Poetry has become my self harm,
I only write at my lows...
Instead of blood I see words,
Instead of a blade I have a keyboard...

I want to write about...
The wind dancing with the sea...
Or...
The way you smile and it lights up your innocent face...

I don't want poetry to be my self harm,
Because poetry is beautiful...
An art...
Not.
Just.
Blood.
And.
Scars.

witnessing the ones she cares for the most drown themselves in the deep end of society
all due to the world’s distinction of “right” and “wrong”
seeking more than she could ever get
she’s dependent on those who are no longer near her
hearing the piercing words of others
questioning her own
glimpsing at the ones around her
then immediately looking at herself
am I good enough?
“perfection”
a term girls force themselves to believe in
an idea which is unrealistically unattainable for most
although it is impractical it has turned into a depiction of norms that are meant to stay intact
she fears for them- knowing that it is not ideal to follow the rules set
but she can feel herself slowly giving in to the demons inside her
curves.
reasonable enough to an extent people don’t stop and stare.
******* in every chance she gets.
starving herself-
because if she wants to be the girl people seek out for, it’s best to get rid of the unpleasant shape
stomach.
flat. tight. muffin tops- an abomination towards all females
a complete unattraction if she seeks desirability and validation
shoving three fingers down her throat
because if she does ever want to make the cheerleading squad it’s for the best to fit in the uniform first try, like all the other girls
thighs.
3-inch wide gap. nothing less, or she’ll end up putting herself to shame
face.
aiming high to look her best
secreting her under eye circles, concealing blemishes
forcing herself to believe that with these things she is hideous
and without them- she will achieve the ideal image of beauty
her body, a temple she grew up to cherish
now, a territory in which she conflicts sins upon
walking to the scale
feet set in place
neon numbers flash
134 pounds
she faces the mirror
sighing heavily
“it’s just not good enough.”
-c.alejandra

I hear the echo of my own voice bounce back to me.
I stare at your blank face,
receiving no sense of verification that I, nor you, even exist.
I try again to reiterate my thought but by then you have moved on,
Something i have deemed too familiar.
You speak,
I listen.
Yet my mind is stuck in this perforated space in time,
where whimsical stories fill the air, the unrealistic fables we cling onto so dearly slowly becoming more translucent now.
I blink and I'm back,
Along with the everlasting inscrutable look I call home.

see more.
breathe more.
take a leave more.
read more.
write more.
drop the strife more.
sing more.
dance more.
take a chance more.
do more.
play more.
seize the day more.
say more.
hear more.
hold someone near more.
love more.
give more.
cause we all gotta live more.