i wish i could take the bottle out of your hands before you drink it
maybe then you’d care about
how i feel
how i hurt
how i get treated
by them
by you
when i do what you’ve asked and try my best to do everything right and i get scorn and sarcasm in return
how do you not understand?
how do you not see?
how every mocking word impacts me
and absolutely shuts me down
i am tired
i am tired of going unnoticed while i boil higher and higher until i blow up and then i am in the wrong when i do
but if you’d only pay attention and listen to me a fraction of the way i do to you
maybe you’d see it really isn’t out of nowhere
maybe you’d see every little scratch and slice that led to the open wound on my chest
maybe you’d just ******* see me
instead of the bottom of a margarita
because margaritas have been ruined for me
the nickname too
“margs”
my god i wish i could bury that word in the bottom of the ocean and never hear it again
because my love, my angel, turns into a cruel ******* after one too many “margs”
and i hate them for it
and i hate the one who showed you them
and i even hate the ******* inventor of a margarita because they ******* ruin my favorite person in the entire cosmos
and so they ruin me
or at the very least they make me small
i am a gnat buzzing in her ear because of margaritas
i am scratchy brush underfoot
i am irritating but only just enough to not be invisible and hopelessly irrelevant
i am hurting
i am furious
i am hopeless
i am frustrated
i am trying
i am tired
i am all of these things and yet
i can’t compete with
tequila and juice and salt
and maybe that’s the most frustrating thing of all
you are my moon and stars and sunshine and earth and air and life
and i fall somewhere between rock bottom and a margarita on the rocks

from the time i was old enough to know the word
i have been a ****
not because i have a lot of ***
not because i dress a certain way
not because i “ask for it”
but because i am a woman, and from the time a boy is old enough to know the word
it is not something he can be
but rather what the girls who reject him are
the girls who aren’t interested
the girls who say no
the girls who make him angry enough to scream that slur their way
because obviously someone uninterested in *** with you is getting a hell of a lot of it elsewhere
there’s also the small problem of puberty, i grew and changed in what my mom said was a beautiful entrance to womanhood
what my dad said would be the death of him
what the girls in my class said wasn’t fair
what the boys in my class only whispered and snickered about, the curves and winding roads of my body were something those pre-driver’s license middle-schoolers couldn’t fathom venturing down
what i wouldn’t give to be there again
now i’ve grown even more, too many late night snacks and desserts have led to a distribution of weight that is less than ideal - not by the worlds standards, oh no - but my mine? my ******* are fashioned to give life to a child, but i can’t wear swimsuits or low cut shirts or anything without a bra because i will “draw the wrong kind of attention”. why? it’s not as if i chose to have them or that i think they’re even particularly ****. what is **** about a mass of fat that makes milk on your chest?
but still my wardrobe, my actions, even the body movements i make have been groomed so that the shape of my body is hidden, shamed, and covered.
i am so tired of being shamed for how i am. i was made this way, i didn’t choose it, but i can’t wear the cute clothes or play the same games or even speak the same way my friends can because i always have to be conscious of how it could come across.

because no girl wants to be called a ****, now do they?

he cried with us
this boy with his heart on his sleeve listened to our worst days and tears ran down his face
if she doesn't tell him one day soon how she feels then he'll be snatched away
because a man lets tears overflow, raw emotion,
letting go
a boy hides and denies and cries in private

a slow affection for him snuck up on me.
i'm not the only one.
i don't know how to feel when he talks to her
i don't want to be jealous, envy is never my outlet
but walking up on them alone and laughing together sent a spear through my heart and i don't understand it's sting.
she doesn't deny his pull
she'd be blind and stupid if she did

he's the kind of sweet that makes your teeth go bad and your heart beat fast

he's the kind of funny that makes your stomach hurt while you wheeze out a laugh

he's the kind of courageous that will protect you always and always

and i don't think i can let him go

songs & poetry sing and speak of the oceans, skies, & fields of green
that can be seen
in the eyes of kings and queens that were once prince charming’s and princess anything’s,
the startling blues,
the striking greens,
it seems,
are the only colors to fall for,
but
       i
             fell
                     for
a pair of brown eyes that glow in the sun,
shine warmly in winter,
cocoa cinnamon colored eyes, spices and dry deserts,
pyramids and caravans come to mind,
with those eyes, those dark and brooding, laughing, dancing eyes framed by dark lashes and wrinkles from the smiles he’s always wearing

you can keep,
your blue-eyed boys,
and green-eyed girls
i’ll take my brown-eyed beloved