i. when I was young, I was never complimented. I never felt good enough and it hurt and somewhere along the line I began complimenting everyone because I was never complimented and I never wanted anyone to hate themselves the way I did. just because I call a girl pretty does not mean I want in her pants.

ii. we live in a country where a gay poet spoke at obama's second inauguration, where five openly gay senators serve, where all fifty states have had a gay elected officer in some capacity, so if I were to be gay, what's the problem with a relatively unknown sixteen year old girl from a relatively unknown town in a relatively unknown state being gay?

iii. do you want me to be gay? do you want a better, more socially acceptable reason to make fun of me? is my weight not enough?

iv. I was taught the term fluidity by my best friend Alyssa. she firmly believes that sexuality is a spectrum, like many other things. I have a different view on sexuality because I see it as a spectrum, not something that's set in stone.

v. I like making people happy, I like completing people, I apologize a bit too frequently and I was taught how to accept people.

vi. just because I call a girl pretty does not mean I like her. just because I say a dog is cute does not mean I want with the dog. just because I say a painting is pretty does not mean I am going to **** the painting.

vii. aesthetic is a very important word.

viii. there are three kinds of attraction, aesthetic, romantic, and ******. just because you have one does not mean you have all three. just because I like the way something looks doesn't mean I am going to have *** with it.

ix. sexuality is an Identity. not a YOUdentity.

x. I'm not gay, but if I were, trust me, I wouldn't go for such a whiny little *****.

i had forgotten your laugh.
i had forgotten your smile.
i had forgotten your eyes.
i had forgotten the way you whispered on the phone.
i had forgotten the way you hated your thigh.
i had forgotten Sam and Alex.
i had forgotten how you giggled when i cried.
i had forgotten why you giggled when i cried.
i had forgotten the nights i didn't like myself.
i had forgotten your favorite color.
i had forgotten how big your ambitions were.
i had forgotten it all.
but i will never forget the color of your hair.

how come i only look
pretty in a stupid dress?

dear ---
I am not pretty.
I am not smart.
I am not worth it.
I am not poetic.
I am not perfect.
I am not good enough.
******* for making me feel like I was.

i can't breathe without
suffering from the fear of
drowning in the air.
i am an underwater
creature and this air
is poisonous to my lack
of lungs. i need you.
you are the water in this
stale air. i need you.
you take away my fear of
breathing. with you i can breathe.
-----
i do not know why
you are not like air to me.
why are you like my
water? you are just a boy
and i am just an
underwater creature. i am not
worthy of you at-
tention. i don't deserve to
breathe you everyday.
i wish you were the air so
you would be like my poison.

step one: find someone with the correct qualifications. make sure he has taken the correct courses and has credentials.
step two: if your lawyer has a double major in medicine, run away.
step three: he is a person, not a house. do not treat him as such. don’t begin to use his bones as beams and his heart as a generator.
step four: you are a person, and just because you have legal issues doesn’t take away from that statement. you are a person, not a project. make sure your lawyer realizes this too.
step five: if he tries to fix you, run away. go back to step one and pay extra attention to step two.
step six: doctors are bad news. stay away from them at all costs, even if they are a good lawyer too.
step seven: don’t try to fix him either, even if he needs the help. he needs the help, but he’ll never actually accept it.
step eight: he’s just a boy. not an angel, not a superhero, not a saviour, not a lawyer, not a doctor, not a repairman.
step nine: he is not a song. don’t make him a song. he is not a song. don’t compare him to “broken crown” by mumford and sons or “ice” by lights.
step ten: if you need legal advice, a professional works but ultimately a convicted girl is the best advice.
step eleven: whatever you do, don’t hurt him because you’re afraid of being hurt.
step twelve: don’t give him your sharps. save yourself. you don’t need him.
step thirteen: don’t **** yourself because he doesn’t care.
step fourteen: he cares.

he is a lover of brokenness.
he likes antiques,
collecting little fragments of things.
he hates breaking them,
so he finds brokenness,
fixes it up a little,
takes a few pieces and leaves.
he's already taken a bit of me,
and unless I shatter again,
he'll leave forever.

was it the energy drink
or the morning encouragement
that was making me giddy
at 6 in the morning?

when i see you
i am transported to a summer carnival.
and you are the ferris wheel.
you lift me up and take me to new heights.
but you drop me eventually.
you always drop me.
but maybe the drop is worth it because
I get to be lifted by you.

he claims to just be blatantly honest.
but he calls me lovely.
and compliments me.
and listens wholly.
and has extreme dysmorphia towards my weight.
and reads my poetry.
and compliments it.
and treats me as if I possess some sort of innate value.
and makes me feel secure.
---
was he lying about being honest?
or am I lying to myself about my value?

I do not wish for death.
I wish for life.

normal girls call you up at midnight needing *** but i, i just need you.
i don't need ***.
that is beyond me.
i am too fat, too ugly, too unmarried for ***.
and you have a purity ring etched in your heart.
i just need you.

in the asexual community,
a lot is done to coddle the ****** interests of those who don't feel ****** attraction.
the thing is, *** negatives are often ignored.
*** positives get countless affirmations, but *** negative are pushed under the rug.
simply put, all people are important regardless of ****** desire.

We always joked that we wouldn't be **** buddies.
Anything involving *** will not work for an asexual.
We'd be cuddle buddies.
The second we'd meet up, we'd hug and cuddle.
We wouldn't do as most long distance 'couples' would.
We'd just cuddle.
Maybe I could finally fall asleep.
Something's changed between then and now.
You've changed.
When you stopped caring, I'm not sure.
But you did.
You stopped caring about me and that's okay.
Something got in between us.
Not just distance
I still can't help but think how nicely our bodies tessellated.
Even with 1047 miles between us.

we either have really good times
or really bad times.
i miss the you I fell for.

they sat at the second table from the left.
four girls; one with curly hair to her knees, one with a heart for running, and two who love basketball.
I tried to fit in.
I failed.
a poet is not a dancer.
a poet is not a runner.
a poet is not a basketball player.
a poet is a poet.
I hated this table.
it gave me chills.
I walk past the table, because they cannot hurt what isn't in their reach.

why are bathrooms
and t shirts and pants
gendered?

i am not a girl wearing
clothes, i am a human
wearing clothes.

i should be able
to wear what i please
and still be human.

without food, and you,
maybe I will finally be beautiful

i will never feel lonely as long as your name can float up on my phone.
you are the ocean surrounding me, but i don't feel like you'll sweep me up.
because you won't.
you just gently rock me over beaches.
you know where to take me.
i thought, since i was so surrounded by you,
i needed oxygen.
so i found oxygen in another.
but after sustaining me for 9 months,
he left.
i felt panicked, because surely the water would drown me.
i was wrong.
you kept rocking me, gently swaying me back and forth.
i underestimated you, i had no faith in you.
but you never let me drown.

I.
you begin growing flowers
in a little garden,
in a *** on the kitchen windowsill,
in your hands,
in his veins,
in his heart,
in his head,
because you want him
only to think pretty little perfect thoughts.
you say that the garden
gives you something to do,
but I know that’s all he is to you.
just something to do.
just someone to make perfect.
you want to sit by
his bed and make sure that he gets
the perfect amount of
sun and
light and
water and
soil and
love and
nourishment and
I don’t know why
you and he don’t
break up; why he hasn’t
broken up with you
yet. you just want
to fix him.
that is not love

II.

you start
drinking coffee
more and
more and the little blue and pink striped coffee mug you use acquires
more and
more stains as you stay up past midnight
more and
more and “oh just one
more hour, I’ll go to bed.”
but that is
a lie.
it’s all a lie
my dear.
you say that the
coffee gives you energy,
but you said that about him
and you aren’t getting drunk on him
at 1 in the morning. you’ve been obsessing over him
and pretending that you do care, that you really love him.
you don’t love him,
you never have loved him.
you’re only using him
for your own selfish needs and you treat him
like the keurig you keep in your small apartment.
you’re with him because he
makes you feel young, he gives energy.
that is not love.

III.

you begin making hats
for your friends and
for your family and
for your colleagues and
for the **** addict two doors away and
for the homeless man you pass every day.
you say the hats occupy you,
but that's what you use him for.
you sit there with your
knitting needles
at his side fixing up his
"loose ends"
and then you give him away
to the world.
he is not a hat.
you cannot pick which perfect parts show
and make sure he is fixed before the world
sees him. he is
not a project to keep
you busy.
you only keep him so
you can make him perfect.
that is not love.

IV.

i begin telling you
that you are toxic for him,
you're ruining him,
you're making him
believe that since brokenness courses through him
he needs help. you cannot make him
hate him-
self even more than he does. you will ruin him
for everyone. i know you try to fix him
but you are breaking him.
he is naïve and he thinks there is something wrong with him
because you want to help him.
you make him
feel inferior by treating him
as such.
he is not a garden that you can nourish.
he is not a cup of coffee that you can use.
he is not a hat that you can make perfect.
he is a human.
treat him as such.
man, if i were lucky enough to be his,
he would not be treated inanimately.
he is a person.
love is not the same as fixing someone.
a romantic is not the same as a repairman.
your kind of love is not the same as my kind of love.
YOU DON’T LOVE HIM!!!
we all see how toxic you are
we all know what this love is doing to him.
you are so flawed in thinking
that you are actually helping him
live a better life. you are
not helping this boy
one bit.
you are harmful.
but we all knew this from the beginning.
you did this to me.
i was like a candle that
you decided
you could light whenever it benefitted
you. whenever
you needed me to be lit,
you would give me a fire, give me a spark. but as soon as
you were done with me,
you would put me out.
you cannot treat people the way
you do.
you cannot make them feel as worthless as
you do.
this love between you and he
is very toxic. you need
to fix yourself
and stop trying to fix him.
you’ve hurt dozens by
seeing them as
objects
and not as
people.

We are both just stupid kids.
But I often forget this
and compare you to things
much greater.
My favourite thing
to compare you to
is a thunderstorm.
You seem dark and gloomy,
but you release light in times of
incredible darkness.
And I will never be
the kind of girl
who hates thunderstorms.

13 months ago I experienced the biggest heartbreak I ever had.

12 months ago I was on a high.

11 months ago I made new friends.

10 months ago I did new things.

9 months ago I began writing more and more.

8 months ago I began a new school.

7 months ago I found a new best friend.

6 months ago I tried something different.

5 months ago I met a guy who understood.

4 months ago I began feeling cold.

3 months ago I felt nothing.

2 months ago I missed you.

1 month ago I cried every time I saw the color blue.

but now I realize that I am finally over you.

and oh how sweet it finally is.

maybe I am not
meant to fall in love with you
maybe nobody

fingers- i landed my boat here, when i first met you. your fingers twirled together absentmindedly and they still do and i'm still get lost whenever i wander onto the dark beaches.
hands- i discovered these peninsulas when you pulled me along on your adventures after I landed on the beaches and they were so rough yet so wonderful and i honestly want to get lost here more often.
wrists- i found these a bit more on the mainland, still flanked by water and they were so narrow that i was afraid i would fall off into the water and i wonder how those thick colorful bracelets stay on.
cheeks- one day i wanted to go on a hike so i decided to climb up these steep mountains and whenever something beautiful sailed by you these beautiful red begonias popped up and i'm a little upset that i didn't make them pop up but i'm glad they didn't bloom around me because i got to see the natural red hills and i got to love them.

but i made a mistake because i never went south and maybe i would have gotten lost somewhere else more beautiful but if i went south, i wouldn't have found the beautiful pools that some call your eyes and that would've been the real loss.

my friends love sign language.
i always thought it a bit different and i never liked it.
until i learned the sign for worthless.
it's so pretty.
like a giant bow.
and even though it is literally worthless,
it's beautiful.
that sign teaches me that worthless things can be beautiful.
worthless things can be beautiful.
you can feel worthless,
but something about you is your redeeming quality.
everyone has something.
because worthless things can be beautiful.
everything has beauty.

you are not as strong as you once were.
your defenses are weakening, and the troops are retreating.
but you stay planted.
you will not move until this war has been won.

you ache with hunger.
your body caves as all missionaries desert and you find yourself the only one armed.
but you stay planted.
you will not move until this war has been won.

you cry at night.
your mind has gone crazy and the journalists have taken your heroic story from the headlines.
but you stay planted.
you will not move until this war has been won.

you will not move until I love my self.

all I'll remember from this April

is you

leaving me.

i walk you to class, our stubby legs powering through the hallways.
i try so desperately to keep my hands on my books, although the digits reach towards yours on their own accord.
we walk, laughing at your friends.
i know i’ll be quite late to class, i always have to push it.
if i had it my way, neither of us would attend first period.
your baggy clothes would come off, the constricting binder would go on.
i’d fix up your hair and make you feel comfortable.
i’d give you a sweater of mine and i’d whisk you into my soccer mom van.
i’d drive us far away, my hand glued to yours the whole way.
we’d go out, ignoring stares and just being.
we can’t do that here.
here i can’t even call you mine.
i have to spend 8 hours without seeing you and 8 hours without holding you it’s like i’m spending 8 hours without loving you.
that’s why i walk you to class.
you go to freshmen biology while i go to college level composition.
you take french one, i’m in spanish four.
i drop you off.
super christian Abbie gives me a look.
but god, i’d love to see her face if i had it my way.
i’d pin you up against someone’s locker, preferably hers, and call you mine, claim you as me, you’d be mine.
we wouldn’t care.
Abbie’s face would contort into a sour look like someone squirted lemon juice in her mouth, her mind searching for bible verses to condemn us with, her hands already grasping markers to scrawl “god hates ****” in big angry letters on poster boards.
but you’d be mine.

at age three, my preschool teacher told me,
"Some ships are admired for their beauty,
and such ships will sink.
Ships that are functional,
however,
will never be admired as the other ships are.
I think you have the perfect mix of
beauty and functionality."
since age three,
both my beauty and functionality
have dropped dramatically to depths never explored
by this species.
i am a mess,
too much hate runs through these veins
and somehow i am a very angry person.
but i have a talent very few possess.
i have vision.
not beauty.
not functionality.
vision.
i can see things in ways they have not been construed.
i look at a passage and see twenty different ways to interpret it.
i am a master of metaphors.
i see a flower and see what it was and what it is and what it will be.
but what happens to the ship that is not sat at docks being fawned over,
or the ship that is not the fastest?
what happens to the ship that can see the best possible path?
does it get to its destination quicker?
or does it go off track because of the amazing beauty it's chasing.
what happens to such ships?

My heart aches for you the way my stomach growls for food.
I've skipped three meals and three months of your love.
I'm giving up food the way I gave up on you.
You skipped meals the way you skipped our dates.
If I deprive myself, maybe I will be beautiful.
If I am beautiful, maybe this crazy relationship will rekindle.
But I mean, why did we think it could ever work?
Because an asexual/******, borderline/antisocial, Indiana/Florida relationship will never work.
I just should give up.
I'll forget you eventually, I'm sure.

I love thunderstorms.
I love the rain, the wind, the cold, and the lightning.
But I hate the thunder.
Boisterous. (It goes through the air like a thousand trash cans being hit.)
Heavy. (It hangs around, and as the sky gets darker it gets louder.)
Arrogant. (It interrupts conversations and plans and gets in the way and assumes it's welcome and perfect.)

Junior year was a thunderstorm.
I had rain (like the times I actually got invited to things) and wind (like the times I swore I felt her holding me) and cold (hide-and-go-seek in the school) and lightning (spinning flag in the hallway).

But I also had thunder.
Thunder. (You pulling me with you.)
Thunder. (You giving me encouragement.)
Thunder. (You asking her to prom.)
Thunder. (You avoiding me.)

Because no storm is complete without thunder.

you used to be my light.
I wear sunglasses now.

colour and crashes
big eyes and lashes
this is you in mourning.

white latex gloves
white flying doves
this is you today.

careful breathes
careless lefts
this is you without.

bright flowy skirt
a smile that can flirt
this is you with him.

big perfect grin
crying over him
this is you at your finest.

smoke in the air
thick curly hair
this is you and me.

oh darling,
i'll never leave or abandon you!
I promise!

she went looking
for suicide
on the town's local bridge.
she found a boy instead.
he wasn't like her
but he was
looking for the
same thing.
they never found
suicide, but instead
solace in each other.
-
she went looking
for love
at her first date
with the boy.
she found his other
girlfriend instead.
she wasn't like her
but she was
looking for the
same thing.
neither of them found
love, but instead
rage towards the boy.
-
she went looking
for suicide again.
and this time,
she found it.

i am guilty of looking at your lips in the middle of class.
wondering who else has looked at them.
wondering if they've wanted to kiss them.
if they've wanted to be yours.
i wanna be yours.
i am addicted to 8:35 on weeknights sneaking away during act 2.
i am addicted to choco-coffee from the best **** barista in town.
i am addicted to phone tag and craisins.
i am addicted to your lips.

a little girl, perhaps 5-6, sits in the meadow and picks flowers. she picks the flowers slowly, meticulously. she looks up and sees a beautiful teenaged girl, with a long flowing dress and short hair with splotches missing. the teenager sits with the little girl. "what happened to your hair?" the little one asks.

"once upon a time,
I picked flowers just like you.
but I picked them all."

the young girl listens and keeps picking her flowers.

"I met a boy who
promised I was beautiful
and made me feel so."

the teenager begin taking the flowers and winding them together. she grabs her knitting needles out of her handmade purse and continues working on a hat to keep her hands busy.

"he always told me
that my head was too pretty
for me to be sad."

"Did he love you?" the little girl asks, playing with her hands.

"perhaps he did, but
he never said that he did.
he never told me."

"after I ran out
of flowers, I began pull-
ing my long hair out."

"please don't end up like me." the teenager says, handing the girl the hat.

you held galaxies in your hands.
blades cut on your thigh and you bled stars.
the beating of your heart sounded a lot like the birth of planets.
and you kissed the world goodbye, giving me only the moon to remember you by.

you were the fabric of time and I swear when she left I could feel you ripple.
the tips of your fingers felt as hot as the sun.
the stares were as blinding as a solar eclipse.
and you kissed the world goodbye, giving me only the moon to remember you by.

I still remember the moon.

I like you.
like a whole bunch.
I like the way your fingers tap incessantly and the way your voice carries leagues across the blacktop and the way your lips curl up in that goofy smile.
but your heart is not mine and I don't need it I just want your hand to hold mine.
I just want to be yours.

lose two grandmothers
begin panicking about death
eat to avoid panicking
get bullied every day
wear larger clothes than your mother
suffer from extreme dysmorphia
begin self harming
keep self harming
try to stop
keep going
begin cycling consumption
fail
write about how food is the only thing that hasn't left
get told by your mother to go to church
go to church
begin to get better
get worse
reject common beliefs of your church
become a red-letter Christian
fall in love
fall hard
move schools
pass mirrors
don't cry anymore
start dieting
not starving
dieting
lose seven pounds
realize weight doesn't define you
weight doesn't define you.

am I truly that evil?
comparable to relentless bullies,
the ones that you embody.

am I that awful?
like looking in mirror
seeing a body you despise.

am I that annoying?
like the voice of depression
that sounds a lot like you.

it's like everyone is making fun of you for never seeing a zoosla.
but when you ask what a zoosla is,
well, if you saw a zoosla, you'd know.
that is exactly what sexuality is like.
you have no idea what it even is,
so how are you supposed to know if you've felt it?

the problem is I can't.
I can't trust anyone.
I have issues going across railroad tracks without making sure once, twice, three times that a train isn't coming.
when I muster up courage to look in a full body mirror, which isn't often, I check my reflection five times to make sure a scar isn't visible.
when I read ten word poems, I count each and every word seven times.
so why would I trust him when there is no proof to check nine times?

he creates music
in the way he plays
and the way his body awkwardly jerks away at contact.
the small frame moves away as if it is to be played marcato
and the piece (his body, that is) returns to maestoso
and she creates lyrics
in her notebook
and in her life.
everything has anaphora.
she writes lyrics that always begin him.
(everything in her life begins with him, she'd like to think.)
and everything is an example of apostrophe.
everything she does is directed at someone who won't care about her.
and when these two meet up,
when their bodies collide,
the most beautiful composition is created.
his moves alter between marcato (louder, forceful)
and maestoso (majestic, smooth)
and her lyrics are very anaphoric (oh, ****)
and everything is all for him.