The space inbetween
Our ******
And your sleep
Is my favorite
Because I can pretend
That for once
You love me

We met with smiles,
And we will end in tears...

I realize

       Now

    You're

The Reason

        I've

     Been

  *Holding
          Back

With every fiber of my being,
I hate you.
I hate what you did to me.
You treated me like a *****,
and called me one, too.
Does a ***** fight like I did?

I ******* hate you with every bone in my body.
I hope someone sets you on fire.
I'm not who I used to be,
because you couldn't control your lust.
You *******, give me back what you stole.
This emptiness burns for your head on a stick.

The violence of how you treated me
is echoed in my hatred for you.
I am not the kind of girl who has such bloodlust.
And yet, I lust for your blood for it will rectify my pain.
My blood spilled on the pavement,
Bruises that blossomed beneath my skin.

Please don’t call me beautiful
when your hands are between my legs,
and god forbid you say it as a seg-way
between you’re so hot
and my caution, your response
you’re sure you don’t want to?
I’m pretty sure the way my body looks,
nineteen and stress-infused with an Oreo belly
isn’t really what you pictured beneath my blouse,
and I’m positive you didn’t listen
to the story about my dad and the bad prom dress
because you cared. It was just sentiment. You said it was beautiful,
but really you wanted me to believe the act
like a description in the Playbill
and ride that trust all the way until the curtain dropped.
Please don’t call me beautiful
when the word ******* is before it
or if we are ******* because making love
is for married couples and you don’t even want me
sticking around for the ****** sunrise that peers
underneath your shade every morning.

Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m crying—
crack me open and watch the colors bleed
like a painting that hasn’t dried. Admire
the light that peaks through the clear parts
like a windowpane, no blinds.
Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m laughing,
when I’m reading my favorite part of a book,
when I’m stuffing my face with peanut-butter
pretzel bites and I haven’t washed my sheets in weeks,
and I’ll know you can’t be lying
because I’ve listened to the waves your heart makes
when you’re sleeping and I’ve called your smile
to the surface many times when you’ve tried
to deflect it back inside. You’ll know that
and you’ll know I’m beautiful.  
Call me beautiful
when you’re not even trying.
Call me beautiful when you’re by yourself
and the smell of my hair is still on your pillow,
or the memory of how dumb I sounded
singing my favorite song breaks your heart back
to the best little pieces.