her foot never fully touched the ground,
remaining half afloat in the air--
stuck in the clouded mist of her anxious mind,
she could not grasp the full weight of reality

her dance too tentative to be considered one of grace,
she treaded carefully with each step, although,
she knew this all with a great familiarity--

a constant state of limbo and disarray,
out of touch with sight and mind,
thoughtless rumination
all gather to combine into this displacement

she leaps with hope and faith,
but unable to press her foot along the earth
she glides over the dust and ruin,
seeking to avoid rather than settle-- she survives without living

You have no idea
what you mean to me.
You are a lighthouse
when I'm lost at sea.

Rainy days,
and cloudy grey skies.
I miss the sunshine
hidden in
your bright blue eyes.
Stormy nights,
and cold December mornings.
I love the way
we get wrapped up
tight between the sheets.
Sunny days,
and brisk may showers.
I hear happiness
coming from your laughter.

I am capable of love,
even during,
the coldest of nights.

You get so mad
when I'm half in my head,
mostly because I write,
what I really should've said.

The years of tye dye,
and silky straight hair,
of stupidity,
and insecurity fears,
of pro Ana scares,
and late night dares.
The years of coffee,
and menthol cigarettes,
anything to keep
the dial on the scale
from moving forward.
I remember those years
crystal clear,
girls wandering the halls,
books in hand,
feet dragging behind them,
bodies moving,
with vacant eyes,
and soulless attitudes.
I was one of those girls too.
I wandered the halls,
like a ghost trapped between
two halves of tainted glass.
I was dead inside,
consumed by insecurities
that hovered around me like flies.
It was hard
to be a girl.
It was hard
to walk those halls
with shame carved in
to porcelain skin,
to walk those halls
with eyes reading
the canvas of my skin,
the story written
between showing ribs.
It was torture,
to starve with a smile
shining on my face like gold,
but so many of us did it.
It was sink or swim.
It was four years
of brutal judgement
by peers hiding
behind blue screens.
It was four years
of petty remarks,
each one a pin poked
straight through the heart.
It was 1,460 days
of crying on the bathroom floor,
of starving just to make
the pain go away,
of chances for someone
to tell you
it was going to be okay,
eventually.
I remember those years.
I remember thinking
the pain was never
going to go away,
and even after
I left that place,
it didn't go away,
not completely.
It just got easier
to wake up each morning,
knowing I didn't
have to walk the halls
with all those eyes,
watching,
waiting for my demise.
It got easier to live,
to remember what it meant
to love who I am.
It got easier to recover,
to eat without feeling,
like I only deserve hunger.
It just got easier,
because high school is torture.
It's not worth it
to let it take over,
to let their words
linger in my ears
like a crack of deafening thunder.
It's not worth it
to be afraid of their thunder,
because I am lightening.
I hold the power.
I'll burn bright,
and make them
run for shelter.