please cover my body in silk,
kisses, fragrance, and jewelry
ornament every inch of my skin
that has ever felt less than pretty
i’ll watch you as you do it
soak in your delicate touch
feel the soft curves of your lips
against me, a surface so rough

white blooms cluster on the twigs fragility
as the wind gasps at every sight it sees
it appears that spring is feeling contradictory
when the cold bitter air bites my skin as i feel the breeze

as time marched on
meat grew onto my thighs
stretched skin like claw marks
drew gazes with invisible ties

and when I let him feel who I was
gave him the privilege of knowing me
his hands clasped onto my thigh
claiming ownership, his lock and key

he held onto me so tight
I was afraid he would touch my bone
but it was never his intention to touch
just to make his presence known

and as his face explored the depths of me
he had to pry open my knees
yet, he’s not entirely at fault
since I clenched a smile and said “please”

but a real man doesn’t have to pry
I definitely know that now
because a real man doesn’t grab onto you
his gentle hands just know how

how to feel your best features
and make them demand to be felt
how to lazily caress your skin
in that way that just makes you melt

my real man doesn’t make me feel like meat
and he doesn’t cut through to the bone
through the soft motion of his hands
that much is shown

weekends that sweep you off your feet
leave you with piles of ***** laundry
i’ll let them throw off my entire week
because they’re always remembered so fondly

perfume lifts from my skin
as I slouch in the shower
I feel as though my life is lived
for it's darkest hours
because in cold months like these
all I need is your warmth
when the steam rises from me
I can ignore the frigid storms

how can I miss
what hasn't even started?
why are all my loved ones
the dearly departed?

death has been kind to me
and didn't knock on my door
but why do my goodbyes
feel more painful than before?

summer is over

before it even started

childhood is over

it's barely even started

I long to grow old
preferably with you
but how patient can you be?
I hope you'll miss me, too

with a beating heart
comes a lazy spring.
I want to feed you strawberries
or make us paper crowns
so we can pretend we're kings.
but unlike my heart,
the sun will stop beating
down on my freckled shoulders
down on your luminescent skin.
we will have to keep leaving
to conditions less cold and barren.

I am the culmination of everything I have ever loved
every lingering glance I have let last too long
and affectionate syllable I have spoken too softly
I love wholeheartedly and with generosity
even in the wrong moments, unadvisedly
when feeling the rush of a sweet dishonesty
tied to the lips of those undeserving of me
I am made from the scars of my mother
and the labor from my father
but rebirthed every time I meet a new personality
my skin soaking up their congeniality  
breathing art, tasting music, and living poetry
constantly yearning for different realities
yet knowing I find them between the cushions of your cars seats
through the window, in the silence, or right under my feet
I would not be who I am without the winters dusk
or every imprint left on my skin from unexpected touch
I am made of butterflies, meant to be everything I love

you told me you were comfortable
after a night without sleep
as the sun shone through my window
and onto my sheets.
in that moment,
there was no place I'd rather be
than contemplating the sunrise
with my favorite person on screen

I’ll stick my head in the dryer
just to feel its warmth
and wear your old jacket
even if it’s torn
we'll have meaningless conversations
and I'll give you a grin
because bored desperation
is an acceptable sin

not a day goes by without you on my mind,
and how I wish that wasn’t true.
I try to convince you to roam somewhere else,
but you never had a taste for anything new.

so I hide the key under the mat near the door;
knowing you'll let yourself through.
and every single time, I regret it,
but you never seem to have a clue.

yet even if you won't admit it,
I know I'm in your head, too,
because she looks a lot like me,
and I never want anything like you.

she dabs with cheap tissue
to drain the pigment
from her once passionate lips

the sun rose once again, gentle and soft
and yesterday spread its ashes on my floor
isn't it sad how you can sleep it off,
and still be as bad as before?

I just tore up our old letters
and threw them on the floor
every guy since you
is just as bad as before
I spit on them, too
to make it completely clear
I want to really hate you
as much as it appears
I'm not even real
only half of me
I wish you knew how it feels
forgetting your masculinity
I live to be aestheticized
and I die when I'm not saved
I'm tired of being fetishized
for your sick savior charade

to try and try to no avail to perfectly capture your youth in poetry,
so one day you'll look back, as gravity pulls your skin to the Earth,
and your hands are weathered by the sandpaper that is life.
that is fifteen.
fifteen is the massive responsibility to listen to all the best music
to enjoy the best art, to watch the best films, and to breathe the best air,
so that when your age doubles, and thirty hits,
you'll know that your adolescence wasn't wasted.
fifteen is living ever conscious of the stereotype;
knowing that you're more nuanced than the words of resentful adults,
but still succumbing to teenage meltdowns and nervous conversations with boys.
fifteen is furiously planning for a future years in the distance; tasting the freedom on the tip of my tongue, but knowing my head is just in the clouds.
fifteen is feeling like you're always being watched;
dissected, or admired, for the curls woven in your hair or the cuffs in your jeans;
convincing yourself your peers feelings fluctuate depending on your presentation.
fifteen is frantically searching for acceptance from those who have never heard your name;
mustering up the confidence to ask him for the homework,
or hoping the hot girl in the hallway thinks you're just as cool;
wearing your heart on your sleeve, in the chance someone wears the same brand.
fifteen is marrying your dream school before you've even taken a tour;
saying your vows to a man you've never met, and throwing a bouquet to the friends you know you'll love,
because nothing is more exciting than knowing one day, you'll start over and over and over again.
fifteen is now, the perfect present, the pinnacle of personhood.
fifteen is hoping I am not wasting my precious time.
fifteen is me figuring it all out, fearfully, yet faithfully.

the same story repeated throughout history,
we have now become a cliché.
ambition clouding my rationality.
fantasies never feasible in reality.  
my friend, whenever I'm with you,
I'm reaching for an impossible possibility.
you know I've never wanted anything I could have
and I know you've never gotten the one thing you want.
we were never made to succeed;
just to entertain the thought.

an aching sensation tears at my stomach.
craving for the feelings of the foreign.
wanderlust is in my nature,
and curiosity creates a cavity in my mind.
a gaping hole of everything I ever wanted,
all it ever was, was simply just to see.
see what the cobblestone streets felt like beneath me,
or what the cathedrals in Europe look like in reality.
I want to wander hearts, souls, and minds
speak beautiful, real, life changing poetry;
the kind you find in a used bookstore, accidentally.
I want to feel my fingers on another's skin.
I have forgotten intimacy, and I beg to recall.
breathing the same air, lovely words spoken carefully;
I pray love is a path I can find presently.
I bargain to a silent God, I beg to know what its like;
to love Him, to volunteer to take His hand.
in all honesty, I'm afraid of divine complexity.
I have a hard time loving passionately already,
affection for Him isn't in my capacity.
I plead, and I plead, and I plead
my life won't be defined by simplicity.
I know success should be measured by joy.
but it feels like there's nothing satisfying in being happy.
I want grandeur, and I want passion,
intelligence, politics, and artistry.
If greatness isn't intertwined in my destiny,
I would rather not be destined entirely.

brick mansions surrounded by shacks,
all sheltered by autumnal trees.
dogs with pups in the yard without a leash
nowhere to run, no desire to be free.

backroads approaching, picking up speed.
sipping home brewed iced tea.
cows in their pasture, lounging calmly,
just like the rest of us, they’re enjoying the breeze.

“don’t touch the spanish moss”
and “go check on the peach tree”
phrases spoken continuously,
my entire life, they were said to me. 

down south, you can watch the night sky.  
the lights all falter,  just so you can see.
and during the day, if you go out in time;
all you can hear is the chirping of the birds, the buzzing of the bees.

and when the sun finally sets on a hot day,
the cicadas come out, and sing, so free,
that you open your windows to the summer air,
just so you can hear them share their music so kindly.

i think pride in origin is a foolish belief,
and regardless of whether you agree,
there is a charm found in the america’s southern states
somewhere under the rest of the nations careless debris

she walks from room to room, aware of the eyes.
the eyes placed onto her from the second she was born.
held in the hands of her father, watching the smile of her brother;
subconsciously sensing she was the exception, not the rule.
the same eyes she knew stalked the prey of her sisters, through her sisters.
he is always there, day and night, every hour, every second;
watching through her thoughts as she steps into the shower,
and indulges into her guilty pleasures.
at her weakest moments,
and her greatest accomplishments.
she exists to be admired.
she exists to ask the question;
"what would he think?"
the secret is finally out, and it might be hard to believe.
but there is one thing she fears more than the wrath of God:
she fears who she is when she is finally seen.
through pictures not perfectly placed
and through the eyes of the men she respects.
so she stands in the mirror, painfully aware of the man behind her.
who holds her hand, and brushes her bangs,
silently spritzing his favorite scents,
and applying mascara to accent her eyes.
when he is finally done, he looks at her with a smile.
he thinks he doing her a favor,
but all she ever wanted was privacy.
she wishes she could laugh without apologies,
and never be ugly when she cries,
to finally be alone for once,
not worried about his eyes.

the universe was unaffected by our union.

we didn't dance all day, or watch the stars,
and when we joined hands, it quickly lost its spark.
you awakened something in me that was dormant,
even now I admit, that much is true
but that doesn't mean I was ever the one for you.

we were like the stove on a simmer.
too hot to touch, too cool to burn,
too real to ignore, yet still somehow lukewarm.

I would find myself with my pen in hand,
trying to write to you, but with nothing to say.
hoping, praying, pleading something will change.

but at the end of the day, we reverted back where we were.
with our long, semi-comfortable silences on the phone
and unconsciously inching away from your grasp,
excuses escaping out of my exhausted mouth,
and regret making it impossible to relax.

my stomach still turns when I think of you.

not of you, but of who I was with you.
  
am I the same girl that you loved?
or have I had enough time to heal?

but-

I still catch myself every day, reflecting over you and I
and I just have to wonder:

was it really my first love, or was it just my first try?

I can feel my future waltzing with me
they hold my shoulders, brush my cheek
lock with my hand, and guide my feet
whispering what they'll soon bring to me
sweet promises, of love and prosperity
success blooming with my maturity
and beautiful, much needed clarity
I look into their eyes for the first time
and ask "when will that be?"
but they just smile and say,
"I can't say, dear.
but while we wait,
will you keep dancing with me?'

my mother has manifested herself into my life with her kind touch
shown with the white chocolate cranberry cookies she always makes around christmas
and the layers she has tried to convince me to chop into my hair
her playlist that was background noise my entire life
and the stories that make me smile, but roll my eyes when I hear
with the segments she saves me on msnbc
her tired hands hooking needles through crochet
the names she recalls of my old classmates  
and her endearing love for all hallows eve
I love you mom,
probably more than you may believe

what a fascinating sensation
how your skin knows the foreign touch of another
is different than the feeling of your own  
and how you breathe thoughtlessly,  
blink automatically,
and live mechanically

I always thought I felt too deeply
violent tears and charged poetry
dramatic words and painful memories
absence of confidence concealed by vanity

I was afraid of death since I as four
I would cry on my bed, my parents at the door
they would rush to my side, and say it's okay
while I tell them I'm afraid of when they’ll leave me one day

I never let myself get upset when I was hurt
hitting my head, falling in the dirt
I hate looking weak in front of my peers
I try to laugh it off, and I have for years

and I cry when I watch the rainbow connection
I'm still not sure why it deserves my affection
but I sob every time I see that little puppet frog
strumming his guitar, sitting on a log

I was auditioning for a play in seventh grade
I walk up to two people, not even on a stage
starting to bawl the second I step on the line
while hysterically assuring everyone I'm fine

my eyes water every time I feel dumb
I try to make sure that tears never come
because when they do, they're always brushed away
and I hate when I'm told to feel a certain way

one February, I would weep every night
and let a guy tell me it was alright
looking back, all I have to say
is I wish I never told him how I felt that day  

and I always hated the burning feeling creeping on my cheeks
knowing I'm being watched, as the emotional freak
I've been embarrassed like that too many times to count
even if I knew how many, I would never share the amount

my mother would always tell me I'm an empath
my father says it'll be okay in the aftermath  
but it hurts to know you're destined to feel
regardless of whether your worries are real

sitting on a swing
late in the evening
stars in the sky
music blaring
pounding in my ears
feet pumping in the air
chill on my arms
warmth in my heart

stop.

white car in the black night
creeping on the road
beating in my chest
halt in my lungs
pause in my music

they turn a corner
and i release my breath

go.

to write is to feel
and i’m not sure i’m ready for that responsibility

I analyze her in the mirror
and I carefully watch her grades
I see as she steps on the scale
and I check her pockets for change
beauty and intelligence
work ethic and competence
can all be measured so easily
and I know you do it too,
so how can you blame me?
I am pandora in a world full of chests
and it feels so good to peek
so I stare at her as a stranger
not knowing any nuance,
just to see how she's perceived
even of it breaks her heart
and her self esteem

delicate feelings flutter in my stomach
it’s not easy to be this enamored
but when i read your perfect words in print
i can tell the similarities in how we think

i’ll never get tired of the simple view
and i think that you would like it too
when the birds chirp like it’s a summers day
and the dogs trot through the grass as they play

a wave of calm settles over my town
and the sun sets into a golden crown  
mixing into colors you wouldn’t believe
as the evening breeze sweeps the leaves

the hibiscus vines curl around the post
with their blushing petals open as they boast
the crickets chirp in sounds soft and light
when they know nobody else is in sight

we moved to ** three years ago
and i have fell out of love ever since
but i know that beauty can be found anywhere
and evenings like this make me more convinced

yearning was made for classics
searching eyes and thoughtful touch
maybe i am not made for such seeking
with hands cramping from tedious texts
and risky words locked in between my lips
next to the brontës and fitzgerald, i wouldn’t really fit
it takes a certain kind of compassion to love most ardently
and bravery to be bewitched body and soul
but i’m left in awe of modernity
where the world is at my fingertips
and i still can’t find the right words

you tell yourself tears over a man are tears wasted
but they don’t consider your feelings when they fall
so you’re left there in a symbolic silence
wondering if you’re good enough after all

the seasons rush past you, don’t they?
with the changing of colors and the rebirth of the rose bushes
you switch your sleeveless skin for sweaters
or your sneakers for sandal tan lines
you press leaves next to last months flowers
and transition the temperature of your tea
finding yourself flipping through time like the pages of a book
forgetting to read in between the lines
yet you still feel the weariness of winters touch
and the secure smile of spring
and when you finally realize, you can’t help to ask yourself
when all this beauty surrounded you, where have you been?

unspoken words and implicit intentions danced on your tongue
perceived as more than just thoughtful attention
you would think it sends a message
like the crack of a smile, or the light of the fuse
is the hopeless anticipation of an absolute fool
but you warned me you liked playing it safe
and i’m sorry that i expected more out of you

we rode in the car all the way there
six hours a day, we did it in pairs
walking in the door, greeted by ******* ears
and all the scenery i still remember throughout the years

the books on her shelves, the frogs in her room
the pots on the walls, the flowers that bloomed
i realize this town felt so big, when i was so small
but sneaking out the fence, i felt nothing at all

conflicted feelings crawled on our skin
when it was time to remember what had been
the weather was stagnant morning through night
so bitterly cold, for mother nature’s spite

but rummaging through the symbols of your past
helped me understand who you were at last
and when the snow fell in the middle of may
i knew i would not soon forget that day

waking without streaming sunlight isn’t fair
oh how i crave to feel the rays rest on my hair
as my humble brunette melts into woven gold
holding the warm embrace of the finest stories ever told
slipping my fingers through every page
oh how i miss that, this day in age

i find fear in the feelings i write
as organized intimacy free falls from my fingers
and it’s vulnerability ventures into your palms

bored in class, so i’m gazing at you
my mind likes to wonder, so i enjoy the view
lingering eyes and secret stares
an unrequited, absent affair
as my goosebumps rise
i exhale hopeless sighs
but the moment dissolves
just in time

skinny women spray painted on the side of your small towns shop
called “fat and ugly” in a debate, regarded as a a proper response
wandering eyes plastered on those wished to be seen
dissecting your image, as you poke and **** and preen
stretching your stomach for sick satisfaction you’re just an object for unlawful attraction
doesn’t every girl dream of it at thirteen years old
that one day in autumn, the air crisp and cold
that they’ll feel the hand of a boy on their skin  
on one of the many places it should not have been
mocking words and tasteless thoughts
whispered harshness and misconstrued masculinity
boys will be boys, men can be men
i wish i could be a real woman
stupid, stupid woman
how dare you expect less

i ponder on a god
and am skeptical of afterlife
yet i can’t help but feel
maybe there’s something out there
that tugs on our heartstrings
and weaves us all together

what a wonderful thing
to own a body
to dry your own eyes
and whisper sweet nothings to
to sense the pull on your cheeks
when you reveal your smile
to feel your fingers roam
and to sleep so very deep
the kind you desperately need
to tap your toes on hardwood floors
to climb up on your roof
so you can watch the sunset  
to take deep breaths of the air
and to smell the scent of fall
what a wonderful thing it is
to own a body at all

what is god to me?
god is the wind whipping in the trees
god is the patterns in the stars
they are the music trapped in your head
and the flower that grows in the shade
they are staying up to see the sunrise
or butterflies landing on your feet
I find god in the sounds of the sea
and woven into the glow of the moon
I don’t dream of a god in the sky
I believe they are right in front of you

in the moments seldom remembered
and the music rarely heard
there is a beauty never noticed
for the best photos are often blurred

as dusk fell on our sun soaked shoulders
and quiet conversations flushed our cheeks
you were the only thing on my mind
in that haze of a week

I long to crawl out of my skin
and into your mind  
to walk in your thoughts
just to see what i’ll find

to water the roses
when you let out your tears
and comfort your childhood pets
when they discover your fears

I wish to run through the expanse
of things you want to say
I want to find all the false gods
in which you pray

and when I find the key
to all your shower thoughts
and all the things you love
they say ‘make your brain rot’

I’ll feel like I know you
just a little bit more
yet I wish that next time
you’ll give me the tour