Sometimes I feel so immature
Watching myself in the mirror
Painting my eyes
Through the scars
Of the tears
I'm shedding alone
But I like these scars
They remind me of my soul
Sometimes I forget I have one
I think we all do
But we all have a soul
And this soul can get hurt
Over the emptiest
Most meaningless
Minor things
But we keep forgetting we have one
Still hurt
We feel the pain
But our brain tells us
That we're immature
And I feel immature when I paint my scars
Just to feel pretty
When I see other girls unpainted
Clear
Without scars
And I wish I felt jealous
But I love my scars
They remind me
That I can be broken and alive
At the same time
That it takes a million seconds
To get through every thought
That conquers my mind
That my eyes might seem dead
But are so full of life
I wish someone noticed them
I wish I was something for someone
I wish they saw my soul
I wish they saw how broken and alive
I can be
But they just see my scars
They paint new ones
And I collect them
Like compliments
If I was pretty
And when I paint
The last inch of my face
I plan my smile
Do I even know how to smile?
Should I also start collecting smiles?
Sometimes I feel immature
For letting my thoughts swallow me
Are we all immature?
I always chase what I think
My brain deserves
And it's just rotten pieces
Of my past selves
But at the same time
I'm evolving
Behind the glass that shows me
My painted face
My painted eyes
My hidden soul
My scars
Can you see my scars?
If you can,
will you protect them,
or will you make new ones?,
Both will bring tears
So go ahead ,
Here are
My scars.

I find it funny how I got here.

By here I mean this life, this body and got stuck with these thoughts and feelings, which are many times so unfamiliar to me that I start to wonder, are they even mine? who gave them to me? are they gifted, bought, borrowed? can I return them? can I exchange them?

What about the color of my eyes or the sound of my voice? my thirst for knowledge or the drive to fight injustice? can I love less? care less? can I become someone else?

what if I took someone else place, what if there is someone out there who could have done a better job at being me than I am? shouldn't they get a chance?

her style is cold figure
kisses that are a heat seeker –
we lock eyes and I’m so eager
     our passion is equal, though I’m

divided

between which parts of her I love the most
"your soul is what holds it all"
in every action she does; smell, taste, sight,
sound or touch –
                   I hear her soul’s call.

Am I too much?
Hard to swallow, a bitter pill?
Am I raw and unprocessed,
Undiluted, concentrated,
Too spicy for your stomach?

Good.

Choke on it.

I won’t cut myself
To bite-size pieces.
I am not a convenient product.

My feathers are not plucked,
My hair is unshorn,
My feet are unshod,
And the muscle of my thigh
Is for kicking, not meat.

Do you not like the taste?
Poor spoiled glutton,
You cannot acquire it.

Find your refined sugar elsewhere –
I do not come pre-packaged.

Other people are

good-looking, me too, sometimes --


In a small photo.

i relate in body parts,
because my words fall short of hearts.

i relate, in knowing we both have twelve pairs of ribs,
the same way you and i have the curve to our hips.

i relate, in knowing your ulna runs down my radius,
the same way my thumb runs down your humerus.

i relate, in knowing how our teeth align,
the same way you compliment my design.

so i nest my mandibula,
in the crevice of your scapula,
set my rhythm to the countdown of your vertebra.

i relate, in knowing a pair of lips doesn't make two,
not unless they meet as me and you.

What am I but a soul,
Imprisoned by a shell of flesh,
With organs feasting on my fluids,
Operated solely by a wrinkled beast
At the top of the meat tower.

Have I a choice? Or am I bound
To this wrinkled beast’s desire,
Praying for the day that
The light will come calling
And the beast will die.

mind commits a crime:
renders the body unsafe;
the soul bears witness.