It's hard to exude the kind of confidence that makes people respect you.
I'm a grown woman, but I've yet to master it.
When I'm told no, when I'm told
"You can't do that," "Don't act like that," or "That's not okay," I can scream and argue in my head, but my body cowers.

My chin,
My shoulders,
My eyes,

They d
          r
          o
          p

And I'm no longer the woman I thought I was-
Strong and independent.

I'm a withered flower that may have once been blooming but is now reduced to nothing.

Often, when I’ve escaped the strain,
The weight, the freight, burdening encumbrance
Of human society, community unleashed,
Profound distress, and a bit on the side—
I’ll contemplate
Of their judgements unknown,
Their penetrating, presumptuous eyes—
They tell me they love me, reputation irrelevant,
Trespasses, failures, habits—all disregarded,
And still I laze in my quaking of
Sleeplessness from apprehension
Pondering their thoughts obscured by their words
Heavens, a shrieking invasion!

Please don’t take that as the slightest indication
That I’m in any case a half-benevolent essence of them all
My ruminations drenched with a display of myself, my actions, my appearance
That’s proof enough that I can’t occupy a moment without me as the focal point
How can anyone be so vain
Low self-esteem shall consume my life, my breath,
And all of those thoughts,
So soon to drain...

Today I will feel pretty she said

Today I will be great she said

Today I will put my hair up in a bun this time she said

Today I will smile for someone she said

Today I will not slouch she said

But she couldn't, and she wouldn't because of the shame she kept underneath her heart

She looked in the mirror and said,
Not today.

my words gathered near the drain
too big to saunter through
a shallow pool of empty vowels and consonants
ceramic reflecting back
shiny white room for more
******* letters
to be vomited up
another time

I want to be my own muse

maybe if I write poems to myself
finding a pretty way to describe the stardust hidden in my hair
the perfume I leave on my scarves
the fact that my hands are always, always cold
so cold I just got used to it
maybe if I write about
how my tears taste like the sea
how my tea tastes more like sugar instead of, you know, tea
how kisses -technically- taste horrible to me
and still I find them so incredible
if I paint pictures of my neck or my chapped lips
or the way my hair just falls nicely when I just woke up
if I write about my favorite sweaters
and I sing sonnets inspired in my high heels
and how they make me feel taller
higher
four point five inches closer to the sky

maybe if I write for my muse
I can make her fall in love with me

and with that maybe
just maybe
I will
-finally-
be in love with myself

you may have decided
a while ago -
while sitting at home
on a friday night
starring at your
smoke-stained
ceiling -
that you're just
another bundle of bones
and that you'll
just carry on
disappointing people
until the day
the death does you well-
because nobody cares anyway.
but i'm sitting here
listening to your
fake nervous laughter
as if it were a
symphony
and i couldn't
care
more.

We come from the same gene pool,
but don't you dare tell me
that we can wear the same jeans,
because you couldn't hold them up.
You wouldn't be able to keep them in place,
to hoist up the weight of the world
that makes them so heavy.
Your size zero waist and thighs
couldn't handle the pressure,
couldn't handle the qualities
of life size pants.
Not 12 size pants.
Life size pants.
My whole life fits into the stretched out fabric,
the too tight button,
the zipper that struggles to crawl up its track.
These pants have seen days where I could slide in
and days where the squeeze was so tight
that I just gave up,
even when giving up shouldn't have been an option.
Holes have been torn,
rips have been stretched,
and yours have been fashioned to look that way.
Do not pretend that we could switch jeans
and be perfectly fine,
because you would be swimming,
and I would be missing.

Am I anything at all
if I'm nothing to you?