Hearing my name
Coming from new
Lips
Is always a strange thing.
Feeling a new name
Coming from my own
Lips
Is stranger still.
And what would happen if
they touched?

i wrote you
a letter every day
letters to tell you
just how i feel

written in neat, curved
writing i told you
just how sweet
i thought you were
how you made my heart
glow

letters in which i wrote
with various colors of ink
pouring out my whole being
to you

i wrote you
a letter every day.

i wrote you letters in which
i told you how you made me
bloom.

eventually
i found myself
pressing harder on
the paper
than i had before.

creating tears in them
similar in shape
and size
as the ones
inside of me.

i began to send
letters
with creases
and bumps
and stains
splattered with tears

pouring
from my eyes

as i wrote
the anger
bubbling within me.

my last letter
addressed to you
contained
no words

but was blank.
because
i had none that

could reach
as far

and deep

into the cracks
of my
heart

to describe
just
what you

had left
of me.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

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.

the one before you tried to heal my scars.
he always said
"baby, no one wants to buy damaged goods."
and i always nodded my head, kissed his cheek,
let him try and heal my scars so i would be
his perfect angel.
then you came along,
you encouraged me to leap under the fiery sun,
let my scars burn white hot like an angel's wings.
you always said
"baby, no one wants a carbon copy;
your scars make you the best kind of uniquely beautiful."
and although you may be gone now,
i will always remember to dance under the fiery sun
and let my scars burn white hot...
just like an angel's wings.

I'm doused in pink
And people think
That I'm weak
If my palette was bleak
Would you think me strong?
You'd think wrong
I'm made of steel
And quick to heal
I may be covered in bows
But heaven knows
This princess is tough
My edges might not be rough
I may look like a fragile flower
But I hold so much power
My femininity doesn't make me
Some weak little daisy
Beautiful yet tough, like diamonds & pearls
Just like the girls with ribbons and curls