I thought that maybe I'd have something to write about now but I guess not because here I am with black eyeliner and hickeys that look like snakebites still wondering what to say

There's something magical about the way
the ***** New York City streets look
when it's been raining and it's still cloudy.
Headlights shine on the pavement
and if you look up for a moment,
you can see the skyscrapers disappear into the clouds.
City streets look so dull in the sunlight.
Dust swirling in the air.
But just before dark, when it's rained
at 5 in the afternoon
the streets are shiny and little girls jump in the puddles
cars drive slow
and women are holding up umbrellas
still slick with water droplets

And when it's late November
Christmas lights shining everywhere
and mugs of hot cocoa warm throats and hands and stomachs
and music plays softly at the edge of your conscience
snow falls gently from the low hanging clouds
a snowflake lands on her wool coat and
she turns around and you both stop because
suddenly everything is
so much more beautiful than either of you expected.

I haven't done dishes in weeks because I haven't needed them yet.
I refuse to say it's my tummy grumbling because tummy sounds cute but mine isn't so my stomach is grumbling and it's loud but not louder than black coffee and cigarettes
(that's what skinny girls are made of, didn't you know?)
my room-mate is worried and my best friend can smell it and I am fat.
please excuse me if my voice cracks. I've got something in my throat but it isn't ***** and it isn't food
it's my heart. There's no room for it in my ribcage anymore so it jumped into my vocal cords and maybe that's why I told her she was exceptional last night
(she isn't)
I don't weigh myself because I don't have batteries for the scale and maybe that's a good thing because Ana won't stop whispering in my ear until I look lovely
(no matter how close to 100 I am she's not happy)
so won't you please excuse me while I look for my ribcage?
you'll find me in a churchyard next time we meet
and I hope I'm the skinniest angel.

I have always had a hunger for words
seven years old, I was reading at a college level. I was amazing. A little freak of nature. They said, "Grace, you're so smart" "Grace, you're a genius" "Grace, you're going places in life" but now i'm not so sure because
I was extraordinary then but
this is high school now and everybody reads at a college level and all of a sudden I don't feel so special anymore.
10 years old I was required to write 13 poems for the "Bluebonnet Young Poet awards"
I submitted them but
I'm still waiting for the letter that tells me I've won.
And so I wrote poetry all through the sixth grade
I was threatened and
pushed around. but no one could know because if anyone knew
they would hurt me worse and so I took the liberty of
doing that for them.
but there was a boy. isn't there ALWAYS a boy?
and I tried to write about him but (shhhhhh) he was a secret and all of the things he did to me were (shhhhhh) (shut up) (be quiet) (don't make a sound)
once I was free from him the words poured out of me like a bird released from its cage finally finally finally I could SING.
but there was a boy. isn't there always a boy?
he let the words come and come and they were about him, always about him. they were beautiful. every day there seemed to be more words about him, for him, to him. it stopped being about my words and always about his but his words were empty so he stopped saying them. I wrote for him and hoped he would see it but I guess he never did because sometimes I still write for him and wonder what he's doing.
sometimes people like to tell me that my poetry isn't "appropriate" that it's "too emotional" "too adult" and I shouldn't be writing things like that, am I depressed?  who are they, who are any of you, to tell me what I can and cannot feel?
who am I, to be standing here, telling you what I feel?
I have always had a need for words.
it's about time I started treating them right.

all my life I’ve been burning things to the ground
I left my marshmallow over the flame too long
forgot the popcorn in the microwave last night
too many friendships have gone up in smoke because
I had too much oxygen in my heart

I learned yesterday that abracadabra means
“I create as I speak”

I was never afraid of fire.
three years old, I held my hands
close to the flames and cried
"Daddy, Daddy, it's magic!"
and to this day,
I often wonder if
I might be magic, too

I never believed in magic until I met her

she taught me that I am wildfire.
beautiful from a distance
but if you get too close, I might burn you
not to worry-
wildfire brings new life
I promise I’ll help you begin again.

you try to breathe fire, but you are not the magician here

you attempt to extinguish me
you throw water on my flames but
underneath the blackened exterior is
a still-burning ember
full of white-hot anger
I have been ablaze for too long
to be put out

and now, I pull the rabbit out of the hat.

illusion is key to telling the perfect lie
smoke and mirrors turn your gaze the other way
while I turn you to ashes
a magician’s final trick.

My hands have always been weak.
When I was seven years old, they decided
that I needed to go to physical therapy
because I couldn’t hold a pencil.
I couldn’t hold the reins tight enough.
I kept dropping things. I couldn’t do
anything right.

I have always been inherently sad.
When I was nine years old, they decided
that I needed to go to therapy
because I couldn’t control myself.
I couldn’t appreciate what I had.
I never slept. I couldn’t do
anything

I punched walls and kicked doors.
I ripped posters off of my
fourth-grade classroom walls.
Ten years old, I walked through the hallways,
All eyes on me because I was
Toilet Girl
I just couldn’t seem to
get it right.

When I am twelve, I’ll start
to write ****** poetry instead
of destroying things because
both are art forms but
my parents have to pay when I
destroy things.

When I am thirteen, I’ll realize
that it’s not just material objects
I have trouble holding on to.
I have trouble holding on to people, too.

I am fourteen, and I have just
been told that I’m not
doing anything right.
I haven’t hit a wall in years but
I guess old habits die hard because
I’m fifteen with
new scars on my knuckles

I am inherently sad and my hands are weak.
I write poems on my computer because
I still can’t hold a pencil.
But for someone with such
weak hands
I have a lot of scars on my knuckles.