Is it really possible for one
person to contain that much joy?
Her smile is one that always
reaches and fills her eyes with warmth
as only true happiness can.
This is such a contrast to
my own eyes that reflect
as much emotion as those of a dead fish.
It's no wonder that most people
either fear or hate me, thinking
that the lack of emotion in my eyes
means that I do not like them.
"No!" I want to shout at them,
"I am not as cold or empty as you think I am."
I simply do not understand how to
show any other emotion besides
sadness through my eyes.
Thus I choose for them to remain vacant.
But her eyes contain every emotion I
have ever heard of
and some I know not the names of.
If eyes truly are the windows to the soul,
then she has the most beautiful soul
I have ever seen.

this is a series of brief letters to the pieces of my body

dear body,
we don't always work together very well,
but i swear i am trying.

dear hands,
the callouses and crescent moons in your palms
will not be for nothing.

dear knuckles,
aren't you tired of painting yourselves black & blue
every time words fall short of the fire burning behind my sternum?

dear feet,
you know better than to follow roads that lead to dead ends.
there are better places for us to go.

dear eyes,
you have sunken so far into my skull
it shocks me you see anything at all anymore.
you're fixated on shades of gray
but i promise the world will regain its color soon.

dear knees,
stop crawling.
this broken glass is from his bottles.
get up. no more blood.

dear shoulders,
it was never your burden to carry. let it fall,
and try your hardest not to feel guilty.

dear neck,
his hands will never make a home here,
and you are worth more than one night of empty bruises.

dear spine,
stop waiting to be warmed by fingers
that would reach for another body if they could.

dear tears,
do not waste yourselves.

dear ears,
you have been filled with ghost songs for too long.
stop listening for things no one is saying -
it will make life much simpler.

dear mouth,
i know these secrets have been threatening to break my teeth
but please do not open your gates. i am not ready.

dear skin,
we have never been close friends.
i am sorry for the scars.
i am trying to learn how to be comfortable in you.

dear mind,
if i could wish you into an etch-a-sketch
and shake you clean of these bad memories i would.

dear heart,
i hope you can forgive me for being so careless.
i feel how tired you are. rest is on its way.  

dear body,
you will one day see a grave,
but it must not be by your own hands.

- m.f.

I lost the pounds.
I dyed my hair blonde.
I joined the volleyball team.
I stopped wasting my time at church.
I gave away my virginity to the first guy who asked for it.
I dropped all of my AP classes.
I created a Facebook account.
I started wearing different clothes.
I swapped out my lame friends for a new set of popular and pretty friends.

Do I feel better?
Of course I do!
Well...
Sort of...
I mean,
Yeah, I lost my college scholarships.
Yeah, I hate my new friends.
Yeah, I'm not going to graduate on time.
Yeah, I'm stuck with a kid that I'm not ready for.
Yeah, I have to live on the streets.
Yeah, I hate my job.
Yeah, I've lost everything that's dear to me,

But...

I should be happy, right?
People said that I needed to change,
So that's what I did.
I was sick of hearing that I could be better...
Sick of hearing that I was too innocent for life.
So,
I took matters into my own hands.

I gave in.

theres a story,
that runs through her veins, that feeds through her heart, that reads through her eyes.
theres a beginning to the start the journey- a middle to crush her dreams- an an ending that she never reads out loud. for its not what she looks like; her pigmentation who identifies her no-
nor the length of the locks that are apparent from the scalp of her head no, its nor the coarsness of it or the silkyness.

its not her tiny waist or her abnormally chicken shaped legs no- it is the story- the stories which run through her veins, feed through her heart, and reads through her eyes.
these are her limbs, her bones and structure. these are what her character and compassion are made of, these are her creators.

the stories run so deep digging a deeper hole within her soul. the more she remembers and replays like reruns of friends the more her soul seems to loose a bit of itself. a bit of the joy and the warmth that they used to bring.
remembering the giving up of them is something that will follow her in the shadows for years to come

she doesn't miss her family, she's not homesick: when she says she wants to go home she wants to go back-
back the those times when they were all right here.
she wants to smell the sweet loaves of bread and mixes of aromas coming from grannies kitchen. she wants to hear her voice again scolding pop-pop as he took a bite of the chicken. she wants to go home. home to the weird smell of mothballs and the cluttered home that existed way before hoarders. she wants to go back to the light that shined in the living room hitting the cherry red coffee table just enough to have it warm at touch.

she wants to go back to the trips to the super market with uncle carl who could never say no. she wants to go back to that room- where the chocolate plastic barbie stood so tall 3 ft to be exact. she wants to go back to the christmas'-

the one with three christmas trees and one especially decorated by gail- with so many cartoons and lights you just knew it was that time.
she wants to go back to the family gatherings where there were fights but just ooh so much love and everyone held it together for the queen of this family.
when she says she wants to go home she isnt home sick no-

shes memory fond and hurting of the past for the future seems to constantly ****** away the ones who make the most strong of memories and impact on her life.
she wants to go back-bring them back for one last meal one last hug one last sound from their voice one last goodbye

but she knows the only goodbye lies between her and the tombstone which marks the footprint in the sand, and the watering of the soil from her eyes that will be ever lasting every time their footprint reoccurs, she knows goodbyes with people most loved doest seem to happen but the real reason why isnt because they are suddenly snatched away-
its because-
we will never be ready
to say
goodbye.

Long and low
Are the moans of insanity
Resonating through the barren corridors of my mind
Beckoning me to join in its parade of madness
Being alone with only me, myself, and I
I have lost all track of time

Immeshed by the truths of reality
Insanity promises to release me from my sorrows
Insanity is to cure me of my sadness
Insanity is infectious
Spreading far and wide throughout my mind
Beautiful and comforting
Are the moans of insanity

I tell you, you gloomy ones,
that life is beautiful.
Life is beautiful
in all its depths of
suffering and misery and pain
in all its depths of
striving and joy and pleasure.

I tell you, you nihilists,
one draws breath only once,
passes into and fades out of life only once.
Yet you are to tell us it is worthless,
this gift given to us all by chance?

I tell you, you Christians,
and all your compatriots
who hate the flesh and the earth,
who promise more life through
sons of virgins and husbands of children,
that nothing awaits after death.

"Memento mori!”  
Why must you always
chime this in our ears?
Why must you fill
men with such anxious fears?
Many a man rules his life to this,
dreads and gasps and despairs to this,
prays that he may never come to this,
but you delude him on,
promising life after life.

I tell you, that
when we die, we cease ourselves to be.
Our senses stop their feeling,
our hearts stop their beating,
our brains stop their thinking,
and without those functions,
there ends a man.

So there are no souls
to greet gods in heavens,
nor any demons
to meet in hells,
only the ground we stand on,
and the caskets underneath.

Is this frightening?
Maddening, to think we must one day
cease to be and become nothing?
But death is not nothing;
Death is only a new dance of atoms.

When one thing tumbles,
it returns to the earth,
through one step or another,
to waltz and dissemble and collide
to make new things and again asunder.
With death, one only  
plays one's part
on the grand stage of things.

Do not be afraid then,
of death;
do not let it frighten you,
that you will be
pointless, forgotten, or condemned.
Do not let it terrify you
into leaving your life unlived.

And so I tell you,
you gloomy ones,
you Christians, you nihilists, you sufferers,
remember that you must live.
Embrace life,
this shortness of time,
love every moment of your being,
in all its depths of
suffering and misery and pain,
in all its depths of
striving and joy and pleasure.