you think i'm empty.
a broken code.
a *****, a waste
of human skin.
you say,
i'm too pretty
to be like this.

this isn't a choice.

i feel too much
for there to be space
for what you call
lust.

you don't need an apology.
no one does.
my brain is not a crime scene
for you to investigate,
neither is my heart.
you may think me cold
but you've never seen
the bonfire,
always kindling,
for the ones i keep close.

I think love is wonderful.
When I imagine it, I see fingers intertwined.
Cuddles on the couch.
I see two people opening themselves up fully to one another—
and not running away from what they find.

My version of love is everything that should be...
not what I, as a little girl, have seen.
My version of love holds no place for control.
No room for lies dripping in sugar.
In my version of love, you hold each other up.
You make each other better,
and everything feels lighter when you're together.

Because, hey—
nothing says "I don't love you" like screaming words behind closed doors.
Like the emptiness of countless sorries.
Like trying not to set a person off
who is supposed to be your "significant other."

My love is... confusion.

I don't know if I can catch feelings.
My butterfly-catching net is frayed and torn,
so they just keep flying away.
It seems so easy and natural for them...
I just wish I knew for sure.

Could love ever be in the air?
Or is friendship truly where the line ends?

I've been so focused on self-love and self-growth
that I've not been able to see beyond me.
When I try,
there is only emptiness—
and more questions.

What I want to know is this:
Why can't me, myself and I be enough?
Why does everyone I meet
see me as incomplete
without a man or woman on my arm?

I know I love my things,
my music and my art.
Tisane, quiet contemplation,
and poetry.

Maybe the loves I've seen
have left my heart scattered.
Maybe The One is still out there...
but maybe they just aren't.

Kissing is weird.
*** is weird.
It's almost always the last thing on my mind—
it's just not something that I crave.

Let alone trying to get someone
to like me enough
to even want to do those things with me—
seems like so much EFFORT.

...is being alone really so bad?

Maybe I'm not built for romance,
but GODS does it seem wonderful...
I just don't know if that kind of love is for me.

She was planted
just as the rest

"Why do I look different?"

She liked her tea,
but wanted company,
so she painted herself pink

She laughed at inside jokes
she was outside of,
nodded at words
she didn't know,
even said some of her own

"Please no one see I'm not the same"

She waited until next spring
every summer,
but every year,
had to paint herself pink

"I'm surely broken"
she believed
for too many years

"...to find the right seed"
"...just a late bloomer"
she heard

Next spring,
she learned her name

Parade tulip
in a field
of cherry blossom trees

"Is there somewhere
a someone
who will love me"
she wondered from time to time

but she still drank her tea,
and stopped painting herself pink

*** life gone conceptual
My loved one now asexual
Online erotica and poetry
Supports for monogamy
Relieving some tension
Building up the frustration
Mind set on one finality
Bring back her sexuality

When you can't figure yourself out,
You try
To be
Anyone
But yourself

Just to be loved

Sexuality is beautiful
It's the blossom of life
Painted deep beneath the trees
Stretching down past
The roots of our ancestors
But it's not in me
Not in my mind, at least
It's embedded in my bones
I breathe it and I sleep with it
But it does not haunt my dreams
Even when I'm touched
My mind remains wholly detached
Lost in my thoughts
Safe and locked inside my skull

Tumblr taught me lots of stuff
like how to call out someone's bluff,
how bones break from CPR,
and what exactly bronies are.
But deep inside that rabbit hole,
I hit upon some solid gold.
I live in a small town you see,
and I thought things were wrong with me.
But in my dark blue dashboard space,
I found there was a thing called "ace".
I had a 5-hour googling spree,
and I found that this name suited me.