She said that he thinks that
I don't like him.
That I don't want to
Date him nor
Be his homecoming date.
I sigh at the thought because
I know it's true.
All I'm doing is hurting
Him and I hate every
Second of it.

I want to be happy
Also but it's so hard cause
I know what I want but
It can never happen.
And as for being gay,
Well, my parents would
Rather me die than
Be who I am.

The big question is:
Who am I?

Who has the power to define beauty?

Who decides what makes our hearts sing?

Because lately the things we say are beautiful are fake-


For heavens sake-

We're telling young girls to throw up who they are like having it makes them a fraction less- so they starve.

We're transforming and twisting the painting of our faces and little by little erasing other races.

We're tearing down trees to make room for skyscrapers who promote outward perfection in tiny magazine papers.

We're making plastic dolls with no sense of identity instead of building real humans without vain nor vanity.


But their idea of beauty is not mine,
The essence  of real beauty cannot ever be defined.

Our fragile lips never touch.
Forbidden fruit.
Poisonous pain.
As you go up
              I must come
                        Down.
I gaze at your perfect reflection.
I try to linger for you.
Do not weep dear we have a job to do.
My opposite obsession.
A contrary coincidence.

My unfortunate state leaves me watching lovers-
Who could be us.  
I’m left with unresolved dreams at twilight.
You may seem dreaded by most but
I count down the stars disappearing in my presence.
I’ve never seen your rays.
Your flaming passion holding our world together
As I fall apart.
You take pieces of me with you.
Have them.
Keepsakes of our nonexistent love exchanges.

For how funny a fairytale for our children.
When the moon fell-
In love with the sun.

I always told myself it was the last time.
The last love, the last loss.
You had a strong current.
Pulling me in while the waves hypnotized the walls of my heart.
I’m the fool now.
Only a silly girl makes the same mistake twice.
Or more.
I guess that makes me crazy.
I’m not going to talk to you again.
Not just for myself, but for you too.
You play the victim so well.
I’ll just leave you for the encore.
When you told me I was poison I resented you.
When I told you to go your blood boiled.
I’m going to wonder if you started liking the idea of me.
Somehow putting shackles on me gave you a sense of freedom.
You are going to ponder why I have left you so many times.
I’m going to make sure it is my last time leaving you.
You beat something too many times it dies.
I learned that through your unyielding gaze.
I don’t feel remorse.
I decided to start loving myself.
That ultimately hurt you.
I do take responsibility for my actions.
I sound cruel and crude.
**** it because it’s how I feel.
Let me go forever.
I don’t want to lead you any further through my garden mind.
I hope you find a home soon.

What’s in my empty bed?
I’d like to say blankets from old forts or maybe pleasant dreams forgotten in the pillow threads.
Maybe water marks from when we pretended the bed was a boat.
We would never sink.
The water never stung.
Surely my imagination disappeared along with my sanity.
I didn’t have a choice like Wendy if I wanted to grow up.
It was ****** upon me like the unforgiving nightmares.
When dreams turned to black.
I promise if you puncture my pillow now some salty tears and sorrowful wails would escape from years of concealment.
Hope only exists in peaceful slumbers where temporary death occurs.
My bed is still empty even if I reside there.
Because I’m empty of my childhood.
I’m empty of what the world gave me.

I asked the flowers “Why do you live when you know you will die?”
Eager and willing they invited me with soft fragrance.
“We don’t pretend to live in the present.”
“We don’t deny our fates.”
I waited patiently as the question had not yet been answered.
Their petals spread in enjoyment because my ponderings gave them happiness. The irony in that thought.
“We live for the weeping parent who outlived their own.”
“We live for the tiny noses pressed into us.”
“We live for those who feel they can’t for another day.”
I asked the flowers “How do you keeping giving?”
Their humble voices in unison echo
“We were born to give and so are you.”