Flower petals fall,
pink girlish lips
kissing my skin as I lie beneath
drooping branches.
The grass around me is a blanket,
soft as fleece.
I inhale both scents, sweet and earthy
like late summer afternoons of
lawn mowing and iced tea.
They nip my tongue with
each breath I take.
I feel the sun’s heat
on my eyelids and ears
and feel my skin turn red,
but I don’t move from my spot
beneath the magnolia tree.
My grandmother calls my name,
but I don’t open my eyes.

Compared to you,
I am nothing special.
I am the flower in
your hair,
the ground beneath
your feet.
You are what adds the
esscence to my life,
the cream and sugar that
take away the
bitterness of my morning coffee.
It's your arms I
run to, your shoulder I
cry on, your smiles I
always cherish.
I am the tears and
sorrow you choose to
put up with,
the thorn in your
thumb you refuse to
yank out.
I am not like you,
but there you are,
hand out to
me like I actually
belong in
your world.

Tear me out, strip
me down;
I am nothing.
Destroy my heart,
rip it to
shreads;
I deserve it.
I'm not good
enough for love
that treats you right,
or warm callused
hands late at night.
I won't be
skinny or gorgeous
because I'm not meant
to be,
no matter how much I
wish the fat away.
Skin me raw, hang
me out to dry,
watch me rot like I
should have long ago.
Pain is the only
thing I've ever earned,
thus the only
life I'll ever deserve.

Your eyes are like
magnets,
pulling me in,
your polar opposite.
You make me crave what
I shouldn't,
sweat in between
the sheets,
claws down our backs.
Make me feel you on
top of me, next to
me, inside of me.
Breath hard against my
neck, pull my hair
until my skull aches.
I want it, I want it,
I swear that I want it.
Be rough, be gentle,
take me as you may.
I'll be your
salve, your
little girl;
I will obey.
Promise to love
me,
and I'll stay
on my kness forever.

Falling in love
is like
trying to match
snowflakes;
no two are ever the same.
No two people carry
the same heart,
the same story.
Hands are held tighter
or looser,
kisses get bigger
or smaller,
goodbyes get longer
or shorter.
Lips take different
shapes, form unfamiliar
words, new
skin against skin,
another eager
body to explore.
You are beautifully
unique like the
first snowfall,
like a grain
of sand,
like the scar on
the back of your hand.

So many butterflies;
on my arms, my thighs,
my hips.
I want to let them
free, let them fade from
each layer of skin,
but the razor wants them
dead.
It wants to nip off their
wings like little pieces of
construction paper,
slice off their antennaes,
rip open their
abdomens.
Blood is what it
lusts for,
its trophy, its
pride.
It is no longer a
tool, but a
self-destructive weapon.
It kills the living and
the hope,
takes away every
color from their
wings until there's
only red.

Inspiration fails me,
my pen refuses to move from
its place on the page,
leaving a splotch the
size of the
thoughts I wish to write.
I wish I could fill
ten notebookes with my
sociopolitical nonsense
and whinings of every
trivial romance in my
young life.
I want to dry up pen after
pen, wake up
hungover from writing late
the night before,
cover each and every slip of
paper in alliterations
and onamonapias.
If only I could be a
real artist, one who
carries her notebook and
pen to libraries, coffee shops,
and movie theaters,
finding inspiration in ever
face and street corner.
But no.
I'm just sitting here,
pen in midair,
staring at a blank page.