there are lots of different ways to tell someone you love them.
            (it’s a pain in the *** to burn music onto a blank CD and handwrite a track list)
there are so many signs we miss as we are crudely blanketed and silenced by the alarm of being emotionally disarmed and unprepared for war.
            (i can’t believe you still try to make me throw up my feelings and set them at your feet as a sacrifice)
humanity’s horrific tendency to dismiss our most crucial feelings and toss them down the garbage disposal is, more often than not, a reflection of how we treat ourselves.
            (i’m never gonna quit reminding you how pretty you are, so shut up and take the compliment)
the basis of our existence resides solely on how we perceive ourselves, so why don’t we take a closer look?
            (i will never understand why you can’t see how talented you are. you’re not that stupid)
the precision in which all of our flaws and quirks fit together is the equation to which we are the answer. if you solve all of them simultaneously, then your world would end up containing a significantly deficient amount of peculiarity.
            (dork)

Sometimes it’s hard to breathe.
Sometimes the world closes in on your lungs like the
mountains need your breath and the ocean wants your soul.
Moonbeams of indefinite prosperity gleam down upon your skin like
a bridge made of children’s dreams.
They dance along your goosebumps, trying to calm your racing heart.
You cannot see,
you cannot hear.
All you know is the deceptively comforting pale, white walls of your world,
but you do not live in a world,
you live in a cage.
You have never closed your eyes and let yourself be
guided by the wind,
an everlasting pool of transparent anger trying to rule the world,
but never getting farther than vice president.
You will never know the deep blue waves crashing methodically onto the shore,
howling and groaning their way through a job that they will never finish.

Oceans can be selfish, you know.
They own 70% of the world and they’re still not satisfied.
Their deep blue rivers of fear snake their way under our skin and into our veins,
never content until we define ourselves by anxiety and pain.
Cages may hide us from the waves, but they also shield us from our own hidden hearts,
wallowing in the loneliness of pale, white walls with a transparent roof that yields
only to prosperity that is no longer indefinite.

People always say that ballet is graceful. They speak for hours after watching a performance, marveling at the dancers’ grace and elegance. They applaud enthusiastically while gazing at the stage in awe. They see a title page, a disguise, a mask. Underneath the surface of bright lights and happy endings, there is nothing but a dark stage occupied by a girl naked, shivering, and alone. Her face is engulfed by quivering hands covered with dry, cracked skin and fingernails blue from the cold. Her hands slowly reach out to comb through brown, lifeless hair. When she draws her hands away to rest against protruding ribs, brittle hair floats delicately to the ground like a feather cruelly cast away from its owner. Tears barrel their way down her cheeks like a train unable to stop for the oblivious children playing on its tracks. Her body is nothing more than an abandoned painting, fixed and perfected beyond recognition. Her ankles quiver beneath satin chains of beauty and grace. Her fingers tremble as they graciously bow to rows and rows of awestruck admirers. Her legs falter as they are barely contained within the confines of the tutu so painstakingly stitched just for her. Her head spins, dizzy under the pressure of the tiara: crowned queen of the mentally ill.

2 cups of insecurity
4 ounces of comparison
1 cup of dinner not eaten.
5 cups of a mind in shackles
6 tablespoons of incomprehension
2 ounces of oblivious peers
3 cups of dinner not eaten.
3 teaspoons of phantom numbers
2 cups of anxiety
4 cups of mirrors smashed to bits
1 pint of self-hatred
4 cups of dinner not eaten.
1 tablespoon of depression
6 ounces of anger
2 pints of hopelessness
3 cups of self-inflicted scars
4 teaspoons of ribs in the mirror
5 cups of fainting on the stairs
1 gallon of dinner not eaten.
6 cups of grieving families
4 tablespoons of words unspoken
3 teaspoons of tears unshed.
2 cups of dusty belongings
4 gallons of friends never made
3 teaspoons of kisses never stolen
a lifetime of words left unsaid.

Melt insecurity and comparison and mix thoroughly with dinner not eaten. Mix a mind in shackles, incomprehension, and oblivious peers and add three more cups of dinner not eaten. Crush phantom numbers and anxiety and sprinkle over batter. Take each piece of mirrors smashed to bits and poke them carefully through self-hatred. Mix with four more cups of dinner not eaten. Melt depression, anger, and hopelessness and spread them thoroughly throughout the batter. Meticulously place self-inflicted scars visibly on top of the mixture. Cover with ribs in the mirror and fainting on the stairs. Mix with one gallon of dinner not eaten. Haphazardly toss in grieving families, words unspoken, and tears unshed. Mix with dusty belongings, friends never made, and kisses never stolen. Gather a lifetime of words left unsaid in a separate container. Take it outside and bury it. Do not mark the grave site.

we see countless magazines every single day
“no, you’re supposed to look this way.”
I can’t believe what I’ve been taught
either you’re pretty or you’re not.
it doesn't matter who you are
or if you’re brighter than a star.
my hands are tied, my words are set
how do I start a brand new thread?
my story is written, already done
who are you to hold the gun?
is it me or is it you,
wearing the dress that is brand new?
your propaganda has taken its toll,
but my combat boots are on a roll.
I’m sick of ideas shoved in our minds
I’m not that stupid, I know your kind.
I’ll kick and shove ‘til I get out of here
now I know there is nothing to fear.
your minds are complacent, your hearts are unkind
I will be the one to step out of line.
so get out of my way; I won’t stop ‘til I’m done
look at me: now I’ve got the gun.

the heart is a place of exile and stone
opened: the unwanted are set to roam.
hurt species and minds crushed down to a dust
wilted flowers, dead trees; rain is a must.

thoughts circle like rainfall; heartbeat not so
clouds upon clouds upon friend upon foe.
seas of disappointment flood without fear
some people are happy; that is not here.

cellars of evil and rivers of pain
rope tied around smiles with nothing to gain.
thrones of goodwill beaten down to the floor
exhausted and dying; fighting no more.

some people are happy; that is not this
crying and dying with no touch of bliss.

when I was five, my parents gave me a book about a rainbow fish instead of the princess one I wanted. waterworks began.

when I was six, I checked out a book from the school library about the tooth fairy. I read it over and over again because I was too nervous to return it.

when I was seven, I started taking dance lessons. my teacher had bright blonde hair that she always kept in a ponytail. I wanted to be exactly like her.

when I was eight, I learned how to write in cursive. I made a point of showing my teacher how the lowercase 's' looked like a Hershey's Kiss.

when I was nine, I wrote an essay for school about a cat. my teacher told me I didn't have to revise like the other kids because I had already written it so well. I was ecstatic.

when I was ten, my best friend moved away and I cut my hair short. it was the first time I had to learn how to start over.

when I was eleven, I argued myself to tears on the playground, thus discovering passion.

when I was twelve, I almost tripped down the stairs after school every day because I refused to put my book down.

when I was thirteen, I made my way into a group of friends that had hearts of gold and eyes of steel. we felt invincible.

when I was fourteen, I watched as by best friend silently collapsed into a heap of tiny, broken pieces. I learned that the nicest people can be incredibly hard headed.

now I'm fifteen. I don't know everything, but I do understand that life never goes as planned. I understand that we are wonderfully accustomed to adapting to unprecedented circumstances. I understand that picking yourself up off the bathroom floor time and time again takes strength and resilience. I understand that you're good at being you, and that is always a compliment.