The small boy dreamed of
small pink rose gardens and
playing with bright-eyed dolls.
He never found the joy in
the crack of a baseball bat
or the rolling wheels of a toy car.
Mommy and Daddy never understood
where they had gone wrong with him.
They were too focused on the debate
of blue versus pink to realize their child
was wiser at five than they were at thirty-two.

Mothers don't allow their young daughters
to experiment with make-up until old enough
but I had no choice but to bring a brush to my face
and paint the canvas to hide each blemish.
Long sleeves, loose scarves, fitted jeans,
anything to hide the daily playground ritual.  
The swing I experienced was not hanging from chains
but rather from the tightened fists of someone I once knew.
I found solidarity underneath the weeping willow tree
as we sobbed together in the cool air of November.

The sea is the only creation
that can feel

(s)ympathy,
(e)mpathy, and
(a)pathy

all at once.

A beautiful contradiction.

Millions of people
work nine to five
breaking their backs
for disposable paper bills
and small copper coins
never realizing currency
cannot guarantee tomorrow.
The promise of another day
can only be granted by
a phenomenon we continue
to waste: t...i...m...e.

She prayed for freckles
to inhabit her pale skin,
the small pigments covering
her defined cheekbones,
displaying an intricate pattern
as rare as the beauty of her hidden soul,
begging to shine through her open pores.

I cracked my bones,
curled my legs,
and bent my spine,
forcing myself to
fit your definition of
human perfection.

I presented my morphed bundle
of brittle bones and stretched skin
before your dark eyes...
and you still walked away.

I was never going to be
good enough for you, was I?
But now that I see what I've become,
I am not good enough for me, either.

You nurtured the garden of your mind,
letting the most beautiful parts of you grow
and bloom like healthy tulips in early April,
until a single **** poked through the soil
and continued to spread itself, seed by seed.
One by one, the flowers all began to wilt with grief,
giving way to the **** that plagued your mind.
If you don't have the strength the pluck each ****,
you don't allow for the exquisite flowers to bloom.

As I opened the medicine cabinet
carefully hidden behind a broken mirror,
I discovered transparent orange bottles
with broken childproof tabs on each cap,
concealing diet pills the size of ants.

I replaced the capsules with fully bloomed daisies
and I hope you swallow each petal
and ingest each stem entirely
so you can eat something that,
like you, encompasses beauty.

Everything in life was enough
until you realized I wasn't.

I can no longer hear the smooth notes of jazz,
how the saxophone, trumpet, and piano
worked together in harmony when we didn't.

I can no longer find shelter in the soft chords,
for the safety I once felt in your presence
has been compromised once again.

They call jazz a dying art, which,
I guess, is what we became.