If only I was a crayon drawing
Where each smiling face looks the same
Where stick figures and three fingered hands
illicit the smiles of adults and adoration
of how beautiful the picture is
of how artistic the drawer is
Despite the fact that the people are purple
and everyone has a beautiful smile.

If only I was a crayon drawing.
With the sun always shining,
though I hover off of the blob of green grass
Though I am taller than the house beside me
At least I am happy
At least people tell me I look beautiful
though I am a blue colored person
and have no feet or hands.
At least the sun is always shining
at least I am happy.

If only I was a crayon drawing.
With no need to worry about how I look.
With my family in a line beside me,
clumsy names written above us, barely readable.
But then I would be tacked to a bulletin board.
Then i would be fawned over, Oh how sweet.
See, look at the smiles on their faces! Look how
happy they are! How cute, how adorable.
See how artistic, how true to life. See the smiles?

If only I was a crayon drawing,
I could never grow up.

My grandmother says
A pretty girl like you?
I bet you have thousands of suitors.
I look at her, laugh, and say:
Suitors?
Su itor?
Swe itor
Swea tor
Sweater.
And then I put on a sweater
Because I always seem to be cold.

A mask
a mask of pain
of happiness
Does it matter?
What mask is a mask
Does any person
truly know
what their face looks like
I see myself in the mirror
and slowly try
to peel away
my masks of the day
like wiping off dirt
or colored paint
but when I am done
stripped bare and raw
I realize that
all I have
is a blank slate
to draw more masks on
for tomorrow.

Once she went around the bend

On a road she did not know
Now as she looks back she sees
Crimes of passion she did not mean to commit
Earning the lie of life she must now except

Once she went around a corner

Opening a door that should have stayed locked
No one to tell her she was wrong
Coincidentally, everyone left
Everyone left when she went around the bend

Once she tried to come back

On that road that she had not known
Needing the ones she had left behind
Crying out against the sins she thought
Entirely necessary at the time

Once this girl came back

Fighting the person she had become
Opening her heart again because
Really it was all her fault
Giving such hate when all she needed was love
I knew this girl and I now say
Veering from the path most traveled is never safe
Earning back trust is the game we play.

I can't write about love
Love is not for me
I have never felt it
Lies are all that I know
In my heart there is nothing suspicion
Little crushes that no one knows
I am too scared to try
Losing my pride is much worse
Instead of taking a chance
Love hurts, so they write and say
Is there any way for me to know?
Love is a battlefield, they tell me
I have never been drafted to fight
Lost and alone forevermore
Isn't is funny to see these words?
Loving and losing hurts, you tell me. Lots.
I don't think you know or remember
Languidly writing your poems of sadness:
If you've never loved at all
"Love" hurts even more.

The bird flutters gently against the window.
I want in. I want in.
It pecks its beak against the pane.
Let me in. Let me in.
Crumbs of bread scattered across the sill.
Why won't you let me in? Why? Why?

The bread brought it. And now the bird is ready.
The secret will be revealed. It is ready to say.
She is ready to say it.
So let me in. Let me in.
The pane will crack soon.  The crumbs consumed.
Let her in. Let her in.

In the end, the beak shatters.
In the end, the talons, tiny, are blunted.
In the end a bird is no match for the window.
Something so easy to break.
So strong against this bird.
It. It is done.
I am done.

The bird flies away.

I look up and I see
her
She stares back me
slightly surprised
to find a face, eyes
looking back at her.
She surprises me every time
I don't know what I expect
But what I see isn't what I want.

Sometimes I cannot help but stare.
Sometimes I think she is beautiful
The best, brightest girl ever.
But then I blink
and she goes back to being...
her.

She
is not me.
She cares about people, things and
life.
She cares about things. She
cares. And that is not me.
Sometimes I wish it was me.
Sometimes I want to jump into her skin
and be her for real,
be the face, or mask? that she has.
The perfect mask.

But then I blink and she goes back to being...
her.

And then I walk away from the mirror.

Is that a face I see in the window?
or perhaps it is a Shadow
looking back at me
Words meant to worry
to make me move quicker
to do better
to be better
Because Shadows are closing in
Because the world is moving quicker
to do better
to be better.
The Shadow comes quickly, they say.
you must do better, be better
They Say.

But then it is another day.
The Shadow has closed in and
I look in a window and see
another Shadow waiting
as people say that it is coming
to think ahead
Do better
Be better
Because the world keeps turning
everyday is another Shadow
and we ask ourselves
have we done enough?
Done better?
Been better?
The Best...