my hair is too short
too short to tie up
too long to be free
too tangled to love

my face is too sad
too sad to be bright
too red to be snow
too pale to be light

my hands are too weak
too weak to point out
too small to hold
too tired to scout

My skin is too soft
Too soft to be smooth
Too rough to be felt
Too broken to move

Do I get seen by this world around me,
Or am I invisible to every person.
Only for boys to examine my frail body,
Just like another fish within the ocean.
Am I invisible to everyone around me,
For every one around to flaunt.
My body is invisible for all to see,
And this world it will not haunt.
For you will only find the reminiscences,
Of my despair and destruction of my mind.
Something that is unknown to science,
But somewhere I hope I'm still here to find.

Seagulls peck away at forgotten remnants.

A knot of women gossip and giggle
as they admire the young man up the shore
performing pullups, sweat rolling down
the lines of his back. Two men walk by
holding hands, sharing a kiss
before the sunset. A woman relaxes with
an ******-mystery-thriller and a
Jennie of Morris Muscat all for herself.

And an old man lies on the sand, ****
and propped on his elbows, his toes tickling
the rising tide as he stares out into the sea.
He always hated his body. Hated being
underneath his skin, his fat, the hair
on his back, his inadequacies. This old man
plans to die here, in this new land, his senior
getaway. But at least he will spend his
final days at this beach, wetting his feet,
taking in the rising moon’s cool breath.
And he’s around people who understand
his need for freedom, who wouldn’t
make him feel ashamed for being him,
for just being born human.

A young man arrives, staying in the backshore.
He strips to his boxers and hesitates,
looking towards the waves for strength.
He then throws them off and plops down,
holding his knees to his chest, a smirk on his face.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)

I'd love to eat
I don't know why
I struggle
To put food
In my belly
I don't know why
I cringe
Just writing the word:
Belly
That's a fat word
And I want
to be skinny
I shouldn't have
a belly
Full of stretch marks
that hangs
just a little bit
I shouldn't
Have to lift
it up
or lean forward
in order to see
My feet
Whoever gave me
this belly
made a mistake
a huge mistake
because I never
never ever asked
for one

I never
never ever asked
to be fat

“Why do you love me?” she said loathing her soft-squeaky voice while she stared at the reflection that lay before her. Saddening with every inch of fat she noticed that left her feeling husky and plumb in comparative to all the other girls in her class that walked around confidently in their curvy and slender body. She stood there trying to **** back her flabby stomach and stoke her jaws with her thumbs harshly so that the underlying fat would just go away.

She ran her fingers along the dark curls of hers twisting them and despising them. Staring abhorrently at her honey-colored face that wasn’t fair as milk and therefore considered not beautiful. Pimples cracked upon her skin, making her despise every intracity of her body.

Her vision blurred as she would see her reflection, tears streaming down her heated pink cheeks as she stood upon the machine which defined her by a number; just like her grades that would define her mind.

“Why do you love me?” It was the question she would ask every person that would walk into her life and say the three words she was never able to tell herself. She wanted to know the details, when and how for the three words would leave her curious as to why they loved her because she never believed there was something likable about her. She never believed she was noticeable because she was invisible. She wanted to know because she was a soul longing to love herself.

Diving in with blinkered eyes, I find
a growth that crawls across my skin and sinks.
It swims and smirks at demons planted young
enough to draw a blank on valid roots.
Doubt nourishes delusions ‘til they bloom
in clear distortion. ****** boundaries
blurring in the glass that could be used
to feed an urgent withheld fantasy.
To bind my view on bare skin: agony.
The kind where breath escapes the reach of lungs
and bones could shatter pain-free, senses numbed
by visions of strict moulds and goals to hit
in light of realisation: I don't fit.

i want to love you
so much
but my throat pulls me back
and closes before i can get the words out.
and i want to hold you
in my arms.
we can drift off to sleep
together.
but sometimes my fingers whisper to me,
they tell me not to touch you.
i'll touch you when
your tongue is no longer bleeding
and
your skin no longer tears.