You're a constant reminder that poetry can't fix everything.

Six
I showed up in an orange polo
blue jeans, a blonde bowl cut
and the latest light up barbie shoes
my mother dropped me at my classroom door
she left with tears in swelling her eyes
because I was the only child who wasn't clinging to her like the last strand of hope I had
she was so proud
I was on top of the world
until you tore me down
threw your wooden cities in my face
and told me I belonged with the boys

Eight
I showed up in a pink dress
white flats, and shirley temple curls
my mother sent me to school that day
she left with a twinkle in her eye
because I was the only kid in our minivan who wasn't faking fevers
she was proud
I made myself known
until I sat criss cross in that cotton candy dress
and you told me that girls dont sit like I do
and that I belong with the boys

Twelve
I showed up in pink jeans
a graphic giraffe T, straight shoulder length locks
and black chuck taylors
My mother dropped me off that day
her eyes watched me until I was safely inside
because she knew I was nervous
I took junior high by storm
she was proud
you took note of my sports bra
laughed at my cardboard chest
and told me I belonged with the boys

Thirteen
I showed up in basketball shorts
a simple T, shoulder length hair
and tennis shoes
I walked to school that day
My mother was still sleeping
I hid from everyone
you asked me if I liked girls
and thats when I knew I belonged with the boys
I needed these ******* boys

Thirteen
I showed up in black sweats
a hoodie that avoided my curves like roadkill
a half assed ponytail
and running shoes
I was invisible
I replaced the gauze on my thighs that concealed the proof he was here
I wore and extra shirt to hide the proof he was here
I learned to use makeup in all the wrong places in hopes to prove he was never here
His fists played symphonies across my ribcage
He made songs of my pleads for forgiveness and apologies
addressed to both him and god
and I am still trying to forget the notes
I am still trying to forget he explored my depths
I am still trying to pretend that he was never here
He said I could only belong to the boys if they could touch me

Fourteen
I thought the cough syrup would save me

Fifteen
He took the only shred of dignity I had left
I listened as my only hope for a family was ripped limb from limb
The child who's crescendo heartbeat originated from me
was slaughtered at the price of a Versace ring and a fake I.D.
Fifteen
I thought I could hear him screaming


Twenty
I am defined by twenty different men
These scars are proof of me nitpicking the pieces of them from my skin
Proof that I am worth nothing more than a one night stand

Twenty taught me:
1. No one will ever understand how empty you become when you're constantly filled by different men
2. A new canvas will not make you feel any cleaner
3. Hands feel like hands in the dark no matter who is behind them
4. After about the 3rd one night stand you will realize that 2 is the loneliest number
5. My mother is no longer proud to see me

I dont think you understand
how empty you become
when you're constantly filled by different men.

I own one spoon
one knife
one fork
one bowl
and one plate
but I own two mugs
in hopes we'll fall in love over a cup of coffee.

we can sit up all night in some hotel room,
curled beneath each other, listening to the sound
of heartbeats and old cassette tapes.
you are the kind of girl i want to make mixtapes for.
when i see your smile, i collapse.
you give me the faintest idea of what a heart attack might feel like
and, god ******, i enjoy it.
i remember you telling me that you haven’t felt purposeful
or useful or strong enough to be either
and i looked in your eyes and saw
the only person who’d ever been strong enough
to admit that their only purpose was to be purposeless.
and if life is only lived to find promise,
then what the **** is death for?

i’ve seen god on lonely street corners
where homeless men stare at buses
wishing they had enough change in their cups
to change things.
i’ve seen happiness in the eyes of single motherscarrying three jobs and a failed marriage
in the shopping bags they drag up the stairs.
i’ve seen one bedroom apartments with more space to call home
than you could ever find in that mansion on the hillside.

and i’ve seen you look so helpless
that the only help i could offer
was to let you climb out of it yourself.
i have trouble letting you be.
i have trouble finding myself.
i have trouble being anywhere but in your arms.
there are disciples in your chest
preaching off-balanced wisdom and there are
people written across your skin
all of them whispering,
"you made me feel welcomed.
you made me feel something.”
and if you only understood how lonely the bus rides get
or how hard it is to walk home in the dark
carrying nothing but your heartbreak,
then you would know what it meant
when i told you that you are the only thing
to ever make any of it worth it.
i will write your name in my poetry until it no longer has a meaning.
i will kiss you until my lips no longer make your knees weak.

i was homeless until i met you.
you handed me enough change to change things.
i hope you don’t find better things to do with your day
than to pass by my corner
and smile.

your are purposeful and you are useful
and you never had to be either.

I am Ink
sweet blood of the
pen.
I **** the flesh of parchment with savvy strokes of timeless musings.
The poet is nothing without my inspiration to spur him forward forcing thought from mind into
visual conceptions of reality.
The written word is law and
I am law
We are one.
The ink ,not the pen, is mightier than the sword.
What is the pen without me?
The ink.
A wasted corpse
space used on a desk
worthless
to be without ink.
I alone am the soul of literature.
I alone raise words from the dead  minds of deceased philosophers.
My word has capsized continents
waged unwinnable wars
I do not discriminate
I have killed men women children.
I have breathed life into centuries.
I am eternity
I am ink.

Dont you DARE have the audacity to say you were good to me
when I can recall nothing but a nightmare.