She's dark, yet
moonlight glows
inside her soft-eyes
& despite her
tragic-aura,
I still want
her blackness,
to taste her magic,
to kiss
the devil inside her.

A skinny little girl is 11
when she gets told for the first time
that she's not pretty enough.
What a thing to tell a little girl.
She can see what people call pretty
on magazines and she can see the mirror
telling her that her skin isn't as clear and
how she's not as skinny as them.

A skinny little girl is 13
when she stops eating breakfast,
claiming the lie of having nausea that early.
All the other girls are showing skin so
she joins in. Her face is clear now but
her stomach's still not flat. She eats half a lunch
and her mom says, "That's not enough."
Her friend doesn't know and
sees her waist, telling her, "Wow,
You're like a toothpick!"
It makes her grin and she feels pretty.

A skinny little girl is 15
when she decides skipping meals isn't
fast enough. She's stuffing her finger
down her throat now, pouring out her meals.
Her breast are on display and she
loves this boy who says she's beautiful
and kisses her stomach, telling her how
skinny she is. She doesn't know how
different *** is from love and she lets him
take her clothes off, loving him as much
as she can. He leaves her more times than she can
remember in the next couple years but
she defends it when he always comes back.

A skinny little girl is 17
when she tries to hide the scars
on her arms from everyone, making up
excuses when asked about them.
She's traded throwing up for skipping meals again and
she still thinks she's not pretty enough.
Her mom questions her scars and
her friends wonder about her eating habits but
nobody does a thing. She's numb and thinks
she's not worth anything. She cries herself to sleep and still loves the boy who comes and goes
and sometimes saves her from herself.
He tells her he loves her and she believes it,
not wanting death as much.

A skinny little girl is 19
when she has valleys in her hips
and a breeze between her legs and a
body she's learned to love.
She eats full meals and wears what she
likes and her arms are whole again.
She fights the thoughts and still
can't eat breakfast, no longer able to
stomach food that early.
She can't tell when she's hungry and
when she just wants food.
Hunger isn't known until there's a gnawing in her stomach.
The boy always tells her how much she
means and how he'll never stop talking
to her. She can look in the mirror now
and believe she's pretty.

"what's your favorite book?"
"oh, you mean aside from the Bible and the collected works of Plato?"
"yeah"
"the art of racing in the rain"
"like jumping and skipping through a field in a rainstorm?"
"no. like racecar driving while it's raining."
"is that a metaphor?"
"the whole book is a metaphor."
"books like that are ******."
"books that aren't like that are ******. if there's no hidden meaning then you have a ****** author."
"point taken. but wouldn't a good author let you take the meaning yourself and not pointedly write it in?"
"a good author does both; but the pointedly written in part is written so that you can't even tell it was on purpose."
"is the art of racing in the rain by a good author?"
"absolutely."
"so what's the meaning?"
"read the ******* book."
"no, just tell me the meaning."
"you create your life, man. everything you did led up to this moment. you made the problems so you have to react to them faster than at speed. it's- it's like in a race, if it's raining, then you have to spin your car out before it spins itself out, because that's the only way you can solve the problem, you see? and if you can't stop looking at the wall then you're gonna run into the wall. like if you accept a terminal diagnosis, you're gonna die. you have to look away. you create your future by accepting it and refusing to change it. you can also create your future by writing your own story in the way you want it."
"I don't get how a message like that is explained through racecar driving."
"read the book and you will."
"okay."

adulthood will surface
and as I awkwardly ***** my childhood,
i fear independence.

Generic Asian food dish picture, drunken Vegas selfie with my betches, #cheatedonmyboyfriend, picture of my ******* on top of a mountain on the only hike I've ever been on. Have you seen the gap in my thighs? Almost as big as the gap between my legs. Lots of visible beverages, this is our club! (no idea I'm borderline alcoholic). I want a real man #imafuckingliar

"plan a" was to be cordial:
you said, "coexist."
we toasted with our cappuccinos,
"to coexisting," before replacing our masks.
smile. wave. be polite.
I suppose some dozen missteps by me rendered this plan
useless.

"plan b" is much harder.
put your hand on the table.
the knife comes down, quick,
press the hot metal to the wound.

amputate. cauterize.
use your friends as a tourniquet,
like the one I've been twisting you into for the last year
and a half.

If my eyes were red
You took my face in your hands
And believed in me.

from the first day I met you
I thought you were beautiful.
you smiled at me
and I wondered how anything
could be so perfect.

a crush grew,
but it had me feeling blue.
you had a boyfriend
and there wasn't much I could do.

we talked during spring break,
the crush grew more.
never have I encountered
a person as interesting as you,
everything you want to do
I want to do too.

I guess you could say I'm
kind of in love with you.
but you're still in love
with him.  

-az