I want to love her. I do. When I see her I want to welcome her with open arms and offer her the world, but I can’t. I don’t see a single beautiful thing about her, all I see are her flaws. I know she didn’t do anything to deserve me picking her apart like this, she didn’t even come close to deserving it. And yet, here we are. Again. I’ve made her my punching bag for every bad thing in my life. She doesn’t like it now but in the end we will both benefit with the results. So in conclusion to my body, I hate you yet I love you.

Who are you?
Who are you to tell me
That I need you
To be a woman?

Why do I have to
Attach my worth to you?
Am I not sufficient?
Why do I need you?

A shade of blue
Can plague the mind
A shade of green
Can turn the kind
A shade of red
Can break the stable
And yet...
A shade of yellow
Won't break the many
So many hues
And yet we don't see them all.

He tilts his head
To the girl walking past.
She diverts her eyes, she is smooth and fast.

His lips turn down
He takes a glance at the floor
And when he looks up, he is human no more.

In a second, he transforms
Hurt man to seething beast.
His minds are raging storms
And his hate is ready for release.

It takes only a suspicious look
Or a slight misstep
And his wrath is unhooked.

You ought to watch out, girl
For he'll get you, too.

Inferior. That's what I am compared to him.
He can do as he pleases while I am the mere thing he used for his own gratification once or twice.

But that's what happens when you give someone everything, and they degrade you after turning you into nothing. That's what happens when you're inferior. That's what happens to scared little girls. That's what happens when you're meant to fend for yourself. That's what happens, when from the start, you're nothing.

I would write to you
if you would reply to me
But if they ever saw these letters
then who would I be writing to?

I write a page at a time
only ever staring blanky a few moments
and then picking up the pencil
and letting my hand glide over paper,
But who am I writing to?

Am I writing to myself
or am I writing to my fallen dreams,
my fading memories
of a time I once longed for,
but can never reach.

Am I writing to the person I wish I was?
This person is an imposter
a fake; an intruder
whose sole purpose is to let them never
see the real me.
So they only know the perfectly flawed,
but never enough to take action.

I think I write to both,
a desperate cry for someone to heal me
with their fingertips drying my tears in the night
after another bitter fight that leaves me hollow
and lets me fade away into restless sleep
as my tears leave trails on my cheeks.