My body was once a temple,
And I, the Goddess.
I tended to the needs of my temple,
treating it with care.

My body was once in ruins,
And I, the shunned queen.
I weeped in the mess that was once my temple.

My body is a work in progress,
And I, the hard worker.
I am cementing the walls shut,
So as to not fall any more.

My body will be my temple,
And I will be the Goddess.

My temple is plastered with scars and stretch marks from years of wear and tear,
But it is my temple,
And I will love it once more.

Car rides with no destination,
making plans as we go.
Crowded bowling alleys,
and last-minute movie plans.
Starbucks and doughnuts,
and late night talks,
Letting you through my walls instead of guarding the door.
Staying out later than I have before.
Meeting family and friends,
eating good food,
All good times with a good friend.

I have a tendency to get flustered,
and scared,
and worried,
and anxious,
and,
well,
stupid at times.

I leave people behind because of my fears.
I dwindle the messages and the talking slowly down to nothing,
until we have forgotten the other exists.
I let go of our friendships out of fear and boredom.

My dad once said,
"Don't chase friendships - if it's meant to be, it will."

This one is worth chasing.
This one is worth holding on to.
This one is worth beating my fears.
This one is worth it.

I love broken hair-ties,
and lost iPod cords.
I love stubborn mothers,
and I love buses that don't run on weekends.

Most things people would hate,
but not I,
for they have brought me into your life.

You planted sunflowers in the regions of my body no other has dared to go
because you knew those were my favorite.
I picked the flowers daily, plucking at their petals,
mumbling,
“He loves me …  he loves me not.”
Well,
I am all out of flowers,
And you are all out of seeds.
You visited another garden today.
You told me that you like daisies better,
And you said that garden had daisies.
I watched you water that garden as mine turned to dandelions.
Your new garden has bloomed.
As I was sitting in my garden,
Someone came along and picked a dandelion.
I asked them why and they said,
“Dandelions are flowers too once you get to know them"

New hair-ties have been bought,
and the iPod cords have been found.
Mothers are still stubborn,
but the bus comes on Saturdays.

You have drifted.

I barricaded myself in my room again,
and I cried and cried,
just like yesterday.
And the day before that.

I used my razor sharp paint brush,
and crimson red paint flowed from my arms,
the kind of crimson red that comes from within.

The next morning, I pull my long-sleeve shirt over my arms
that are now laced with new artwork.

I am plagued with despair and anguish.

But as time went by,
I found my artwork becoming less and less appealing.

The next morning, I pull my short-sleeve shirt over my arms,
ready for the world to see what the faded white that is left of my artwork.

I am left with my faded artwork,
and I switched my paint brush with crayons.


I am embedded with happiness.

It took time.
But as I have learned,
life moves on.

Alone is:
drinking tea
window shopping
getting lunch
all by myself on a Monday morning.

Alone is:
napping
seeing a movie
organizing my room
all by myself on a Tuesday afternoon

Alone is:
driving on the freeway to work
browsing the internet
dancing to music
all by myself on a Wednesday evening.

Alone is:
contentedness.

things are hard
but friends are easy

so it balances out

crying *****
laughing is nice

so it balances out

leaving work early makes me feel bad
having time to hang out with family doesn’t

so it balances out

life is hard
but life is worth it

so it balances out

You are a work of art hung within a museum wall.
Some don't understand,
Some stop and stare, trying to figure out the inner mechanisms behind the inspiration to make such a work of art.
Some understand and appreciate the beauty that is bestowed in front of them,
And some,
Well, some love it.
Some truly, truly love this art in front of them.
They go to the museum every day,
And marvel at this piece of work.

You are the art work within the museum of my mind.
I visit you there daily,
and I look at you and look at you, and wonder
How I can be so lucky to have this within my museum.

I think of your love sometimes,
and it makes me sad.
I think of your touch sometimes,
and it makes me sad.
I want to be over it,
need to be over it,
but I'm not.
And that makes me sad.
You make me sad.

You came into my car today through a melody of instruments,
through a soft voice,
through a song,
and I am taken back to better days.

Hazy days filled with smoke and love.
Sunny days filled with soft kisses and warm hands.

I wasn't perfect,
not in the slightest,
but you said otherwise.

I don't love you anymore,
and I know I never will,
but you will always hold a space in my heart.