I don't really know why I try anymore.

The long phone calls,
the smiles and laughter,
you telling me how much you love
talking to me.

It burrows deep in my stomach-
the warmth, I mean,
and it begs to be expressed
with a hug
or a kiss
perhaps.

But you're older than I am,
and your laughter makes me feel
important, almost.
You tell me to live each day as if
it were my last
yet you can't see
that it took all my courage to ask you
to that stupid movie thing
at school.

And your voice
makes me smile.

But you want to know something?
I'm tired.
I'm tired of basing my emotions
on how other people think of me
even though somehow
I can't stop it.

So instead,
I'll take your smile,
your laughter,
the other girls whispering to me
"I know he likes you"
and your careful denial,
wrap it all up in shiny paper,
and place it under the Christmas tree
of trying to be
someone you'll want to remember.

Words,
Like lightning, ripping its way through my heart, jolting me violently as I struggle to compose myself.
"They're just words."
The trembling earth parts to reveal a smile, weak, fake, hiding the needle like pain the words you say cause me.
"No, it doesn't bother me."
I bite my lip, white bricks indenting into a plush garden, as the ocean threatens to overtake the beach with only my eyelashes to hold back the waves.
"Yeah, it is funny isn't it?"
You laugh about my imperfections, and I laugh with you,
hard, forced, hot air exhaling from my lungs as I blink and my mind scrambles to find ways to better myself.
"Totally, stretch marks are so gross."
Pink vines of ivy run their way across my body, and I wonder if I can find a way to hide the lighting on my thighs, my *******.
"But you're still pretty though."
Your words force the air out of my lungs and I nod reassuringly, because I'm still pretty, despite all the things you say are wrong with me. Things that make me who I am, but to you are marks against me as a person, but its ok, because I'm still pretty.
They're just words, but they can make you choke, and cry, and want to change yourself, just so someone can tell you that you're still pretty.
But pretty is just a word, and I'm so much more than your definition of what makes me worthy in your eyes.
Words.
Lava building up inside me and finally getting the courage to force its way to the top, to pour out of me and cover my body in molten rock, encasing me in protection in the form of letters and confidence.
"I know."

See. Believe. Repeat
I am not just a brick,
I am the wall.

She’s trying,
Trying to actually look at herself in the mirror,
She usually just walks by, looking at her glimpse,
Not liking what she sees.
She’s working out,
Trying to change herself to fit into the eyes of others,
She’s looking at me to see herself changed.
When the mind tricks her,
She stares and stays long enough.
But when the words don’t fool her,
She sits in front of me, crying.
Looking at why she cannot change,
Just wishing they’d understand
That she’s trying.

She talks to me and says,
She just wants someone to realize she’s trying
Which just makes me wish I could comfort her,
Tell her, I know.
Tell her that I see her, trying so hard.
Sometimes I wish I could say to her
“You don’t need to try so hard for me,
You’re so plainly beautiful to me,
When you’re free from wordy bounds.”
But she cries looking at me,
My voiceless words never reaching her,
My glass hand never comforting her,
Just waiting for her to stop trying,
Just waiting for somebody to finally see her.