I'm here when needed.

But I don't seem to be needed much anymore..

I wrote this for you because there were times I wish someone had written this for me-

Stop hating your reflection, stop hating the girl that is in your mirror. She is you, and you must love your fingertips to your eyelashes, your toes to your stomach all the way down to the edges of your soul and the depths of your heart.

Stop letting him be your world. Have you ever looked at a map? Have you even seen where the rivers go? Have you ever realized that you can get in the car and go? Don't tell me no, because it's true. Instead of following the rivers you let him create them and they flow down your face. Stop swimming in your tears, don't drown in his consuming love. Swim far away and resurface. Breathe in and out. Get out of the water and dry your tear soaked face off, and don't swim until you're ready again.

Stop letting your insecurities shape your mind. They're like needles injected into your body, leaving injuries and drops of blood while extracting your strength to put those thoughts to sleep. You have to learn to form your pretty little fingers into fists and start fighting off those nagging voices in your head that say you aren't good enough. Throw a punch, take a hit, get back up, wipe the sweat off your forehead and do it again. Battle until you come out bruised but on top, exhausted but a winner.

Stop letting him be your measure of worth. His attention and love will never, in your lifetime, fill the void where your own self love should be. He, nor any one guy, will ever fill your heart the way your own self love could. I promise you that loving yourself is so much more rewarding than someone else loving you. I promise I promise I promise.

Stop making excuses. Are you really happy or is that what you project? Is your smile real? Does he make you genuinely smile anymore? Are you falling asleep in his arms feeling alone? Are you?

Stop reading these words and start doing. I wrote this for you because I know he never would.

She woke up
And she could feel
His chest
Rising and falling underneath her fingertips
And she thought
She'd fall back asleep
Over
And over
And over again.
Just to wake up
Draped in him
Over
And over
And over again.

So you want to forget?
You have a drink.
Or six.
So you want to get high?
You roll your own.
Light up.
So you want to feel alive?

All you little amateurs,
Let me show you.
Come join me
In my chemical chemistry factory,
Or my suicide surgical stand,
Homemade scalpel in my hand.
I can help you.

I want to be able to understand you
Talk your language
Feel the way you feel
Be inside your mind

Hear your happy thoughts
When you play guitarr and sing songs,
Drink beer with your friends
Or when you laugh to your funny TV-shows

Hear your sad thoughts
When you can't sleep, in the middle of the night,
Not getting your dreamjob
Or when she broke your heart

I want to know if I'm a happy or a sad thought
Or if you even think about me at all

You're both my sadness and happiness
And all thoughts in between

I'm sorry God, but they've taken you prisoner.

Their words indubitably once streamed from your lips,
as your fingers projected beams of light,
falling from the Heavens:
people dumbly read your signs so literally.

They've closed you in a book and recalled your name
when such mentioning benefited their own name,
hypocrites they are;
for there was never a hypoChrist
capable of making wine a commodity
and bread a demon,
unless it is gluten-free.

How your intentions are clouded in veils.
****** in your name.
To glorify you.
Pushing scared young lovers--two men-- against barbed wire fences
and insisting they are sinful, foul--better off dead.
Maybe the hate is right
because it wins ten times out of nine.

God, they constantly judge each other
when they don't believe in the "right" version of you.
And they represent a new hipper you for the youth:
they want to understand you, when really they just
want to be understood.

Some days I walk past strangers and wonder,
"Who do you want me to be?"
Am I not Muslim enough unless I cover my hair?
Am I too Moz-lim if I say Allah and mean God--
just God, not whatever inane misnomer you'll tell me I really believe
you to be.

I think you tire of our piddle paddle,
how we puff up our chests, only to blow out a tiny breath of air,
that in one instant you can extinguish:
the candle had no choice.

We think we give the world meaning.
We feel so special when we hear ourselves think,
but sometimes, I wish you'd speak instead of all these false prophets.