we see countless magazines every single day
“no, you’re supposed to look this way.”
I can’t believe what I’ve been taught
either you’re pretty or you’re not.
it doesn't matter who you are
or if you’re brighter than a star.
my hands are tied, my words are set
how do I start a brand new thread?
my story is written, already done
who are you to hold the gun?
is it me or is it you,
wearing the dress that is brand new?
your propaganda has taken its toll,
but my combat boots are on a roll.
I’m sick of ideas shoved in our minds
I’m not that stupid, I know your kind.
I’ll kick and shove ‘til I get out of here
now I know there is nothing to fear.
your minds are complacent, your hearts are unkind
I will be the one to step out of line.
so get out of my way; I won’t stop ‘til I’m done
look at me: now I’ve got the gun.

2 cups of insecurity
4 ounces of comparison
1 cup of dinner not eaten.
5 cups of a mind in shackles
6 tablespoons of incomprehension
2 ounces of oblivious peers
3 cups of dinner not eaten.
3 teaspoons of phantom numbers
2 cups of anxiety
4 cups of mirrors smashed to bits
1 pint of self-hatred
4 cups of dinner not eaten.
1 tablespoon of depression
6 ounces of anger
2 pints of hopelessness
3 cups of self-inflicted scars
4 teaspoons of ribs in the mirror
5 cups of fainting on the stairs
1 gallon of dinner not eaten.
6 cups of grieving families
4 tablespoons of words unspoken
3 teaspoons of tears unshed.
2 cups of dusty belongings
4 gallons of friends never made
3 teaspoons of kisses never stolen
a lifetime of words left unsaid.

Melt insecurity and comparison and mix thoroughly with dinner not eaten. Mix a mind in shackles, incomprehension, and oblivious peers and add three more cups of dinner not eaten. Crush phantom numbers and anxiety and sprinkle over batter. Take each piece of mirrors smashed to bits and poke them carefully through self-hatred. Mix with four more cups of dinner not eaten. Melt depression, anger, and hopelessness and spread them thoroughly throughout the batter. Meticulously place self-inflicted scars visibly on top of the mixture. Cover with ribs in the mirror and fainting on the stairs. Mix with one gallon of dinner not eaten. Haphazardly toss in grieving families, words unspoken, and tears unshed. Mix with dusty belongings, friends never made, and kisses never stolen. Gather a lifetime of words left unsaid in a separate container. Take it outside and bury it. Do not mark the grave site.

Sometimes it’s hard to breathe.
Sometimes the world closes in on your lungs like the
mountains need your breath and the ocean wants your soul.
Moonbeams of indefinite prosperity gleam down upon your skin like
a bridge made of children’s dreams.
They dance along your goosebumps, trying to calm your racing heart.
You cannot see,
you cannot hear.
All you know is the deceptively comforting pale, white walls of your world,
but you do not live in a world,
you live in a cage.
You have never closed your eyes and let yourself be
guided by the wind,
an everlasting pool of transparent anger trying to rule the world,
but never getting farther than vice president.
You will never know the deep blue waves crashing methodically onto the shore,
howling and groaning their way through a job that they will never finish.

Oceans can be selfish, you know.
They own 70% of the world and they’re still not satisfied.
Their deep blue rivers of fear snake their way under our skin and into our veins,
never content until we define ourselves by anxiety and pain.
Cages may hide us from the waves, but they also shield us from our own hidden hearts,
wallowing in the loneliness of pale, white walls with a transparent roof that yields
only to prosperity that is no longer indefinite.

People always say that ballet is graceful. They speak for hours after watching a performance, marveling at the dancers’ grace and elegance. They applaud enthusiastically while gazing at the stage in awe. They see a title page, a disguise, a mask. Underneath the surface of bright lights and happy endings, there is nothing but a dark stage occupied by a girl naked, shivering, and alone. Her face is engulfed by quivering hands covered with dry, cracked skin and fingernails blue from the cold. Her hands slowly reach out to comb through brown, lifeless hair. When she draws her hands away to rest against protruding ribs, brittle hair floats delicately to the ground like a feather cruelly cast away from its owner. Tears barrel their way down her cheeks like a train unable to stop for the oblivious children playing on its tracks. Her body is nothing more than an abandoned painting, fixed and perfected beyond recognition. Her ankles quiver beneath satin chains of beauty and grace. Her fingers tremble as they graciously bow to rows and rows of awestruck admirers. Her legs falter as they are barely contained within the confines of the tutu so painstakingly stitched just for her. Her head spins, dizzy under the pressure of the tiara: crowned queen of the mentally ill.

there are lots of different ways to tell someone you love them.
            (it’s a pain in the *** to burn music onto a blank CD and handwrite a track list)
there are so many signs we miss as we are crudely blanketed and silenced by the alarm of being emotionally disarmed and unprepared for war.
            (i can’t believe you still try to make me throw up my feelings and set them at your feet as a sacrifice)
humanity’s horrific tendency to dismiss our most crucial feelings and toss them down the garbage disposal is, more often than not, a reflection of how we treat ourselves.
            (i’m never gonna quit reminding you how pretty you are, so shut up and take the compliment)
the basis of our existence resides solely on how we perceive ourselves, so why don’t we take a closer look?
            (i will never understand why you can’t see how talented you are. you’re not that stupid)
the precision in which all of our flaws and quirks fit together is the equation to which we are the answer. if you solve all of them simultaneously, then your world would end up containing a significantly deficient amount of peculiarity.
            (dork)

i am from a pile of gluten-free pancake mix in the pantry
from a bowl of bananas that are always rotten and a drawer of pens that is never opened.
i am from the patchwork house in the middle of the street that never feels empty of anything.
i am from the rosebushes
the tree at the end of the street whose long gone limbs i remember as if they were my own.

i’m from blonde hair and adopted siblings.
i’m from introverts and lovers of books
and from driving around the country every summer because plane tickets are too expensive.

i’m from the Easter bunny and Santa Claus
and “say sorry to your brother.”
i’m from stir fry on Sundays.
i’m from Omaha and all over Europe
and potato soup and homemade bread.
from the time my brother fell down the stairs and hit his head on the wall.
from the quilt my grandmother began that now lies incomplete in a trunk in the back of the attic.

i am a graveyard.
headstones grace my fingertips and rest upon my tongue like they never left.
there is a lump in my throat the size of George Washington's skull.
his bones are propelling themselves towards the insides of my throat and down into my stomach,
where they will churn and grind against my nerves until the
steel bravery in my soul is nothing more than
melted wax.
there is a lump in my throat.
old friends and abandoned dreams earn their satisfaction by shearing away the
pointe shoes and piano keys that used to live there.
the metal jazz shoes and steel guitar that dance on my fingertips fight them off like trained assassins,
but even metal can be melted at 2190.6 degrees Fahrenheit.

I first saw you walking down the street
I don’t know when you first saw me
maybe at home
in the mirror of your memory
maybe in the pages of the book
you were reading outside in the winter
at that cafe
You had me all smiles
and I had you
all similes
a pretty little thing
to stroke my pretty little thing against
You in your fashionista bombshell outfit
me in my childlike excitement
as I walked on past
and I wonder
if later that night
you were in your bedroom
which is just as messy as mine
I wonder if you thought to yourself
“well hot ****, that was one hot ****** guy”
if not that’s fine
my words are subjectively an object of your subject
Does that make sense?
I seem to do that a lot
rambling over myself and over myself
as if you caught me in a lie
I hadn’t yet told
I hold on to the belief
that You caught me in the corner of your eye
and decided to save me for later
It’s the only thing us passing strangers
have really got

i wish you would stop caring
then
i could
die
in
         *peace.