Maybe
it is written in the stars
that I will have scars
and bruises
instead of freckles.
But I hope it doesn't have to be this way
because I hate the sound of me crying
and I can't get away from that
when it's coming from my own head.
Maybe
there's a world where I have a better place to curl up and sob
than my bed, or the middle of the floor, or a bathroom stall, or
halfway out of my closet.
Maybe
one day
I will be sure of more than my looks.
And I won't have to hang on to every
bubblegum wrapper
and chipotle menu I ever touch
because I'm not afraid of forgetting anymore.
Maybe
I'll feel like a real person,
and not a cruel animation,
a science project
some higher being got a D on.
Maybe
there's a chance
I'll stop missing myself
someday.

Maybe I should worry about
the hole my dad kicked in the wall
and I drew a smiley face on it to make myself feel better
and still it's there after more than five years.
Or that it doesn't bother me
hearing my eighteen-year-old brother cry
anymore.
Or that I don't know how to explain
why I'm so jumpy
and why it's not exactly funny.
But instead I just focus on myself, my mind
sometimes it's easier
to study the storm inside my head
even though
I'm getting
soaked.

I tried to scrub your name
out of my head,
but all I got was skin and soap
under my nails.

I grew up
with people taking pictures
of my face
with or without asking.
I didn't mind then,
and honestly,
I don't think I would mind now.
And I'm unsure
if that's a good thing
or a bad thing.

Perhaps I'm most beautiful
asleep in class,
the blue light of the overhead projector
kissing my face.
When I make my friends shake with
stupid, unbridled, blind laughing,
leaning against the vending machine.
When I tilt my head back
at the good part of a song,
sitting in the sweet-smelling bus seat,
my knees propped up.
When I stay up 'til eleven,
and talk about fourteen-year-old thoughts.
When I get joyfully lost in my own weird, growing-up thoughts,
sitting in church,
and I get startled by the Lord's prayer.

I like my ****** expressions, my bright eyes, my delicate eyelashes, my pale hands, lace veins lining them, and my aching heart.
The pain in my chest
in the middle of a song.
My heavy eyelids.
My light, weighed-down feet.
And my hipbones
that carry the weight of the world.

Your apologies are bitter pills.
Swallow them yourself.

laugh because you burnt the toast and spilled the juice
cry because your book has come to an end
sleep when you are tired
and awaken when you are rested.
cradle your lover as if you were a child, yet again
wear old tacky sweaters that are a little too snug
and sip hot cocoa by the fire.
sing in the shower, no, perform in the shower
believe in fairytales and love at first sight
run with your dogs
and pay your bills on time.
kiss with tongue
write a song,
and then sing it on karaoke night at your favorite bar
call your family
and learn to live again.
-learn to live again // a.s.

I wasn't her first.
Or her second. Or third. But I didn't need to be. I said
"I'm no good with words", and she said
"they don't speak to me anyway.
Anyway you were the first
to run your hands down my body, stop at my chest
and ask me if it hurts". When she said yes,
I told her yes too.
To this day she says "that was the moment
I fell in love with you"