is my body a temple
a church
a cathedral
a shrine?

that may be the case
but i am the god
that it was built for

and more often than not
my fingers are knives
and when i spit
it comes out as acid

the walls are melting
the pews are burning
everything is splintered wood
and broken bone

because as a god
i am cruel
i am vindictive
i am capricious
my self-destruction is on a global scale

and there is nothing beautiful
about this mess that
this so called temple is

because i am trying to make
the scars on my arms into
railroad tracks that will take me
far away from this place
i do not want this anymore

and it is easier to
kneel when your kneecaps
have been shattered
but i do not believe in myself
enough to do that

and if my body truly is
a temple
a church
a cathedral
a shrine
it went up in flames years ago

you say “man up”
like that is not what i am doing
because i am preparing to mourn
breast tissue that i never wanted
and i am going to stick a needle in my thigh
my stomach or maybe even my *** cheek
for the rest of my life
to make my outsides look like my insides feel

you say “man up”
and that was the last time
the first and the last time
that i cried in front of you
because when i let those tears
that saltiness spill over my lids and down
my cheeks i know that you didn’t see them
you only saw what made me a woman
and in your eyes
crying easily made me less of a man

you say “man up”
like that is an easy thing to do
like i know how to do that
like i know how it feels
to forcibly stamp down on
everything that i feel that
isn’t a hunger
for meat so rare it bleeds
or wanting to open up a woman from
her thighs onward
or wanting a truck with wheels so big
i cannot even climb up into it
but i must need it
all of those things
to compensate for the **** that i do not have

you say “man up”
and when i say no
you laugh at me
and tell me i am sensitive and silly
and need to learn to take a joke
but these things that you find humorous
are what got me called a freak in middle school
to the point where i took a blade to my skin
for six years because i was always
too much of a boy to be a girl
and too much of a girl to be a boy
and my haircut makes me look like a lesbian
and wanting to wear skirts makes me a girl
and for some reason you seem to think
that it is you and your opinion that
has the ability and the power and the right
to dictate who i am as a person

so when you say to me “man up”
i want you to look not at my *******
or picture what you assume is in my pants
look me in the eye ******
because i want you to see how much your
words hurt and you will watch as i cry
because being told that for so long
is what those words make me want to do
you make me want to cry
your trying to push me into a box
that makes me easier to define
erases who i am as a person

so when you say to me “man up”
just go ahead and assume that my answer
will be no
because i see no shame
in liking skirts
in liking the color pink
in crying easily
in gesticulating when i talk
because there is no shame
there is no shame
in being soft
in being gentle
in being a ******* *****
because now i wear that label with pride
and it no longer hurts
because i am comfortable in myself
because there is no shame
there is no shame in being me
and i am done apologizing

i could tell you you’re beautiful
hell, i have before
a lot of times
and you still don’t believe me
and i don’t know why

but that’s a lie
i know exactly why
because i used to think
i was ugly too

i was an ugly girl
with glasses and nobody
noticed me until i starved myself
down to a double zero because
they all kept bullying me for being fat

and now i’m an ugly boy
but that’s okay
because even dead trees have the
ability to nurture beautiful
life out of their stumps

so no, i will not tell you
that you are beautiful because that
word is used so much and has so many
different definitions of what it is
and isn’t that who is to say what
it really even means anymore

because to me
you are so much more than a pretty face
and kind words

you are the sunrise after a bad night
where i thought i would die
before the sun rose above the tree line again

you are the rain after
a scorching hot day that makes it too
hot to wear my binder

you are the forgiveness
after i tried to leave
and still you stayed
even when i kept on
trying to go

you are the food
that i am still learning not to
be ashamed about eating and enjoying
because weight is just a ****** social
construct like so many other things

you are the calm voice
and steady hands
holding my own shaking ones
when you bring me back
from my anxiety attacks
and promise me it will be okay

you are there
you are here
you are
you are
so much more than beautiful

you are my friend
my confidant
the love blossoming behind my ribs
the scars that wounds become
the pain and happiness and tears

you are so much more
than you think you are

there are three words
on the tip of your tongue
waiting to be grouped into
whatever you want them to be
and they can mean anything
they can heal
they can maim
they can ****
because words scar just like knives

“i love you”
and god did you ever
his eyes that shone with kindness and light
her lips that were always so soft
the first time you kissed a boy
and you held her hand in the mall
not caring who saw you
you have so much love to give
and that makes the past tense
hurt even more

“i’m right here”
and you were
and so were they
when the nightmares got really bad
so bad that they bled over into the day
and seeing great black wings bursting out of
someone's back
sends you reaching out for a hand to hold
something to ground you
because it’s not real
and you’re not crazy

“i need you”
and you always have been selfish
not wanting to be in a world where they
aren’t a text message, a call, or a letter away
because they’ve always been there
even when you hardly were yourself
and you need them
you do
and you probably always will
and that is not a bad thing

“i’m so sorry”
and those three words
are said with tears in your eyes
snot dripping from your nose
and it does not matter why
you are saying sorry
be it because of self-infliction
or otherwise
because you’ve hurt them
but you just don’t want them to go

“please don’t go”
and these words are said
in so many contexts and settings
like reaching out from the bed
and grabbing onto them
because sleeping alone is too quiet
or you run after them
leaving food and drinks to cool
because what good is food
and sleep and drink
if you’ve gotta go it alone

“i love you”
and aren’t those the most
important words that you will ever say
to her and him and them
because they will linger
in the best and worst ways
through years and cities and states
they never go away
because baring your heart and soul
to another person
another being
like that is both the greatest sacrifice
and greatest thing you will ever do

“you’ll be okay”
and a parting gift for you
dear reader and viewer of this work
because even though those three
words do sound cliche
they are the most true things
that have ever been spoken
because you will heal
wounds will scar over
sleepless nights will stop adding up
and you will be so happy to be alive
you’ll be okay
i know it

I loved this boy

with long hair the

color of chestnuts

or, black coffee

my eyes are bad

so, I can’t really be sure

I loved this boy

I still do

maybe just a little bit

but, enough that it hurts

And, sometimes, I can’t sleep

because of all the horrible

things that I have said to him

how many times we made

each other cry

I wrote the boys

name in the snow

before stomping on it

because, in all honesty

that was an easier thing to do

than profess my love to him

Now, this was not in love

nor was this puppy love

it was more than a friendship

more than a sibling

This boy, he stole my heart

and ground it in to

a fine, red powder

under his worn out sneakers

If someone were to

look closely,

not that anyone would want to see

me shirtless, there is a little invisible scar

where his name used to be

resting over my heart

This boy, I remember that,

one time, he let me run my fingers

through his hair,

and I almost cried because his

eye lashes were so soft where they fluttered against my fingers

This boy, now a young man

I sometimes watched him

instead of eating my lunch

I often noted the way that his

spine and every little marble that made it up

along with the flesh and bone

could be seen through his shirt

I longed to run my fingers

up and down that thin line

and tell him how beautiful I thought he was

how much I loved him

I want to demand he take back

all the horrible things

that we said to each other

and force me to say sorry

Because, my god, do I miss him

and the horrible nick names I gave him

since, sometimes, saying his name

was too painful

The horrible cards and pictures I made him

out of the few that I found in the trash

he told me that he kept even more

I blushed like an idiot

Since, when I knew this boy

it was before I had taught myself

not to cry in front of people

because, to show any emotion

is a clear sign of weakness

Which is what I am

I am weak

as are my knees

with love for this boy

Who can’t even say my name

let alone look at me

with disgust in his beautiful eyes

though I can’t remember the color

and a curl in his mouth

that was usually only reserved for himself

I’ve managed to, at least partially, convince myself that what we had was all *******.

That she didn’t mean any of the things that she said.

That I was just a convenient little something to show off until she moved on to the next flavor.

Just something to manipulate and play with.

I was warm clay under her scarred and burned hands.

She made me into pretty shapes to satisfy her mood swings.

I was putty to her.

Just a mass of scars and good intentions turned sour by the cruel hands of time.

She never loved me.

She used me.

And, I enjoyed every minute of it.

I loved it.

To be touched.

To be told such sweet things.

I tell myself that it was all *******, every single ******* second of it, because, pretending that it was all fake, is easier than admitting that I am too damaged for anyone to love.

For anyone to fall in love with.

I am no longer damaged goods.

I am just damaged.

When wrote about you, I found my soul.
But I don’t know how to make it go away.