if i stopped eating
people would compliment me
on how thin i am
and when they saw the bruises
they pressed their mouths
shut tight
and just joked about
how clumsy i could be
with their easily uneasy smiles.
i don’t know if they
just didn’t see
or if they just weren’t
looking.
introducing him
to my friends was like
living in a ****** part of town,
having someone over
and hearing the racket of gunfire
outside of your window
and then having them say to you,
“oh, listen,
you can hear the fireworks
from here!”
and being too embarrassed
to correct them.
so maybe i’m not sure
if i believe in fireworks;
bombs are too often
mistaken for them.
but i can distinguish the difference
now, i can, and i will not
teach my daughters that when
he pushes you down in the dirt
and pulls on your pigtails
it’s because he likes you.
because when i covered up
those bruises on my body
in too-light concealer
like i’d never learned how to cover up
love-bites and tired eyes,
there was a voice in the back of
my mind that was telling me
that he only pushed me
down because he loved me.
i do not want a voice
inside my daughter’s heads
that sounds like me,
telling them that they deserve
their split lips.
i will tell my daughters to wear
boxing gloves over their manicures,
i will tell my daughters that
“love” is not an excuse,
i will tell my daughters that no one
is allowed to give you
a black eye and expect you
not to punch back harder,
i will tell my daughters
that you are not weak for getting hurt
because the weak ones
are those who let their anger
and insecurities
manifest themselves
in fists and words.
i will tell my daughters
the difference between bombs and fireworks,
i will tell them that they may sound
the same sometimes,
but fireworks don't ****
innocence.

***** will never fill you up
It will only temporarily allow you
To forget you are empty
But when the poison
In your blood runs thin
You will be left
With a hollow more cavernous and
Gaping than before
New space eaten from your
body, devoured by whiskey
Carved by wine
No depth of ruby stain
On your lips
Nor pungent drunk of your breath
Nor clumsy twist of your tongue
Will cultivate a remedy
Liquor does not bring life
it exaggerates sorrow
So do not drown yourself
In an acrid bottle
There you will only find
More darkness

You speak the language of despair.
I can hear you calling out from the depths of hell.
I know because I've been there.
My dear, I understand all too well.
Slowly killing yourself, but nobody cares.
Truth of the matter is, they're just scared.

You're the manifestation of all their worst fears.
A reflection of their darkest desires.
Everything they try to repress:
(drugs, rock n' roll, ***.)
Dancing with the devil in fire.
They close their eyes to it.
No wonder they're so distressed.

But there's another class out there,
and of them, I say,
Beware!
They don't understand but pretend to care.
Their lives are such a bore that they'll drink from your sins.
They'll tell you encouraging words as you struggle to swim.
But you're nothing more than a jester to them.
If you ever make it to the shore,
they'll just push you back in.

The poetry of women
contain much more than just words.
The poems are about their hearts:
what's right, what's wrong,
what's inside, and what they're missing.

The poetry of women
is not merely love stories.
It's independence, it's liberty, and it's their freedom to tell us what they're feeling, whether we want to hear it or not.

The poetry of women
can be everything they wanted to tell you and more,
that she always wanted you, but never had you,
or how badly you ****** up when you lost her.

The poetry of women
is strong and does not require you to approve of it.
She's writing you off while she's writing it.

.   .   .

The poetry of women
is much different from the poetry of men.
'Tis no mere poem, but a tiny piece of her soul.

I’m a functionally depressed person.
I’ve self-diagnosed myself as this
Because severe depression makes
Me feel like I should be lying
Around my house all day and
Although I’d rather wrap myself
In the blankets of my bed,
I push myself out into the day.
Dressed in an outfit that’s not
Sweatpants and a t-shirt, but
Instead, jeans and a sweater.
Long sleeves to cover the cuts
On my arm, or many bracelets
With no colors that match my
Outfit but they cover my
Self-inflicted wounds from
The night before.
I fake a smile at people
That I pass by during the day
And I hope that they can’t
See through my eyes and into
My head. I hope they can’t read
The suicidal thoughts swimming
Around, filling the lack of serotonin
That I’m missing from my brain.
Their eyes feel like lasers shooting
Into my brain like bullets that I dream
Of releasing from the chamber
To settle in my head.
I’m a functionally depressed person
Because I function in society
Without anyone knowing that
Inside, I’m already dead.