i looked into
her hazel eyes
a little too long --
which had
surprisingly
been long enough
to wonder
if forever
could fit
in
a
glance.

it's true 6.29.25 (10:10 am / 10:10)
its true very true
you never miss someone as much as you do
when they are
gone

Where is the key
you locked me here, for what reason?
let me go, I want to be free
tell me tell me what is the key
is it truth? would you like me to say
yes, I know I'm awful, ugly, liar, betrayer
is that the key?
is admitting these things what will set me free?
you locked me here
where is the key
please
I need the **** key
I just want to be free

favoritism 6.28.25 (7:05 pm / 19:05)
you love him more
just admit it

i'm always the problem
someone you fight about when you think i'm asleep
someone you are sweet to when people are watching
but you scream at behind doors
someone you are always angry at never smiling
you leave when i come in a room

i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry
i wish you would just tell me how to be better
how to be the daughter you wanted
i wish you would tell me how to fix this
instead of shouting all i did wrong
don't you see i've already told myself?

i just wish you would just admit it
instead of pretending

i don't know 6.28.25 (7:00 pm / 19:00)
i don't know how else to do this
i don't know any other ways to bear it
i don't know how to feel better

i only needed pain i could understand
i only wanted to know why i was hurting
please
it's not my fault

is it?

she is
glorious --
in that golden-hour
type of way.
it looks like
she was dipped
in the kind of light
that you can't touch,
but admire.

i listen intently
as she talks about
boys
like she's reading it
from a script
that fits her mouth
almost too
easily.

and i sit there,
i smile and nod,
trying not to look
at her lips
when she stops
paying attention to
my eyes.

she says im her favourite,
her safest place,
her soul sister even --
and i say..
"me too."
yet it still aches
like a confession
i can't give
to her.
to anyone, really.

she's glorious.
and i love her
in the quietest form --
the one that
lets her go
every day
without thinking about
telling her
i ever wanted to
stay.

i used to think
you just felt butterflies
for boys --
the funny,
immature,
class clowns.

but now,
i know:
the butterflies don't care
who makes them flutter.
it might be a boy.
it could also be
a girl with a
soft smile
and freckles.

and maybe
girls make them flutter
more than boys.
or maybe...
someone else does.
maybe no one does.

and that's okay.