It's like the reality of falling leaves:

In autumn, people seek them out
Their perfected performance of death
A leap from ten stories in a party dress
The taffeta catching the up draft

No one gathers to see the aftermath

Of carnage covered by dirt and water
Taking beauty and churning it out
Brown sledge grunted up by the earth
Spit out, mangled, the marrow exposed

It's always the same
The crowds bottleneck, shove, push
To see the start, but at the end
Everyone is looking for an out

Such happiness for what follows hello, for
Everything that comes just before goodbye

When I left you
There was nothing left
For me to give

A slap on the ***
Feet firm on the ground
And that's all I had

No moon over Manhattan
No Bambi eyes on the prize
Just two hands, two feet

Ten fingers, ten toes

You'd think I'd at least
Have wrapped you
Bandana blue

Tied you to a post
And slung you over shoulder
See saw of gravitas

Instead I had empty pockets
Hole sewn into the hem
So that when money went in

It just fell out again

I think you're better off
Busking on the street
Earning pennies for thoughts

People will take pity
A gift that's more than
What I was given

But then again
What do I really know
I left my dignity behind

So long ago

It took me years
to fall in love with myself.
It was a foreign idea
throughout my childhood.
I remember the jealousy I felt
for the girls with flawless skin,
and perfectly straight hair.
I thought they were beautiful,
and they were,
but not in the most natural way.
I wanted to be the girl
who was beautiful
after rolling out of bed at noon
without any makeup
besides the mascara
from the night before.
I wanted to be the girl
who was effortlessly beautiful
without giving it a second thought.
I always admired those girls.
I loved the security
that radiated off them,
like the shimmer of sunshine
on delicately tan skin.
It took me years
to become one of those girls.
It was a slow process.
It took the shedding
of a society built for
flawless makeup ridden
artificially created beauty.
It took acceptance
for who I am without the mask.
It took forgiveness
for the flaws I was blessed with at birth.
It took years,
but I'm finally there.
I'm one of those
naturally beautiful girls.
I'm one of those girls
that could careless about shaving,
or washing their hair.
I'm a girl without cares.
I'm a girl in love with herself.

I remember the first time
that I was called pretty.
I was eight years old.
I remember feeling
a bubble of insecurity
hover around me,
like an ant
under a microscope.
At eight years old,
I had experienced
my very first wave
of expectations of women
in a male dominated society.
I had no idea
that would be the first
of many by the time
I reached womanhood.
I was just a child.
I loved playing in the dirt,
and capturing bull frogs.
I was a girl
who played like a boy.
I never thought I was pretty,
not because I had
low self esteem,
but because
I was eight years old.
I was to young
to have pretty
wrapped up in my identity.
Fast forward
eight more years.
I am sixteen now.
I am no longer
playing in the dirt,
or capturing bull frogs.
I am painting my nails
bright pink,
and dying my hair
every two weeks.
I am trying to be pretty.
I am no longer
feeling the bubble of insecurity.
I am living in it
twenty four seven.
I am always concerned
with how I look,
how I act,
and what I say.
I am a girl
who is no longer a tomboy.
I am just a girl.
I no longer know
who I am,
because I am
not allowed
to be who I am.
I am expected
to sit quietly
in the corner,
straightening my hair,
perfecting my makeup,
so that a boy
who loves my body
can tell me he loves me,
and make me his wife.
Fast forward
4 more years.
I am twenty now.
I am numb
to the insecurity.
I am now expected
to live in a suburb,
raise three kids,
clean the house,
love my husband,
and my white picket fence.
I am just another girl
who is seen as pretty.
I am living a lifeless life.
I am at a crossroads
to either stay down
under the weight
of societies expectations,
or burn my picket fence
right down to the ground.
I am remembering
that tomboy I was
before I was called pretty.
I can either reconnect
with her fierceness,
or hide beyond a mask
of beige concealer.
I can either be a dove,
or I can be a phoenix.
I think
the choice is obvious.

I am reclaiming my dignity,
with every word
I hold between clenched teeth.
I don't want to talk
about anything anymore.
I don't see the point.
If I speak about the secrets,
I've locked behind doors,
It would shock,
and shake anyone to the floor.
It's easier for me to store,
these secrets in my core.
I can keep them safe there,
and keep my dignity warm.

Your voice rises up like worms from the earth.

No matter how deep I bury it, it claws back out,
To think of its tenor brings me nothing but hurt.

Your voice rises up like worms from the earth;

To see its gaunt face, a fresh mound of doubt,
The day you left me you had no room for air.

Now it's me, who can't breathe, lungs filled with despair.

I'm slipping again,
and I am so tired,
that I can't fight it.
I feel more alone,
than ever before,
but I can't tell you that,
because I'm fighting a war,
that you can't help me win.
I don't have the energy,
to try and fill you in,
on this demon
that has been haunting me,
since I can't remember when.
I know how it hurts you,
to see me give in,
to the restricting of my diet,
just to be thin.
I'm fighting this battle,
deep within my skin,
but it's so hard to understand,
just where to begin.
I take one step forward,
then two back again.
This starving of my body,
it's the worst kind of sin.
This demon latches on,
then twists me to spin,
and it's so hard to see forward,
when you're in a complete tailspin.

The rain is falling,
and the skies are gray.
That's not how it was
when we woke up.
This morning,
the sun was shining,
and you were smiling.
Then the rain came,
and washed that smile
right off your face.
Now,
the clouds are here,
and where we stand,
remains unclear.
Now,
the sun is hiding,
and the rain is falling.
Your smile is gone,
and my eyes are crying,
and I can't tell
the difference
between my tears,
and the rain falling.
Maybe,
that's because they
are one in the same.

At what point
does writers' block
become retirement?

I've been drawing
blanks for six
years straight.

What am I now, if
not a writer? Nothing echos
along the walls of my skull.

But to be nothing is more
poetic an existence than any.
I am not worthy enough

to be nothing.