Fifteen. I switch houses every week packing a bag with as many clothes to last me months. I wish I was carrying that bag onto the next flight out of this prison instead of six blocks down the road. Fifteen my parents fight and it sounds like a broken record nobody has the guts to throw away. It's hard to believe you when you say you don't hate each other. I guess that has to do with the fact that you refuse to see each other face to face. Fourteen I'm crying myself to sleep because you're trying to erase the thoughts and memories of you ever being in love. Packing away the wedding gifts and burying the pictures along with the feelings that you killed three years ago. The ones whose grave you never bother to visit anymore. Never letting people lay flowers down by the tombstone because it doesn't matter anymore. Thirteen I force my laugh to cover up my pain when you get embarrassed when you accidentally write my fathers name on the Christmas card. Thirteen I've stopped hanging out with my friends because I hate what's become of me. Twelve. My life gets flipped upside down. You file for a divorce and you sign the papers realizing how much of a mistake this was. How much of a mistake I was. Twelve. I am forced to survive on my own. I grew up 4 years early. I'm afraid to leave my bed because I don't want to mess up. But I guess that at this point it doesn't make a difference because my life has been shattered and I can't pick myself up long enough to sweep up the pieces. Eleven, ten, nine, eight we're happy. I look forward to getting up and starting my day. Sunshine is evident in my eyes and stars twinkle throughout my body, constellations forming in my smile. Seven, six, five I enter kindergarten. Recess was my favorite part of the day. I could actually stand spending time with my family. I lived for dinner time because it meant being together and seeing the happiness wash upon our faces like waves crashing on the seashore. It used to be so beautiful. Five. Four, three, two, one. If only I had known what was going to happen. I would have started packing my bags.

(g.p.)

Before I met you, I never knew what it felt like to look at someone and smile. To be happy just because someone is in my presence. I read somewhere the human heart beats approximately 4,000 times per hour. and if I had to guess, I would say 3,999 of those beats are spent on your laugh and your smile. The way the lines that form at your eyes look like our future together. how your freckles spell out 'i love you' just in case I ever started to doubt you. that one extra heartbeat I save for the moment you touch me because I know once you let go I will miss you so much I will end up sinking into oblivion. when I lay in bed at night I start to see the outline of your body the car headlights form a shadow on my wall. I hear the sound of your voice every time I flick the light switch and most nights I stand leaning against the wall continuously turning the light on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off. I've started sleeping with the phone next to my pillow just in case you call. you're the only one I want answering the phone as if hearing someone else's voice could bury me six feet under. I barely get out of bed anymore and it's not because I'm tired or lazy but because I've been digging my body into my mattress to try and feel your warmth. when you lie awake at night, unable to sleep I hope you think of me and know I've been trying to go to bed but I can't make it past the light switch.

Pretty (adj):
1. pleasing or attractive to the eye, as by delicacy or gracefulness;
"Pretty" is a word that's been spewed at you since the day you were born,
A social standard set upon you that you had yet to even hear, but it was being used to describe you instantly;
A "pretty little girl", a "pretty face", "pretty eyes", "pretty smile", "pretty outfit",
Did anyone ever stop to wonder if you'd have a pretty soul?
What about the way you could be brought to tears at the thought of shaming homeless people or victims of abuse, how your heart felt like it was ripping out of your chest when you heard about someone who was struggling,
They didn't seem to care that you tested highest in compassion, they just wanted to know where you got your dress from.
As you grew older the adjective turned from an innocent compliment to what seemed like a snide remark,
The word "pretty" began to eat you from the inside out every time it was said
like you should measure your worth in how delicate others find you;
You stopped accepting "pretty" as a compliment when it turned into an adjective that was only associated with girls that were more than average but less than beautiful,
You stopped accepting "pretty" as a compliment when it became an antonym of strong,
like "pretty" girls were things that would break if you talked too loud, as if loving a "pretty" thing could never be synonymous with loving a durable or sturdy or resilient thing.
D.A. Sharp once said
"You weren't meant to be pretty; you were meant to burn down the earth and graffiti the sky. Don't let anyone ever simplify you to just "pretty"."
And so when someone kindly placed the word in a sentence referring to you you learned to automatically put it into quotations because they were just trying to be nice,
They didn't know they were reducing you to outer beauty, that "pretty" seemed less like a compliment the more it was said, like people couldn't figure out another way to describe you,
As if God hadn't already intricately woven the threads of your DNA, as if he hadn't perfectly tinted every hair on your head to be its crisp burnt color or hand painted the irises of your eyes,
No, "pretty" could no longer cut it.
Because you had been made for bigger and better things,
Those "pretty" eyes of yours will one day see things that God hadn't originally intended anyone to have to see, and those "pretty" hands of yours will have to pick up the pieces of a heartache that God had never wanted you to know and put them back together, and those "pretty" lips of yours are the same lips that will stand in front of sin and tell it that you have chosen Jesus.
Because "pretty" is fine,
but you have been fearfully and wonderfully made, a masterpiece of the Creator.

Ever since you found a new person to confide in ive found myself thinking about you. are you okay? do you miss me? and I know I shouldn't do such a thing because all it leads to is tear stained cheeks and hours of silence. and ever since that day I no longer have an actual human being willing to listen to my teenage problems. we never stay up until the sun rises just venting to get it out of our systems. not anymore. I am worried all the time about you to the point where I begin to lose my breath. I get that you're happy and not everything is about me but you've made me so lonely. our paths never cross and it's like half of me was ripped away and I'm so confused. im slowly losing my grip and you're never around to ensure you'll catch me.

it's 2 am and I'm up writing because I'm sick to my stomach and not because of the bottles of alcohol I just drained but because of your words still blistering my lips. my head aches; all I can hear is your voice. I can't tell if you're whispering or shouting, I've heard too much of both. awhile ago you told me you'd never leave me. yet here I am, trying to place band-aids on the pieces of my heart you've fractured. so why do I keep writing about you?

I no longer feel the sunlight on my skin but instead cold rain that never seems to dry.
I no longer feel beautiful because your words have stolen every beautiful thing that ever plastered my body.
My face doesn't carry a smile as big as the sea because you ripped it off of me when I fell in the yard.
It's like my stem was plucked from the ground and I no longer have petals growing from my stomach but dead trees that look a lot like your hands.
And I don't know if I'm going crazy or if the weeds that grow from my lungs replicate the lines that form your face. I'm sick of tripping over my shoes trying to keep standing.
Please leave me alone, I'm tired of scraping my knees trying to pull you out of my veins.

(g.p.)