She wakes up late
With only 4 hours of sleep again
She wears only black and white
Hoping to fade away like an old memory
She starts to be sick
Why is she like this
Nothing is wrong yet
So why is she trying to cough up herself
She heads to school a cloud brewing
Over her head hatred lies
Her life it's pursuing
Can't eat all day
Lies and says she's okay
Accepts hugs
That's proof that something really is wrong
Her openly seeking physical affection
Completely out of the norm
She sees him a few times today
The boy she craves in passing through halls
And caught a brief glimpse of the girl he loves
Rarely seen nowadays
Then she sits in class with a boy she doesn't understand
The boy she truly needs was there too, all along
Never far when it matters
He gives her all she needs
She loves him so much
Come the 4th hour in
Somehow she turns around
Pain for laughter
An unknown comfort found

love the boy who paints–
who harnesses the power of the spectrum
and brings life to his views
on the world

admire his colourful fingers
and lead stained hands.
he didn't mean to fray the
brushes like
he frayed your heart strings.

he only wants a little life
in his body and soul.
he paints with you in mind.
and when you see the crumpled up
tubes on the floor
of his bedroom,
know that they reflect
his efforts to make you happy.

is her abdomen showing? her shoulders are visible? her shorts just a little higher than her fingertips when her hands are by her side? is her back showing?
lets try this out. why not instead of demanding girls to change their outfits because they're a "distraction" for boys why don't we instead teach boys to keep their eyes to themselves instead of making girls think they should be ashamed of themselves for wearing what they want and being confident. don't perpetuate the idea that you shouldn't wear what you want and be comfortable and confident with your body.
i am a fourteen-year-old girl and i will wear whatever the hell i want.
h.d.

We broke up a week ago, but
I still sleep in your bed every night
because there's a sink spot in the mattress,
your sheets smell like Old Spice,
and you hold my hand underneath the pillow
until our circulation gives, and the needles
***** our senses, pausing the blood flow
until we roll to our separate sides.
But when our hips collide,
hands playing my ribs like a harpsichord,
kissing your scruffy chin and collarbone line,
my dream begins to slip and I'm reminded again
how good it is to forget.

Coming to you is like coming home,
all washed-up and beautifully damaged.
So I draw the curtains and I turn on the fan
to lull us into another hand-painted, night design
where my lines intersect with yours,
the comforter overlapping us,
shadowing the fact that I shouldn't really be here,
but you dare not ask me to leave.

I’ve found religion in your smile.
Trusted the way it curves, practicing
the lines in my mind with delicacy,
ripening your image until it’s sore.
Your throat baptizes me,
replaces the devil of my intentions
with sweet, rosy breath,
curling my inhibitions until they dive
back into me and I express my very desires
openly on a blanket--
and it’s no sin
because I love the way your spine stands
like a perfect cross, carrying me
to the vision you have of a better me
than what I used to be.
I’ve prayed for your thighs in naughty ways,
but you’ve taken my hands,
folded them into shapes I can’t comprehend
and kissed my fingertips until I was crying
out of confusion and catharsis,
finally understanding what it feels like to count
people, you, as a blessing.
I see God when you make instruments
out of blades of grass, or how that strap
slides off your shoulders when the wind
graces the moment with a whisper.
He gave me an angel disguised as a woman
with too many pillows on her bed and coffee breath,
but you pull me from point to point like taffy,
slowly, lagging, molding me into the gift
you never wished for. I, bestowed at His feet,
unwilling found a soul and a heartbeat
louder than any of my unforgiving words.