I have lung made of paper bags
                                                            ­                      and a spine made of glass.
I spend my life walking on thin ice,
                                                            ­                 knowing that if I slip I will break.
I can't walk with great posture,
                                                        ­                because the weight on my shoulders.
My mind is full of cliche metaphors
                                                       ­                 and clouded with the stress of living.
The more I panic and my breathing increases,
                                                   the­ more my paper bags start to strain and crinkle.
The more I walk around with the weight I try to carry,
                                                          ­       the risk of shattering my glass spine rises.
My eyes are closed,
                                                 and my hands are ***** from trying to dig myself up.
To stop my lungs from straining,
                                                                    I stop myself from breathing.
To lessen the risk of my spine breaking,
                                                               I lay in bed and never move around.

I hate the fact that I can come up with stories for people who never lived,
Or a poem about things that happened when I was a kid,
But I can't figure out how to remember the quadratic equation,
And nothing good comes out of my power of persuasion.

I have no idea what comes out of having a creative mind,
But not being able to do complicated math in record time.

I hate that I would rather spend hours coming up with a metaphor to describe the panic I feel,
Than learn things that are supposed to help me make enough money to pay for even one daily meal.

I spent more time trying to write this,
Than I ever would trying to understand functions and statistics.

But writing ****** poetry isn't going to help me,
When I don't even have the slightest idea what I want to be.

When I yelled "No"
You tightened your grip on my throat,
and whispered *"You know you want it"

Some people spend years trying to find what they really want.
Nobody really knows if they are content with being content.
Married by twenty-five and three kids by thirty-three.
A nice suburban house with double doors and everything you've ever dreamed of in the hard wood floors of your newly renovated kitchen.
Your house is littered with toys that you don't even remember buying.
Constant arguments over why you spent two hundred dollars on a purse but you swear to God it's designer and completely worth it.
Your children are sneaking out at night and you snoop through your daughters diary because you say you think she's on drugs but really you are just nosy.
You have boring, repetitive missionary *** every other Tuesday and you are sure that *** didn't used to feel this dull.
Your children leave and you are left with a near empty house again.
You spend your time with golf and knitting class to try and fill the gaping hole left in your heart…
*******! There is a senior yoga class at the YMCA.
Your every breath is laced with worry of your offsprings in the real world.
You think back to when you were in high school and how you dreamed about being a ballet dancer.
Where has your life gone?
You can barely stand without the help of a cane because your knees are too old and creaky.
You can't even remember your old street name and your children stick you in a home because they can't manage with crazy old mom around.
They visit you once a month and eventually
you forget you even have children.
Your last couple of breaths are panicked and regretful.
You have your memories knocked back into you with the fear of a reaper.
You realized you never actually lived and you want to go back.
You dwell on every mistake and missed opportunity
You regret not following your dreams.
You want to go back.
You want to go back.
You want to go back.
You want to go back.
You want to go ba--

Only one type of ****** is illegal to show,
and wearing a skirt is an excuse for ****.
Having two X chromosomes somehow makes my life less important
than someone with an X and Y.
I am taught how to use makeup,
and told it is to attract men.
I am showed how to shave my legs,
and told that having underarm stubble makes me less of a women.
I am told that supporting feminism,
means I hate men when all I want is to be equal to them.

Feminism is around today because men think saying "all men"
is worse than telling a women to "get back in the kitchen"
Because some men still treat women like objects
Because a woman can't dress how she wants
Without a man seeing it as an invitation
Because women are still told they must have been asking for it
Because women who have *** are *****
But guys who have *** are praised
Because men still think feminism is about superiority
Instead of equal rights
Because men think being a feminist is bad
But they start a trend of meninist
Because we are still writing articles and poems, and short films
about females having the same rights as men

june tenth
the pale lamp in my room is flickering again,
you told me fifty three times to fix it,
i never did.

september twenty-first
every morning i drink apple juice,
you liked orange juice and always asked me to buy some,
i never did.

september twenty-fifth
wednesday: the day you were born,
once you were gone i was supposed to forget,
i never did.

october third
halloween is coming up,
you told me to dress up as captain america,
i never did.

may second
it's spring time and the flowers are hopping up from their beds, (another thing i never did)
i can't believe the world still goes on but,
i never did.

may eighteenth
i read the fifth harry potter book,
i skipped two and four; you once told me to write my own story,
i never did.

may twenty-seventh
you always laid out my meds for me on our lillypad green paper napkins,
but whenever i'd take them you'd vanish, so,
i never did.

june first
i played a mel tormé record,
you said i had a better voice than him whenever i sang along but,
i never did.

june sixth
i cried for the first time in three days,
the world felt heavier today, i tried to let it crush me but,
it never did.

june tenth
now its been,
well,
time seems a bit funny to me now a days.
but i guess its probably been two months or so,
but the calendar says four years,
but the calendar wouldn't be the first thing to lie to me in here.
but i want to let you know:

i don't have lamps now,
i only am allowed water,
they never tell me what day it is,
i haven't even seen a halloween since your absence,
the only thing close to flowers in here is the pattern on my gown,
the "library" here *****, there is a total of nine books. they are all gross romance novels,
my meds now come in a tiny paper cup four times a day,
they only play country here and thats only on music therapy days,
the world floated up
                                    up
                         ­                 up
                                             ­   and away, i assume it took you with it,

i guess it is just and fair that this happened to me,
i mean look at all the things you asked that i did not do for you,
but i asked you one thing,
and you said you'd always be with me, but,
you never did
**no one ever did