Maintaining that faux image.

    Live up to society's expectations.

Have *** and be ******.

    Don't have ***, but act like you do.

The boys set the bar,

    We want to reach it.

We wear make-up because it will

    Make us pretty.

We dress **** because it will

    Make us hot.

We want to have *** because it will

    Make us normal.

Does pop culture have the right to

    Tell us what's normal?

If we do not measure up, then

    We will put on a show if we have to.

We hope we look approachable so

    Then boys will talk to us.

But we have to say no and stay pure so

    Then boys will want us.

We are supposed to understand the

    Mixed signals and popular beliefs.

We must ignore our morals, yet claim they

    Are what we live by.

Pornorgraphy, '*******', and risque magazines all tell us that

    Guys want us to be a certain way.

We are supposed to turn ourselves into

    What they want,

And accept that that

    Is all that matters.

I used to consider chapstick makeup.
I used to consider using conditioner “doing my hair”.
Now it takes me 90 minutes to deem myself acceptable enough to show my face.
Where did that carefree attitude go?
It used to be that the lengthiest part of my morning routine was brushing my teeth.
Now my makeup covers scars as well as blemishes.
Now calories are not something I’m studying in a small elementary school classroom, but deceitful numbers that bury themselves into my mind and thighs.
The beach used to be a safe haven to splash into and gasp out of.
Now I dread the idea of squeezing into a bathing suit.
I cry at my reflection and shout expletives at the scale.
I starve just to keep my demons at bay, and cut as a peace offering.
I use Percocet as an anesthetic for the pain of waking up in my bed everyday.
I wish I could say I used to make love, but since love was not used to make me, how could I?
I reach out to those ever-growing shadows and I cling to the corners of remembering.
I do not fear death, but I fear the memory I leave behind…

You were right there. Standing,
hands in your pockets, like nothing could hurt you.
Defiance palpable in the air you breathed.
Your back straight and your eyes so skeptically open
that if I didn’t look closely, I’d swear they were closed.

You were so close. Leaning,
skin warm with stories, close enough to leave me trembling in your wake.
Rebellion rocked in the earth around you.
Smoky breath and chewed-raw lips, and your
smile could never quite meet your eyes.

You were so tired. Listening,
mind open and walls up, always listening for pretty words.
Confidence almost shaking now in your bones.
A head full of curls, and a mouth full of codes
trapped so solidly as to not tarnish your tongue.

You were so alone. Talking,
people constantly surround you, about stories you never want to forget.
Rich, devilish words seasoned in your descriptions.
Your voice stimulates my mind’s starving curiosity, and  
your hands could carry me home.

You were so lost. Running,
middle fingers locked in place, toward everything that scared you.
A bark of contempt for anyone in sight.
Always the question of: Could you say you used to make love
when love was not used to make you?

You were so broken. Tearing,
with wings of gold, through the waste of the human life.
A force so unstoppable it weakened my heart.
Your soul was on fire, and in the midst of the flames,
I saw you. You were never meant for here.

And my dreams always turn into nightmares where I wake up just in time.
Now, you can call that unoriginal, but you know I got those from you.
You can claw out from my throat all those words that you know I could never say.
You want “I’m sorry”s and “please don’t leave”s.
You wanted what my dreams always could’ve been.
And I wanted what you’ve seemed to find in everyone else.
You see their talents and the irritating quirks you turn into personalities.
You find their whispers of helplessness or longing grasping at your ears at night.
I then realized how eager you were to be there for everyone but me.
So all of my broken sobs into pillows, all my muffled and drunken cries, those screams you never got to experience, those are for you, my love.

Money makes the world go ‘round.
When I see my future, all I can think is
How far I'm going to go in life.
It doesn't matter
Whoever stands in my way.
Without a second thought of
Doubts or second guesses.
There's no time for
Dwelling on the past.
My mind is only
Set on one level,
One single gear.
I've only ever been expected of
Success and excellence.
The money you make is the equivalent of your
motivation and drive.
Who even cares about
Material things and superficial desires?
I've helped turn the world into
What the future needs.
Now I see, love is
What makes the world go ‘round.

I never claimed to be an artist. That’s why I always turn down your offers of color.
I can’t create the brilliance in the world that I so appreciate.
My mind’s eye sees in black and white.
The only colors I can muster are the grays distilled from my soul.
If you could stand audience at my autopsy, you would see more than an abused liver and polluted lungs.
The room would be overtaken with the stench of rotting monotony.
No wonder you’ve always said my kisses taste so bland.
Who could help it with eyes like forgotten puddles and hair the color of sand.
I’ve always known how my legs jiggle as I walk, and of the constant slouch in my shoulders.
My only fault was believing you every time you told me I was something special.
After all, what could attract a flame to an ember?

I can hardly see the stars anymore past all the airplanes.
I remember just last night I mistook a satellite for a meteor…
You believe you’re seeing something extraordinary when it’s actually a trick of the eye bestowed upon you by your own kind; therefore, they are tricking your mind.
If seeing is believing then we’ve all been deceiving with each flick of the tongue and each strain of our lips.
It’s like the sky is viewed now in strips, and the seasons come in drips. I long for those aesthetic drops.
If my fingers could brush the treetops and whirl them into a braid of branches, twigs, and leaves. See the pine needles thread and weave.
The forest would shiver down into its roots just as the barrel tremors once the hunter shoots. That spray of bullets moving faster than life.
It’s almost as though that hunter has trifled with time and Mother Nature’s clock. We’ve only got so many days left in stock. And I can see now how that’s so difficult to conceive.
The end is that painful reality we all would rather not believe.