I live in a society that mocks mental illness,
and with a mother that sugarcoats depression.
You're just tired,
she says as I try to overdose on Vitamin D
and my younger brother's pain pills
to be the good enough child
that she always thought she had.
But that's all I'm putting in my mouth,
I swear.
I keep the door to the pantry shut,
and I've learned to do the same with my lips,
even though that thing beneath my rib cage
that the cat scratched up too much
is fighting for a chance
to let my true feelings out.
Her parental guidance is a catalyst
to everything I told the therapist
who sits behind a desk
behind my eyes.
You're too young to love.
You're too fat to be anorexic.
You're too happy to be depressed.
No.
I am a girl,
in love with a man
that ***** every ounce of daydreams
from my body without touching a fingertip.
He leaves venom in my skin
that I mistake for affection,
and he leaves me wanting more;
wanting him to swallow me
like the New York City street rat
that no one even wants to look at,
because maybe then
I'd be able to bring him some satisfaction.
But I do not add nutrition,
I am not needed in his life.
I ask what time dinner is
because I haven't eaten breakfast,
or lunch.
I ask if I can have some more,
but I tell myself no
before the question lifts off my tongue
because I know my mother well.
I know that size 6 is average,
but who cares about a number like that
when I'm a healthy 20 pounds overweight?
I preach body positivity like a religion
tattooed into my bloodstream,
but even I don't understand the blasphemy.
And isn't it ironic
how the girl in love with the snake
is a hypocrite herself?
A hypocrite who puts on a mask
of Covergirl 110,
and blush in Feeling Pretty,
and black liner,
as if she were enhancing the trainwreck she created.
But sadness can't be cured
by the snap of my fingers,
by the pink gloss on my lips,
by the red dress in size 2,
by the galactic twinkle in his eyes,
or the parallel universes created by his smile.
So I'm sorry mom,
that it's not enough,
that I'm not enough
for you.

I’m intoxicated with dreams of you,
drunk on the idea of your hands on my body.
the fantasy places you in a seat,
my back to you.
you’ve already got a lover,
but I could replace the way you love her.
we are not alone,
but we are silent.
your hands slowly cascade like smoke;
they wrap around my waist.
nothing they do is ******,
but the tension lies beneath your palms,
where my heart beats only for
your love.

I bought you a crown,
nothing special, it's cardboard,
decorated with construction paper and smeary markers;
it looks like an elementary art project, but you look like a King with it placed crookedly upon your head.

You told them to step aside,
the corners of your lips curled up,
slightly gaped teeth shone beneath your top lip,
you say "the Queen is coming through," and our hands brush as I walk by.

You are powerful, strong, confident —
the King of Sass,
the King of Humor,
the King of Charm,
the King of my heart.

I am frail, self-conscious, jealous —
the Queen of Uncertainty,
the Queen of Rosy Cheeks,
the Queen of Midnight Tears,
the Queen of Imagination...
After all, you only see me as a commoner.

I don't have the right to be jealous.
I don't have the right to make you smile.
I don't have the right to think about you,
and I **** well shouldn't speak your name.
I don't have the right to laugh at your smirk.
I don't have the right to be happy.
I don't have the right to stand next to you,
and I **** well shouldn't want to call your arms home.
I don't have the right to share music tastes.
I don't have the right to accidentally wear matching colors.
I don't have the right to hold your hand,
and I **** well shouldn't cherish the moments when your freckled skin touches mine.
I don't have the right to be yours.
I don't have the right to call you mine.
I don't  have the right to feel my heart ignite in passions,
and I **** well shouldn't imagine you feel the same.

I keep looking
out the ***** window
into my dark reflection
beyond the clouded stars.
Looking for answers,
and finding myself thinking more,
the wheels turning
until they’re nothing but burnt rubber.
Metaphors replace scents of DMT
and my mind runs on ecstasy,
but all I can imagine
are ships passing each other at midnight.
I want to turn the wheel and
crash
into your body, my solace.
But I don’t want to wreck what we have.
I can’t help but wonder
if this plane would drown in the ocean
beneath our unsuspecting minds,
would we be reincarnated
into soulmates
who travel in an RV
because we were born afraid to fly?
Even if we can’t afford the trip,
I’ve read your horoscope 1000 times
and the signs say that you can give me
adventure.
And this is more than ****** attraction,
it's wanderlust.
so please,
run away with me.

It's 12:03am on a Tuesday morning
And all I can think about
Is what it would be like,
If I were Marilyn Monroe,
And you were JFK.
If we were closeted lovers,
Or one-time pleasure seekers.
If you were a *******;
If I were a *** symbol.
If we could be anything more than
Friends.
Acquaintances.
Strangers...
It's 12:07am and you're probably sleeping,
Arms wrapped around your Jackie O.
And I know I keep saying
I don't need you,
But this ceiling fan is ****** company,
And ****, do I want you.