and unmet species, no restrictions.
i would fill my lungs with the mistakes you don't want me to make because it would give me substance
i would refuse to cough them up just so i could stay underwater without you shoving your beliefs down my throat
you are drowning me in repeating stories about mistakes that are not even mine, you are drowning me with rules, brain washing my mind.
you are stuffing stereotypes into my ears, talking about races, outer images and superficiality.
yes i know genesis and revelation, yes i know matthew, mark, luke and john, maybe you forgot how Luke wrote we shouldn't judge,
and i don't know if you remember how often you **** plants by over watering them.
i told you those plants were teenagers, they had to be left alone, you're drowning everything around you while getting water in your brain too, you're forgetting what its like to float,
probably because you never learned how to properly since you were a little girl
please don't drown me any longer
i don't want to drown people too

You're always
At battle
Against me

Maybe you would've been better
Without me since day one
Because you felt invisble
And all the attention was on me

I'm sorry
I truly am
I know how it feels

Please stop battling against me
its been far too long
So long that now I am
At battle with myself
And there's never
A resolution
Or treaty
Or peace
Within me
There is no end

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”
-Pablo Neruda

not in love, not in like, not in infatuation. just waiting for the same feeling Neruda had.

I need a blind friend
Who tells me they are impressed

Because I ask myself
At all hours of the day
"If the world was blind,
who would I impress?"

Maybe they could tell me
How my voice really sounds
and they could create beautiful
Metaphors comparing the sounds
They hear everyday to my voice

And maybe they could piece
Together my words
And form a glorious image
In thier blank mind
And tell me how they can almost see me
When they hear the harmony of my sounds

and then they could tell me
I am beautiful
and I could really believe it
because they are
viewing me in a new perspective
as if imagining me from the inside out
heart and brain exposed.

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

The moment you notcied me was something of a dream,
something I would never expect,
becasue I was a mere moth in a garden of iridescent butterflies.

You woke me up at 6am on a summer morning, my oh my,
what a miracle, you worked a wonder,
you left your number,
so I left mine, and the dream froze.

Now I've been awake,
(the kind of awake where you have to stick toothpicks in your eyes to pry them open)
searching for signs of you everywhere.

The thing I want most is for that little blue light to appear so I know that we're both constantly pathetically thinking about each other.
I'm to shy to talk to you first,
and maybe you're sitting there too,
staring for the light on your phone,
like gatsby staring at the green light,
debating if its way to soon to text.

Please do, I don't want to be gatsby, staring for the light,
I want to have the privilege of seeing the light often
don't be afraid.

*12:21 the light hasn't appeared. Please think of me

at age thirteen,
Picasso could surpass the talent of his teacher,
drawing at the level of Raphael, the prince of painters.
at age sixteen,
Picasso skipped his classes to explore gypsies,beggars, and prostitutes,
and at eighteen,
became exposed to anarchists and radicals who were artists and intellectuals
when his eyes were unveiled to a world of color, pinwheels of ideas, and a milky-way of lifestyles,
he unleashed a new form of art.
abstract, colorful, broken up into chunks, scribbles and slashes,
a child's coloring book,
from the five year old who couldn't seem to find the lines.

in this chapter of his life,
Picasso said:
It took him no time to paint like the prince of painters,
but decades to learn how to paint like the children.

one hundred and sixteen years later
i sit in the whirling emotions,
of the "i don't know yet"
and the "i have no idea"
and the "what am i going to do"
and the "why am i even doing this"
and the "who did i become"
and the "what will i be"
and the "who will i disappoint"
and the "honey you can't please everybody"
and the "what am i here for"
and the "is anybody out there waiting for me"
and "what capacity do i have to connect the constellations that form my dreams?"
and "what amount of this enormous world will i see with these mere two eyes and one small body?"
and "will i be the radical or the anarchist, or the artist or the intellectual, or the beggar or best of all,
the Picasso?"

and i can't seem to find the lines anymore
and everything is becoming a muddled mess of colors,
there is no symmetry, there is no balance,
there is not one face to a person,
there is not one specific meaning,
not one correct answer or distinction,
not a single definition.
and all though there are periods,
and I've been through the blue,
and I'm on the pursuit of the rose,
all i see is commas,
and as time goes on,
i understand more and more,
exposure to this world,
brings more questions and more blurs,
more pigments, and edges,
and adds miles from the distance,
of the lines.

blood boiling
causes chills along my back
hairs rise along lanky arms
skin pale, eyes swollen and red
eyebrows furrowed, permanent expressions of hate and anger create wrinkles matching the set dad has
he's blind to the fact he's creating them on his little girl
pain is associated with the secretion of substance P, and is relieved by the secretion of endorphins
anger is associated to the spewing of your words and the sternness of authoritarian disciplines, and is relieved in a year, with college dorms and distance of 453 miles
or relieved in an instant by running away

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.

you walked in and I realized the purpose of every frustration I faced over a failed relationship and people who faded away,
And even if you might not live onward in my life I'm thankful for the tiny moments that carried heavy weight to bring light into my eyes and remind my being that there were still people that felt like fresh breaths of air even after one single person took your breath away.

life had become a yellow-pages phone-book, a directory of names and numbers i'll never need but still keep around,
flipping through pages in hopes of finding what i was searching for, but finding the unknown places i never knew existed, like "Cartridge World" and "Indian Kitchen"
and the numbers that used to mean so much to find, mean nothing in no time, and i'm left with millions of area-codes and combinations of numbers that become encryptions, like the people i couldn't seem to figure out, or the ones that hung up the phone without saying goodbye,
life sounded like the leafing through pages and dialing numbers, the phone-lines and the voicemails, waiting for people to pick up the phone, and leaving messages in hopes of a call back, and listening to voices that radiate warmth one moment but turn cold the next, fearing every single dial will be a wrong number, and i'll never get connected to the right call.

The fact that I am inferior
Is etched into my brain
A weakling in this world,
Just a speck of dust on the windowpane

The other girls beauty
Radiates farther
And the intensity of their
Bleached white teeth
Outshine my metal mouth

It's like the how the colors
of fall leaves
Attract many
But no one enjoys
The simple green chlorophyll
Inside their spring and summer veins.

Once a girl
Had seen me cry
And attempted to repose me
By telling me
There is nothing wrong
With being sensitive

What she didn't know
Is how it felt
  To have glassy eyes
    Accompanied by blurred vision
     And a puffy scarlet face
To hold on to salty tears
Until my head split with aching pain
  Because I was so terrified
   Of anyone catching a glimpse
    Of my canary yellow heart
     Turn cobble stone grey

you are no longer the one plus one i dreamed of or the cure-all to my pains and you are no longer motivation in my veins
i have steered clear because you are a caterpillar with a cocoon brain (underdeveloped, unraveled, closed up and shriveled)
you are not the glorified person i thought you would be, i put you on a pedestal of faux gold that qucikly rotted and tarnished with the truth
you are not the knight in shining armor and you are not the boy that will change my life and go to the forest with me.
your freckles have turned into specks on the windshield that annoy you when you cant see and your eyes have turned into piercing lasers that are the only temptation left in you
maybe i have changed my vision from far sighted to near sighted and now i only see you up close and personal , clear as daylight.
you need to check yourself, reevaluate yourself, validate yourself, so you can decimate all these condescending thoughts of who you are and who you are pretending to be.
the butterflies you swat around from side to side and up and down are not toys and have very delicate wings as well as fragile hearts.
these butterflies are not choices, don't act like you don't know they're swarming around you because of who they think you are and your sweet nectarine temptation
you cannot pick and choose and play with wings until they break and then feel sorry after.
my preconceived notions of who you were and what we could be were as wrong as 1492, when the world was perceived flat
now i see the three dimensional you

i had to constantly remind myself of the way we all lived our own lives, and we each had our own veins and arteries, and we couldn't share everything like him and i did.
there were things that we all shared, like the same stars and the same sun, which we could admire when we were apart from each other,
but we couldn't give into sharing blood and heartstrings, sharing the power to control each others emotions, sharing seconds that turned to hours that continued onto months.
we had created an unhealthy system of burning each other out, we claimed each other as I'm yours, and you're mine, to the point that we looked back and were raveled into knots.  
i had to recall what i was before the entanglement, and scurry back to pick up pieces of myself i had left behind to be with you,
and now i rebuild myself everyday, telling myself no one completes me, we never needed each other, and i myself am whole, with no missing pieces.

i used to write about people that provoked me to feel a specific way,
no matter if that feeling lasted a week, a day or a year.
there were people i'd see in waiting rooms in doctors offices that ignited pages of words i had never unveiled.
i don't know if it is part of becoming older, this feeling of nothingness. losing hope in the spark of others, realizing they all are figments of what we hope for them to be, an embodiment made of illusions.
blowing out candles yearly has dimmed the lights,
the loss of wonder for the ones around me and the ones i have not yet found diminishes.
wondering if what i dreamed of is even alive, if all i ever wanted was drowning every second i got older.
love used to feel like the pain in your face from when you've smiled too much. now it feels like a home with no furniture, full of echoes.
i hear lyrics written out, about these girls who mean so much, who make a man seem vulnerable for the one he loves. saying if life was a movie, she'd be the best part. and i doubt myself, wondering if i don't possess what it takes to make someone feel this way. if i'm lukewarm and halfhearted, if i would ever experience a love that would change a person's heart. if someone could feel as sublime as i did, a grand optimist bursting with wonder, instead of the bitter realist i am becoming.
coming of age is not something i asked for.

I started using blue ink more often
because it reminded me of your eyes
which quickly became my favorite in school
along with your constellations of freckles
which adorn your joyful looking face

I wake up at 5:35 happy because i'll get to hear your voice at 9:32
for now i'll stare at blue ink and think of you.

The never ending relationship
of the moon and the sea is complicated
perhaps worse than Romeo and Juliet

What if after millions of years,
mornings and nights,
the sea decides to tell the moon
that she doesn't want to be controlled
by him anymore

Becuase he makes her tides into
an uncontrollable disaster
and she is litteraly a sea of emotions
with screaming waves
and murmuring ripples

And she looks up and
cries to the moon
to stop overpowering her
because she is tired of the recklessness

But the moon replies
that she is nothing without him
And he'll either forever control her for eternity
or leave her forever,
dead, immobile, with no beating heart
which is her tide.

i remember the nights i prayed for things i have now.
each time my eyes open in the morning to see the sunlight kissing the blinds, i know its a step closer to whatever is held in the ink stained pages of my story.
i tell myself i would rather focus on falling in love with my life than falling in love with a person,
that love was a word so overused for one another,
that i was not searching for my other half because i'm not a half.
but i know one part of me yearned to be cherished,
and knew falling in love with the journey included falling for people that made you feel risen.
people that make it known that my presence and absence means something to them,
individuals that make me forget yesterday and dream about tomorrow,
a person who will forget about checking the time when i'm around,
grace and mercy reflected off god,
because i belong to a patient god.
not to a hurry up and fix yourself god,
but a be still and let me heal you god.
not a why do you keep doing this god,
but a god who gives me the keys to break the cycle.
god is patient, and he is pleased to take his time with me.

someone who will be so soft and gentle toward my loud heart,
i'll be glad i kept it open,
and they'll even make me wonder why i ever thought of quieting it down.
a person who will see me, not who they wish me to be,
not the version of myself that makes them the most comfortable, not the one that is the most convenient to them,
but the genuine book without bindings, without edits, without covers.

somebody who could think about seven billion people experiencing this day differently, but would never want to trade places with anyone else after living a day by my side,
someone who i can turn to and truthfully tell them "out of all the things my hands have held the best by far is you"
a person that will tell me everything, not just talk about the weather,
someone who will make me their muse, pages smeared with words directed toward me
someone who i can write to at the end of a lifetime and mark the paper up saying
"i fell in love with the way you touched me without using your hands",
and i know that there are all kinds of love in the world but there is never the same love twice,
and i will be sure that ours is my favorite kind.

Claude Debussy plays gracefully
a dog wrapped in a blanket
starring out the window
as if seeing an angel

hot coffee lingers on my tongue
taste-buds reminiscing the bitter-sweetness

wind rustles the ficus bushes
slight noises in the distance

I feel calm
I have never felt calm before

is this what peace feels like?

everything is going to be okay.

nobody was who they claimed to be anymore
they changed, mostly rotted
everything is rotting and i wanted to run away
i did not want to become expired at this age,
decomposed into an attitude of egocentricity and midnight humor,
i did not want to ridicule those around, spewing venom consistently
making someone feel less and causing them to decay
i wanted to love everybody despite their capacities, their intelligence, their attitude
i did not want the trend of hating the human race
i cannot stand "i hate everyone but myself" anymore
its time to put an end
i refuse to live my life with negative energy hovering around swelling me up into a mound of stress and forehead wrinkles

hear me out
i need to leave
don't rot me too

they say you tend to create art in times of pain,
times of shame,
when you flick the light switch and forget the bulb has been dead and you can't reach high enough to change it.
when you call the one who runs laps around your mind, and those empty dial tones feel like the steady waiting in your life, wondering who, if anyone, will pick up the phone.
when you hold the pen up to the paper and forget the words to the emotions oozing out of your being, and paper was your last resort, in hopes someone would listen.
these moments tend to become reaccuring, repetitive, circulating though blood and marrow in my body, becoming a force made to stop time,
hoping I'll look back and understand why every puzzle piece is shaped the way it is, and I'll be the one picking up the phone

empecé a ver me en el espejo hace un ano
verdaderamente buscando y efectivamente encontrando
cosas que podía cambiar para que me quisieras más.
empezó con mi cuerpo y siguió a lo diminuto, el número de pestanas que tenía y lo largo de mi cabello.
me acuerdo sentir que no era suficiente para ti
que tenía que rogarte por tu atención...poniéndome como las chicas que veías en tu celular o la que estaba en tu wallpaper del teléfono. un día sonaba ser ella. pero nunca fui...entonces me sigo viendo…tratando de encontrar que me falta para que tu corras detrás de mi
para que sienta que soy la única que quisieras mirar por la eternidad
para que sería fácil que me digas que me veo bonita….sin tener que preguntarte.
lloro por no ser suficiente, lloro porque sé que hubiera podido tener más de ti…sé que no te esforzaste, lloro por el miedo que sientas lo que sentiste por mí con alguien más, lloro por imaginarme como se verá ella cuando sea que aparezca, lloro por saber que tus ojos nunca fueron ni serán totalmente para mí

it hurts
throat,
stomach,
and mind.
I just want to drown
and I am drowning
I've been drowning.

and it sounds pathetic
but I just really feel alone
and I just want to scream
until my lungs dry out
and my skin turns red
and my head is pounding

but there's no one to vent to
because i'm fifteen
and my problems are too mere

and I cannot remember the last time
someone was concerned about true feelings
or my sudden quietness
or how I've been lately

here I am screaming and drowning
over the absence of unimportant people
while there orphans and hungry babies
and cancer and mental disorders.

so i'll keep quiet
no one cares
so why should I

i told myself i would never take the time to write about one person in particular again.
i told myself that i would never write about one being again because it allowed them to become significant.
i wanted to be as cold and distant towards these people so i did not rely on anyone.
i wanted to convince myself that i didn't need specific people to make me feel confidence and joy,
that one person didn't matter more than the other,
because i knew people walked in and out, like passengers on elevator rides, some engaging in small talk, others exchanging gazes not knowing one day they'll be lovers, and others just side by side, staring at their feet, in hopes they won't have to interact and just arrive to the floor they pushed the button for.
i spoke these words to myself because i saw what i didn't want to become, i saw a wreck of emotions, a wild hurricane with a drink in her hand, a ***** tonic one night and a stella the next.
the way she lived was convincing herself she was put together, living for herself, and nobody else, but in reality she clung onto people, hoping they would go along her windy journey,
and when the people with potential left, rain came out of her eyes, storms so heavy, tropical depressions at the steering wheel, car seat covered in tears, a cloud over her head for days, and drinks became medicine.
i was a spectator, sitting on sidelines, listening through walls, hearing storms at midnight, witnessing side effects from her self medication, and i clung onto these thoughts, telling myself i'd never be like her, remembering everything was an elevator ride, and no one was here to stay, and it's nothing personal when someone gets off at a different floor.

i live through photographs of perfect bodies and walked among worshipers of flesh, the ones who looked at curves and nooks before being drawn to a mindset.
i could not help but put down my own body because i did not follow the criteria for the checklist their eyes scanned the room for.  there was not really an area of me i could be proud of, except the person i am on the inside. i wanted to cocoon sheets around my body and feel eyes drawn to what i'm made of.  
i wanted someone to touch the slopes of my mind, kiss the laughter echoing within me, eyes fixated on the glimmer within, to constantly think about the way i am instead of the way i look.
sadly i knew no participants in life were like this, so i stared into space night and day thinking about the way i needed to drink another water bottle, tallying the ones i had already finished.
if i would be fine if i had sugar twice in one day,
if everything was going to build up in me and i'd become even more undesirable to they eye, if all the fat would go to the wrong places, and never fill me up to look like a woman in the eyes of mankind. being desired was the new admiration. i craved recognition for the person i was, but physicality was the only concern with the crowd, men receiving a social trophy for having the woman most lusted after.

overdoses of assurance caused dimensions of fiction, illusions of devotion, wanting to shake myself out of hallucinations of affection and warmth, but i'm fastened in the bleakness of reality,
arms wrapped around me turned into cages only you hold the key to,
hands turned into something made to touch lustfully, tracing longing around skin,
tongues turned into snakes; manipulating words that will never hold weight to you, yet were universes and stars for my being,
words didn't anchor meaning,
the value of "i love you" disintegrated.

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

it was always hard to find a beginning.
an alpha for an omega, something that could never be found, partially because my brain was overstocked with thoughts i couldn't organize into sentences.
i never knew where to begin, because everything came all at once or nothing at all, and i couldn't put words to feelings and feelings to words, and actions to thoughts, and thoughts to actions.
there i was, trying to remember what felt so wrong, if it was the way i had done things, if it was everyone all around, or if it was the way i forgot to pray in times of emptiness and in times of wealth.
i was giving myself away, searching for the feeling i couldn't name, searching for the feeling i vaguely remember, rummaging through people and places that could possibly remind me of what fulfillment felt like.
every time i come close to finding an alpha, it feels like i only go backwards, constantly going from forward to reverse, not knowing what will set flames to something new, instead of watering down what is constantly flickering in the present.

i believe the reason you are alone is because you need to be alone
you are living in a the box of loneliness only peering through the cracks to see when your time will come
when you should be staring at the walls figuring yourself out in the silence that is so golden
you are seeing this as such a curse but it could be a hidden blessing.
for you cannot coexist properly if you cannot coexist with your flesh and soul.
this loneliness is whispering to use him for something else other than moping because he is beautiful and practical
God is giving you this time because he knows you need to learn to love yourself
you are not ready yet because you are not capable of treating these blessings properly without peace within you.
you cannot love if you barely love yourself
this time is for caring for yourself, laying by the window and cleaning yourself up like the house cat
be still
it is coming

larger eyes
longer lashes
tinier waist
thinner hair
oval face
smaller ears
straight hair
what I wish for
what a waste,
who said beauty
was the look of your face
and the measure of your waist

it became frigid quickly, like aluminum street lights at negative temperatures
the cold seeps in throughout marrow, chilling bones and freezing thoughts.
i knew it was winter again and leaves were almost completely gone from the tree branches, each crunching words of remorse as they were stepped on once again.
she was confused, confused between psychedelic highs of happiness and freezing aluminum street lights who froze her fingertips when she touched them.
she asked herself why winter came now, when she had found the sunshine of her life, seeping through her for moments at a time.

after flipping through 10 digit sequences and never finding the right call,
insecurities rose as frequent as the sunrise,
and i created a wall with murals on one side, and brick on the other,
making sure whoever rang me would only hear the voice of a simple cold "hello",
i did not want to pick up the phone and create fires for people who were going to water me down,
expose my murals and let spectators decline and walk away,
i'd rather know they saw nothing and left because they never witnessed the real version of me, only taking in brick walls, hearing dials instead of voices, ears listening to the robotic sound of answering machines and not the melodies from within me, staying awake only to watch the sunset, but be gone before the sunrise.
it was frightening to think some drifted away after eyes peeled from brick, saw murals, took in melodies, read words painted down endless roads of feeling, stayed for the sunrise, and picked up the phone to find me on the other side,
the shaking feeling resonated inside, the wondering that would never end, are pieces of me missing, or were there too many?

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