I see you
Standing there.
She flanks your side
Like a dog
Like the ***** that she is
She's practically swinging
From your arm
And you don't even notice her
Or at least you pretend not to.
I'm not nearly so bold
As to stand by you
Let you make me look stout
Compared to your wondrous physique
I grapple for your attention
With subtle glances
Feeling blessed if I catch your eye
Even just once.
She grapples for your attention
With her words
With her body.
She demands to be noticed
So you notice her
But I'm too **** afraid to be assertive.
You tie my stomach in knots
And the thought of you
Plucks at my heart strings
Like your long lean fingers
Across your violin.
Sometimes I can feel your gaze linger
And I know that her greedy eyes
Burn holes in my head.
Her passive-aggresive "hello"
Is bittersweet.
I'm only just beginning to realize
That the way she flanks you
Like a dog
And swings from your arm.
She puts herself below you.
Instead of noticing,
You trip over her presence
Whilst she trips over her words.
And when she speaks new languages
To try and impress you
Plays new instruments
To try and obsess you
She is not a threat to me.
Because I'm just now noticing
The subtle glances in my direction
How you always turn
To make sure I'm laughing
When you make a joke
How the fact that you
Stood just barely to close
When there was a world of open space
Was hardly an accident.
And when you did
I felt your fingers
Brush across the back of my hand
Like that of a ghost
Barely there.
And so now
I am certain.
I see you
Standing there.
She flanks your side
Like a dog
Like the ***** that she is
She's practically swinging
From your arm
And you don't even notice her
Because you're too busy
Admiring something
Far finer.

I love you more than I love my Momma
And quite a lot more than Republicans love Obama
I love you more than Miley loves twerking
And probably as much as teenage boys love jerking.
I love you more than hipsters love instagram
and about the same as the turn of the century loved the telegram.
I love you more than Hans loved Anna
and just as much as monkeys love bananas
I love you more than the asdaf kid likes trains
and most likely more than Anastasia liked pain.
I love you more than pandas love extinction
and probably less than pansexuality needs distinction.
I love you more than John loved his best man
and I ship us more than any fandom can.
I love you more than beliebers love Justin
and definitely more than **** maids love dustin'
I love thee more than Shakespeare loved tragedy
and the same amount as Ann is raggedy.
I love you more than Peeta loves Katniss
and almost more than cats love catnip.
I love you more than teachers love cheaters
but probably not as much as Jesus loved Easter.

I love you to the moon and back
and there is nothing that you do lack.

<3

Two years ago
I asked my mother
for a bikini.
She said she wasn't comfortable
with me showing so much skin.
Two months later
my skinny little sister
laid on a towel
in a turquoise bikini.
I laid on a towel
in a long sleeve sun shirt
that my mother wouldn't let me take off.

One year ago
I asked my mother
for a bikini.
With reluctance
she gave me her
floral print bikini
from when she was my age.
Two months later
she took it back
claiming that she wasn't comfortable
with me showing so much skin.
So she gave it to my skinny little sister.

This year
I will not ask my mother
for a bikini.
I will buy one
and I don't care if my mother
says that she's not comfortable
with me showing so much skin.
I will show as much of my
imperfect skin
as I want.
Because my skinny little sister
isn't the only one
who has a bikini body.

This poem is dedicated to the guys in my class
who talk about girls like they aren't worth more
than their vaginas.
This poem is dedicated to the *******
who say that anyone deserves
to get *****.
This poem is dedicated to the jocks
who look down on the outcasts
and exclude them.
This poem is dedicated to the girls
who call their peers *****
because of how they dress.
This poem is dedicated to the bigots
who preach homophobia
in the name of god
This poem is dedicated to the parents
who abuse and neglect the children
that they promised to love
This poem is dedicated to the misogynists
who can't seem to grasp the concept that
No means No
This poem is dedicated to the *******
who humiliate the people
who don't conform.
This poem is dedicated to the lowlifes
who beat down the ones
that they're supposed to love.
This poem is dedicated to everyone
who carries hate in their heart
where there should be love.

This poem is as follows:

*******.

If I was a Princess,
Locked high in a tower, counting that stars in the sky,

Would you be my Brave Knight and rescue me?

If I was a Beautiful Mermaid
And I was captured by pirates, soon to be a prisoner to man forever,

Would you help me plan my escape?

If I was cursed
By the darkest of witches to be a hideous beast for my life,

Would you help me find my cure?

If I was lost and alone,
Surrounded by a shadowed forest and howling creatures,

Would you come and guide me to safety?

If I needed you, where would you be?

These subcategories of articles
That separate theory from fact
Are lines that, really,
Are quite unclearly drawn.
Categories for theory and qualia
That put me under the impression
That everything is based on a conjecture
And it's all in my head.
Qualia is defined as being subject
To your sense perceptions
Brought on by stimulation of phenomena.
Theory is a system of ideas used
To explain something.
But don't we theorize everything,
Based on our qualia?
If we perceive that a rose is red,
And we theorize that this type of rose
Will always be red because we will always see it red,
Does that really make it red?
Is my red your green,
And you only call it red because to you need to call it something?
Or is that just our theory that to be comfortable
Is to fit in and be accepted by everyone?
And that to challenge what is called fact
Is to be rejected?
Where do we draw the line
In these thickly worded and sinking articles?
Is it where we can finally say that
Everything is based on theory that our qualia subjects us to?
If so, am I under the correct theory that
I really am alone?
That my sense perceptions just play tricks on me
So I don't think to hard, or go insane?
Is insanity just theory based on qualia?
Or maybe I should be under the theory
That being a thinker like this
Subjects me to the unpleasant qualia of a perceived headache.

I was young
Sticky hands
Wide eyes
Wandering through the garden
My wide eyes
Fell upon
People
New people digging up
The flower beds
The tiger lillies
And putting them in my red wagon
And taking them away.
My mother sold our tiger lillies
Because they reminded her
Of my father
And so she hated them
Both of them
And we no longer have tiger lillies
In the garden.

Found in the turrets
Of junk at a yard sale
When I was too young to
Remember
White cowboy boots
Just my size
I wore them every day
Every girlish dress was paired
With my tiny white
Cowboy boots
I ran
Jumped
Danced
In my white cowboy boots
Until one day
My feet were no longer
So small.
So I hid them away
In my wardrobe
And took to wearing jeans
Knowing in
The back of my mind
That one day
My child will
Run
Jump
Dance
In those
Tiny white Cowboy boots