My broken sobs
Are blocked out from the shower
The water running down my face
Like it has been for the past half hour

Am I that bad
Do you really hate me
That you think I cant be a friend
If you gave me a chance you would see

My breaths are stutters
I can barely inhale
I'm still in the shower
Crying about ** I am a miserable fail

You asked a question about me
"Whats so good about her?"
You'd think I wouldn't find out
I'm not hiding behind fur

You could just tell it to me
Not talk about me behind my back
Making me feel miserable
Waiting fr me to crack

Well congratulations
It is done
You've pushed me over the edge
Im reaching for the gun

I’ll never be the ‘nice’ girl
Clean and pure like fallen snow,
But I will burn away the hate
And any demons you may know.

I promise that I’ll be here
When the darkness hurts your heart
I will glow, burn, and light the way
Because ‘pretty’ can’t match art.

I’ll burn with the rage of fire
But I won’t be your glowing moon,
I do not love nor give trust freely,
But it’s strongest when I do.

You might only see my shielded heart
And my ever-guarded soul,
But find the crack and then
I’ll be yours- eternal, broken, whole.

I’ll never be the nice girl
Because I’m ‘better’ than just nice-
Because my fire burns the brightest
And I’ll be willing to pay their price.

she is a charcoal sketch.
she is dark,
jagged at the edges, rough.
she is only a first draft--
soon the pencil marks will be erased
and the best is yet to come.
not only is she a watercolor painting--
pastels bleeding together until
you can't find where
each emotion stops and starts--
but also the dark Sharpie lines
etched in arcs on said painting,
a beautiful composition of
daydream and nightmare.
she is cracked clay.
she crumbles easily, powder
breaking off from her sculpture
in such a way that
no amount of glue will ever reattach.
she may be broken and
cracked in all the wrong places but
sometimes imperfections add beauty
to an otherwise ordinary masterpiece.

Fragile hands,
Weathered and cracked,
Grasping onto the neck of the swan
They are tough,
Yet, all the while, their reach is gentle,
And they glide with the swan to the pond’s lively middle

Up

Up they go

   Ricocheting off the dancing beads of
      water
    
       doing the tango,
          
         the salsa,

            and, at last,

               ballroom.