Don't they see that I see that my eyes are blind, that I'm mad in mind,
And hurting in the heart?
That I sense that I'm just one scent in the flower shop, just one cent in the charity box-
I sense that.
But they don't know that I was blinking just to whisper I was sinking, I could tell by all their winking they couldn't tell what I was thinking
When I wished to call myself the name that all professed I had.
And what I saw in the heavens above
Were celestial bodies that called themselves what I thought I always was.
But in the sea it's hard to see your own reflection, hard to see nature's selection, so I floated on, not knowing my complexions imperfections.
I was always trying to speak to them like I was one of them,
Like I was friends with them.
I didn't know that they were far away and had nothing to say,
But when I found out, I
F
  E
    L
      L.
And didn't know then it was the one time when I would most be like all of them,
But still so different.
I'm the smallest star in a sea of sadness
Melting in the madness
Of a mind that went awry when she found seashells were the closes show-and-tells she'd ever have the means to do.
When she was taken aback by the endless black she'd never beautify in sparkling skies and wishful lies
But found that she was forever free to float in salt
As a star
Who'd never start
To find a dream
Or waltz with wishes on the moonbeams.
You see, I've always been different
I don't think I should make sense,
Here I am comparing pennies to scents
In the flower shop, in a charity box,
But it all makes sense to me.
I'm the saddest star in the sea.
I know that I've been broken by these simple things I've spoken,
But I'm no sea star. I do not grow arms
When they snap off in the dark.
I'm just a girl
Who is different.

what if we tried to weave words into my hair
and it all got tangled around our fingers
till they turned blue and had to be amputated
and we could never hold hands again

what if we tried to plant kisses late at night where the squirrels would never find them
and the rolly poly bugs got to them first
so we'd never get to sleep again
pulling them out of the roots until the sun came up

what if we tried to cook each other dinner and we had to put out a grease fire with my face
(Weird Al reference)
and we'd never be able to touch without my cheeks burning up again

what if we tried to freeze our favorite moments between bags of peas and tater tots
but the power went out and everything thawed and we forgot

what if-
what if we drew blueprints of our future
with footnotes and maps and sketches of beautiful things
just to lose them all downstream one day
like racing newspaper boats against our feet
and we lost our desire to dream anymore

all of these questions
keep me from stepping beyond what is comfortable with you

but
the thing that compels me to continue saying "yes" when you ask me out for dinner
is to think
what if all of that-
didn't?

Does the beta know
About life in other fish bowls

I would very much like God to write a book
           on what would have happened tonight

If I'd stood on the table at Olive Garden and shouted:
           "there is no proper etiquette for slurping spaghetti"

blank stares? (especially from that awfully annoying girl I knew in high school who waits tables)
applause? (from myself. like a giddy two year old.
                   after throwing my noodles at the wall to ensure proper stickiness- which could make or break
                                                           ­           the reputation of an Italian restaurant, you know)
cold shoulders? (probably. it was twelve degrees outside tonight. you saw the way our breath mingled
                                                         ­             forming a smoky veil across the stars as we walked)

nah.
i don't care to know any of that, really.

mostly, i just want to know
if the night- well, if I -would have been found a little bit more beautiful by you
had i made your life a little more colorful
and a little more human
by just-

being myself

You are the unbearable sort of thing that I wouldn’t want to wear on my feet, even with boots laced up to the knees, because wearing you would force me to cover my polka-dotted toes,
And anyone who would want to compromise my innocence like that is horribly patterned and dull,
                                              
Like the lone argyle sock with the tag still attached that I hate, gathering dust on that shelf in the rain, where the rest of my unwelcome thoughts have found place
                                                           ­     The ones that can’t cover my insecurities
                                                    ­                            Or don’t flatter my figure at all
              
                There’s an obvious scab on my ankle that won’t heal
                Embarrassing, really
                It came from my unwavering faith in open-toed stilettos
                                You saw it just the other day
                                And I blushed as I tried to pull my pant leg over the sore, but you knew (I think)

Oh, the puzzling urge I have to be made over by the brains of your outfits!
                                                So I can open a closet of conversation topics that would suit both of us just fine

I think
                                                I have shed 18 years of ideas in the past two weeks
                                                I starved myself until I could fit into the apparel of your approval
                                                Which I claw through my closets but still cannot find
                                                But I know that somewhere in my brain beneath an empty toilet paper roll or stuck on a dead branch of ideas is a match to your unbearable pattern-
              
Perhaps if I’d kept my opinions more alphabetized, I would’ve found it sooner
                Blast, my scattered brain that can’t seem to produce any fashion but faux pas for you
                Logic and emotion were never meant to mix like this- trust me, I know well
Give me a summer to rearrange myself, hmm?
                Or will I have no use of you then…

If only I’d started to realize sooner
We’d be peeling oranges and discussing the oldest styles of thought, you and I
                Beneath an umbrella in the rain
                                You wouldn’t be able to see that odd scab on my ankle
                                Because I would have the other lone argyle sock with the tag still attached that I hate-

I feel that perhaps
you are only unbearable because I wish you complimented me better, that perhaps the reason I’m starving myself of all reason is because I’d like nothing more than to openly say
that I hate you, my lone, little argyle sock
                                                but that is only
                                                because right now, I could never possibly hope to wear you

Stand over my heart like a flamingo
(I dislike sturdy traffic cones, anyway)
As you do so, peer into the well for the calculator I dropped
It's there somewhere
Lord, I hope you can fly
Because I can't help but push your stubborn form
Over the edge like this

Nobody clams up over the right things
Flecks of dirt won't make beautiful ever
But those enormous irritations you take with a grain of sand
I tuck those things away
For a long while
It is against my nature to do so
It is awkward to keep salty things on the tip of one's tongue
Without spitting them out
Oh, I long to swallow
How much longer must I be closed up, love?