There is a place in my garden
Where I let things freely grow
Never tasting sickle, rake, or ***
A place planted by God's hands
Not mine you see
Always fascinated how his garden
Is always much prettier than mine

©  2017 Jim Davis

The truth is…
              the real truth…?
                             Do people do that?

How’s my new dress?
                                             It makes you look fat.

Like my new do?
I paid quite a lot
                                             You got ripped off, dear,
                                               You might even sue.

How are you today?
Just a quick answer please
I don’t have the time
To hear of your bad knees.
                                              I’m doing fine, knowing
                                               You don’t want to hear
                                               My problems and stresses
                                               I won’t bend your ear.


A “white lie” is easier
Makes conversation go fast
Then again, you just never know
When you might hear the real truth
It could be quite a blow.
So beware

the truth is…

If you don’t want the real truth?
Perhaps you shouldn’t ask.

The years of tye dye,
and silky straight hair,
of stupidity,
and insecurity fears,
of pro Ana scares,
and late night dares.
The years of coffee,
and menthol cigarettes,
anything to keep
the dial on the scale
from moving forward.
I remember those years
crystal clear,
girls wandering the halls,
books in hand,
feet dragging behind them,
bodies moving,
with vacant eyes,
and soulless attitudes.
I was one of those girls too.
I wandered the halls,
like a ghost trapped between
two halves of tainted glass.
I was dead inside,
consumed by insecurities
that hovered around me like flies.
It was hard
to be a girl.
It was hard
to walk those halls
with shame carved in
to porcelain skin,
to walk those halls
with eyes reading
the canvas of my skin,
the story written
between showing ribs.
It was torture,
to starve with a smile
shining on my face like gold,
but so many of us did it.
It was sink or swim.
It was four years
of brutal judgement
by peers hiding
behind blue screens.
It was four years
of petty remarks,
each one a pin poked
straight through the heart.
It was 1,460 days
of crying on the bathroom floor,
of starving just to make
the pain go away,
of chances for someone
to tell you
it was going to be okay,
eventually.
I remember those years.
I remember thinking
the pain was never
going to go away,
and even after
I left that place,
it didn't go away,
not completely.
It just got easier
to wake up each morning,
knowing I didn't
have to walk the halls
with all those eyes,
watching,
waiting for my demise.
It got easier to live,
to remember what it meant
to love who I am.
It got easier to recover,
to eat without feeling,
like I only deserve hunger.
It just got easier,
because high school is torture.
It's not worth it
to let it take over,
to let their words
linger in my ears
like a crack of deafening thunder.
It's not worth it
to be afraid of their thunder,
because I am lightening.
I hold the power.
I'll burn bright,
and make them
run for shelter.

You get so mad
when I'm half in my head,
mostly because I write,
what I really should've said.