The smudge of ink that is left when a mistake can't be completely erased
Just another failed attempt
Another rough draft
That's what I am
I think that if someone were to finish erasing
I could be rewritten as something much more beautiful
A better version of me
A better choice of words
Maybe if I could erase myself
You could recreate me more beautifully than this first edition
You could create me with the abundance of loveliness that you hold
Where I am "flawed"
You could write me as "fascinating"
Where I feel "ignored"
You could describe me as "engrossing"
Where I am "alone"
You could instead write "loved"
I want you to change me
Mold me
Shape me
Recreate me
Replace me with a better version of myself

Your lips
Were the first thing I noticed
Gently parted
Breathing in and out

Oh to be your words
Conceived within your mind
Born upon your lips

Poetry.

Your lips are ******* poetry.

when I was seven
I dreamed of swimming
out into the exact middle
of the Pacific Ocean
the taste of saltwater
probably easier to stomach
than the liquor shots we need
just to be around each other
drowning under the pressure
of young adulthood
I swear I was only seven
when I realized
I was a perpetual listener
attracted to slow sounds
and the comfort of quiet
it was twelve years ago
I predicted that
someday the noises of the city
would flood my consciousness
and suffocate my spirit

"You're pretty."
"I love you."
"We should be friends."
Phrases I tend to cycle through every day.
Words that bring happiness and good feelings into others' lives.
Yet, I constantly get questioned why I'm nice to everyone.
Or told that I can't befriend everyone.
Reminded that people will hate me.
But you see, that's a fact I know all too well.
Behind this smiling face and welcoming exterior is a soul that is broken.
A person who has been picked on, kicked around, bullied
Made to feel so bad that tears streamed more constantly than water from a faucet.
Feeling like I would never be loved
Never have true friends
Never be pretty.
There was a period in my life where I had no one.
No best friend to tell my secrets to.
No circle where I felt I belonged.
Sitting alone at lunch.
One of the worst feelings in the world.
Watching everyone talk and laugh and smile.
And wondering why I can't have those experiences, too.
Eating too much to fill the empty void of time.
Gaining weight in an attempt to drown my sorrows in food.
Fast forward a few years.
Friendships have developed.
They enjoy my humor and fun spirit.
Yet no one noticed the hurt still burning inside me.
The fear of rejection.
The sadness of never understanding old inside jokes.
The worry that someday everything would go back to how it was.
And I would be left alone.
Again.
With no one to talk to or sit with.
So forgive me for being too kind, or too happy. Or spreading love. Or wanting to be friends with people.
Because I never want to experience that hollow feeling of loneliness again.

I am often overwhelmed by how forgettable I am
or maybe underwhelmed
would be more accurate
my parents told me that I will be number one
to someone someday
but it’s hard to believe
when you’re not even number one
to your parents
like the moon with its uneventful craters
I eclipse the sun (only for a bit)
A nuisance, nothing more
than a quick shadow
until the sun gains back its glory
always the bridesmaid, never the bride
I watch as everyone else walks down the aisle
and marries intelligence, beauty, success
while Bacardi attempts to numb the reality
that I will always miss the bouquet
but I’ve only been to one wedding
and six funerals
which says more about me
than the deceased
I’d like to think that black is my color
he used to tell me I looked **** in my midnight dress
though no one tells me I look **** anymore