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kyla goodson Apr 2020
I have manic days when everything is okay.
My life's finally on track.
I wake up smiling, at ease, my brain is finally on my side for once.
I look in the mirror and I see in the reflection every kind thing anyone has ever said about me.
My eyes are so stunning, my skin, radiant and alive, a smile that could take anyone's pain and replace it with hope.
You are kind, you're strong, you're so ******* brave.
My skin glows as if it's never been dimmed by the shadows.
My pride swells and burst out of my smile as if I've never known shame.
Repeat after me:
I'm happy. I'm so ******* happy.

And then I leave the bathroom and that person left me just like the last.
I lay back down and my bed screams secrets loader than the neighbors that hear them.
I try again.
I shower, I brush my teeth, I curl my hair, I fix my face.
Surely this will give the illusion that I'm okay, that I'm happy, that I didn't just use my tears to lather the soap, that my flesh isn't a auditorium for my problems, and that i am as strong if not stronger than the depression that seeps through my poors and into my bloodstream.
That I'm not just some broken little girl searching for glue in a house of water, That I am more than a museum of every guy who's pried between these thighs, That I have more to offer than "maybe a 6" on a good day.

So I get dressed.
I put in my contacts and I put on my rings, i go outside, I smoke a cigarette,
I breath the toxicity in, and let ..some of it out.
I wonder to myself if this is all okay, if I'm okay, if I'll ever be okay.
I manage to strike up a plea bargain with myself.
one time use, just for the day.
If you need to cry again, go,
But cry hard, hard enough to break down these ******* walls of self doubt.
If you need to scream, scream, but scream so loud that there's no room for other voices.
But if you need to smile, baby girl you smile.
Let it be the smile that takes your pain and turns it into hope.
Let it brighten up your life like Armageddon, and you ******* run with it.
You're aloud to smile.
You're aloud to cry, to scream, to hurt.
But you can be happy.
kyla goodson Jan 2019
I can't bring myself to talk to you.
I don't know if its from fear of pushing you away, or fear of differences.

When I ask you what you want, I ask with uncertainty, and I'm certain I sound as weak as I feel.

My voice shakes because I don't quite know the proper way to spew my vulnerable side.

Laughing comes easy, but true emotions stay inside, against my will, but my will is shy lately.

I want you to know my thoughts, I just don't know if you want to, and asking feels unnatural. So instead I lay here writing as usual, while you sleep.
kyla goodson Jan 2019
A wave rushes over me when he smiles, yet I can breath better than I have in years.
I can't quite explain the why's to him, or myself for that matter, but I feel they'll work their way into the equation.
Like right now, I'm laying here writing about the man sleeping next to me. Instead of wrapping my arms back around him, I pour my soul into words to discover what it is about his man that has me writing in the first place.
I'm not so cliché to simply say his smile, his arms wrapped around me, his kind eyes.
There's so much more to it.
Behind his smile lies truth of his past, with smiles come hurt, come pain.
It's not just the embrace thats got me, it's the way he pulls me closer while he sleeps but doesn't remember it later. The way he knows when I need touch and when to simply breath with me.

The way his moles run constilations from his ear to shoulder, while his heart beat beats life into them.
kyla goodson Jan 2019
I go to work each day to tiny hands and welcoming smiles, I claim to have seventeen. I tend to live vicariously through my preschoolers and my brothers four.
I spend my week in the busy classroom, and then my weekends engulfed with them too. But I go home alone.

Most days I'm okay, I'm strong, I'm confident, I'm okay.

I lay here this Saturday morning listening to the crunch of tiny cerial bites, and the quiet murmer of the Lego cartoon making a Melody I've often begged for but never told a soul.
I lay in bed, the three of us, and watch quietly as he stretches and rolls my way, he wraps his tiny arms around my arm and pulls me close. Unbearable, yet I contort and mold to his liking. Your wish is my command, say and I'll do.
And then it's 7:30 and I grab my purse. I pull out a little white pill and my mouth is instantly dry, unwanting. I reluctantly swallow it and lay back down.
And then your dad opens his eyes and they meet mine, and just like that I'm fighting tears. I close my eyes in an attempt to fake sleep, I roll slightly so my tear trickles to the pillow without a trail.
I don't even know how to start that conversation, or if I should, so I write.
kyla goodson Oct 2018
Its so much easier searching Google or Pinterest looking for the perfect quote to effortlessly upload to the world.

So much easier letting another speak your words you can't seem to ever find.

So much faster to copy and paste, than forge your own complex emotions onto paper; no take backs, no rough draft.

So much harder to find the words that feed your soul, that truly illustrate your passions, your desires, your wants, your needs, your love.

This poem is for all the quotes that just don't suffice, for all the poems that aren't raw enough to deliver your missive. The ones that barely scratch the surface of your iceburg:

I don't have a problem with love; I love lots of things; I love babies and puppies, thunderstorms and laughing.

I love my job, my coworkers and kids, I love their tiny hands and developing brains, I love their arguments, and their ten second future careers. 

I love ten second future careers.

I love dancing and singing, I love being surrounded by trees that reach the skies and long walks on the beach where there's nothing around for miles.  

I love being uncomfortable, I love learning, I love awkward feelings of vulnerability.

I love being scared, but the kind of scared where I know I'm safe, but I allow my self to forget.

I love allowing myself to forget.

I love cliché and cheesy, I love pick up lines, and jokes that make your stomach hurt from laughter. Don't get me started on vulgarity and cursing; they're my drug of choice.

I love risky conversations and dark secrets, almost as much as I love life stories and scars. Man do I love scars! The narratives, the memories, the reminiscing.

I love reminiscing.

I love silence and I love noise, but mainly the kind of noise that echos joy and content. The noise that feels like home. The noise that eases my nerves like gabapentin never could.

I love meaningless drives and getting lost, or at least trying to, and finding myself in unknown territory that takes my breath away.

I love things that take my breath away.

I love hearing of your love for your son and your daughter, and how because you're a dad, you can french braid.

I love asking random questions from your jar that let me know you sentence by sentence, as we lay on your bed, just us in the room.

I love when it's just us in the room.

I love the feelings I get when I read your book; knowing that your hands have flipped these very pages.

I love staring at you while you strum your guitar and you smile sheepishly as I record you for later. I love watching your hands slightly tremble with everything you touch. 

I love everything you touch.

See, I know what love is. I know how to love, I know what to love, and who. I don't need help to love, or motivation, or reason, or rhyme. 

I'm a lover.

So if I slip, if I fall flat on my face and spew love from my pores, flicker love off my tongue, don't run. Don't be burdened with the fear of breaking my poor heart, or hurting my soul.
us lovers have enough love to balance out the pain, we have enough love to share and hoard all the same. 

So when I call you my lover, or love, or heaven forbid, say I love you, know that's part of my identity, it's my mark on the world, my rendition  on Charles Bukowskis words, "if you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start."

-kyla Goodson
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