She looks in the mirror
At the age on her face
"I wonder what he thinks
of me this way?"

She considers her weight
and the pores on her skin
She thinks out loud
"I don't deserve him."

She picks apart
the woman he loves
Separating her worth
from all that she does
              
He looks in her eyes
and caresses her face
He sees it glowing with love
and full of grace

 The lines on her face
  he views with pride
  Recounting the victories
  each time they've been tried

The weight that she carries
 is that of a mom
 Nothing's too heavy
 She just marches on

These bodies will perish
 and mirrors offer no truth
True love abides
 beyond the corridors of youth

  No, she doesn't deserve me
  Perhaps God can see
  Conceivably, one day
  I'll be as worthy as she

pretty girl with her head in a book,
trapped inside a silver tower,
dreaming of places that don’t exist.

handsome man with his heart on his sleeve,
trapped inside his mind,
dreaming of his daughter that doesn't exist.

gorgeous city filled with gorgeous people,
happy smiles and happy laughs.
it’s a lie and they know it.

handsome man tries to save pretty girl
but she’s already saved herself,
with the help of her dreams of places that don’t exist.

songbird comes along and they don’t know what to do.
handsome man wants to **** him. destroy him. end him.
pretty girl feels songbird’s sadness and cries for him.

handsome man can’t bear to see pretty girl cry,
so he lets songbird go.
pretty girl smiles and handsome man can’t breathe.

pretty girl and handsome man discover the city together.
from the seedy underground fight clubs
to the high society tea parties.

handsome man doesn't fit in at tea parties.
pretty girl seems to blend right in.
handsome man’s eyes never leave her.

pretty girl feels his eyes on her and
she turns away to hide her cheeks turning a dusty pink.
pretty girl doesn't look him in the eye anymore.

songbird comes back and tries to take pretty girl.
handsome man sees red and kills him.
pretty girl’s heart mourns for songbird.

pretty girl spits words at him like knives,
he flinches as they cut him.
handsome man doesn't look her in the eye anymore.

pretty girl wants him to leave.
handsome man walks away and doesn't look back.
pretty girl lied.

handsome man finds himself
back in the seedy undercity.
bloodied knuckles, broken nose and a black eye.

pretty girl finds herself
wandering the city’s streets,
wishing handsome man was there.

pretty girl finds him in the gutter
with blood running down his face.
he still looks handsome.

handsome man struggles to speak.
blood seeping from between his lips
and his broken teeth.

handsome man tells pretty girl he can’t bear to see her cry.
pretty girl cries even more.
handsome man isn’t handsome anymore.

handsome man dies in pretty girl’s arms.
this isn’t how the stories go.
she was supposed to save him.

pretty girl is on a warpath.
handsome man would hate to see her now.
dark red lips and an unforgiving gaze.

pretty girl is tired.
she hates what she’s become.
she wants to see handsome man.  

pretty girl dies in a back alley
with a gun in her hand, pressed to her head.
pretty girl isn’t pretty anymore.

pretty girl, pretty girl, with your head in the clouds,
haven’t you read the stories? don’t you know?
the handsome man always dies.

handsome man, handsome man, with your love in your eyes.
haven’t you read the stories? don’t you know?
the pretty girl never survives.

pretty girl, handsome man,
don’t you know?
the heroes fall and the city falls with them.

i have five things to tell you and i want you to listen carefully*

1. you are not your mother.
         you are nothing like her.
                  you know this, you know this, you know this.

2. you are not the problem.
        you are the solution.
                  you know this, you know this, you know this.

3. you are not weak for hurting.
        you are stronger for it.
                  you know this, you know this, you know this.

4. you are not a mistake.
        you are the miracle.
                  you know this, you know this, you know this.

5. you are not nothing.
        you are everything.
                  you know this, you know this, you know this.

It ends with a scream.
A scream that echoes across the entire city.
She doesn’t sink to her knees.
She collapses.
It’s not beautiful.
It’s heartbreaking and raw.

As you cried on my shoulder,
it watered the flowers that you planted in my chest.

Down a peaceful, quiet lane
The two-story farmhouse awaits
Bathed in evening hues
Of rich lavenders, pinks,
And dusty apricot
The lilac scented breezes blow
Whispering stories of summer
Let me dance in pastures
Of buttercups and wild daisies
Where horses graze contentedly
And Virginia bluebells sway
Where time becomes stuck
And lets me live this golden moment
Just once more

**~Marian~

I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.

a tree plunges
winds victim
oblivions silent moment