I’ve wanted pretty, soft, hands for as long as I can remember;
thin fingers,
long nails.
The kind that pair well with coffee mugs and bookstores.
The kind you don’t hesitate to kiss;
but mine are riddled with anxiety.
There are scars on my knuckles from walls  that didn’t deserve my anger
and I can’t seem to stop biting at my fingernails.
I will never be the pretty girl with soft hands and thin fingers.
I am the strong girl
who scales mountainsides
and presses my hips into the walls I once used to punish myself.
My hands haven’t been the same since I covered them in chalk and started gripping onto what has become a lifeline for me.
So,
       no,
I will never be the pretty girl with soft hands and thin fingers.
I will be the strong one.

If I’m being honest,
I haven’t felt beautiful in a really long time;
but there are moments when the light catches my eyes and I can’t help but admire them.
I hold onto those moments so that whenever I feel broken
or beaten down
or can’t find anything kind to say about myself
I can remember that there was a time when I did feel beautiful, even if it was just for a fleeting moment.
A little piece of hope that maybe I can feel that way again.

Give me your sunsets
                                         my love
and I will paint every one of them.
Bring me your faith
and I will  m o v e  
                                     t             /\
             /\                n    a.      /    \
           /    \           u           i  /        \
         /        \     o                  n          \        
       /              m                         s        \
                                                      for you.
Share with me your darkness;
and I will leave the lights on.
Tell me about your dreams
and I will grant your every wish.
Bring me your sorrow,
                                        your pain,
and I will hold your hand through it.

Share with me your forever,
and I will promise to love you
even
longer.

Yellow wasn’t always my favourite colour, but I once read that Vangogh swallowed yellow paint in an effort to know happiness;
      so I chose to be that for people.
You could chew me up and spit me back out and I’d still shine for you.

But when the skies are overcast,
and the clouds weep;
and you hear the thunder roll in,
I’ll be the yellow paint you swallow.
Only this time, the happiness stays,
and you don’t have to cut your ear off
in order to win my heart.

I may be my own yellow now, but I’ll be the colour of sunshine for you too.