When I was a little girl
And my mother still laid out clothes for me
She'd always tell me
"You're the prettiest girl in your class,
But you'd be beautiful if you combed your hair more."

When I was a bit older
And I didn't care much
About what I wore
My mom would always say
"You'd be beautiful if your clothes matched."

When I was 14,
And I skipped breakfast and lunch
And binged at dinner
I lost my appetite
And felt like throwing up
When my mom said
"You'd be beautiful if you didn't eat so much."

I wonder if you saw what I did to myself
If you'd have the nerve to tell me
"You'd be beautiful if only you didn't
Take a razor to your wrist or a finger to your throat."

Saying "I love you"
To hear it back from your lips
A reassurance

The end of your rope
Became a noose round my neck
I'll be with you soon

**** it off,
like a dog,
wasted and grey.

No more use,
just refuse,
to let it in.

It cries all night,
it begs for life,
took it away.

Keep it caged,
locked away,
from the girl.

She will scratch,
want it back,
what's hers is yours.

Dangle it high,
towards the sky,
above her head.

Make her fight,
make her cry,
make her beg.

Then throw it up,
take the gun,
and end it.

You say doctors will
make the best poets.
They will search your emotions
by the skin; cutting open to reveal
and revel
with surgical precison.
They will play with
heavy drugs and blades--
nothing shall hide beneath
the armors of bone and muscle.
They know the anatomy
of the heart too well.
They will find the things
you have hidden in your chest.

I say
doctors will never be poets.
They are too mechanical,
too fast with their edges
and ridges.
They cannot see the pain
as pain but merely as an anomaly.
That sadness is black bile
not melancholia.
They cannot sing to you
but only clammer in medical jargon.

Poets will use their imperfect words,
and perfect rhymes
to find the secrets of your rib cage
with ease.
They will find every flaw
of your broken body
and make it the best story
you've never heard.

Doctors,
they will put love to define as
a momentary rush of adrenaline,
an arrythmia for another human
caused due to an imbalance of the heart rhythm.

Poets will tell you
that love is the first jolt
of life for them.
They will say love is a state of euphoria
that takes those irregular rhythms to perfect symphonies.

Doctors say that
veins carry blood
devout of oxygen.
I say that they carry your broken emotions
to their feelings factory
to mend it within its beautiful catacombs.

All those doctors
will find and fix you
with perfect solutions.

And these poets
will do their best
to be your perfect solution.