keep spending expectations like currency on maybes,
Or miscounting the number of steps between us.
I can't quite reach what is already gone.
But I don't want to.
I'll keep singing lullabies to those who will not listen,
and you can tell me what it was that made you crave love,
but kept you from ever loving anyone in return.
I can't keep looking for reasons to things I don't want to know.

I have an infection
I can't tolerate imperfection.

I've lived with it for so long,
But now I'm caught up in its throng

In elementary,
I cried when I got a B

In high school I took control,
And now I'm paying its toll.

Worrying, studying, crying,
As I feel the inside of me dying

Concerned about that extra mark
I ruminate on one percent in the dark

My self worth is tied to each grade,
97.5% and I am dismayed

This feeling's not right
Towards myself I feel spite,

I need to learn to be free
To reduce this anxiety

My thought patterns need to rearrange
With hard work and time I have no choice but to
change

I came to find out
Your not what I thought you were
And I'm sorry
I never should have expected so much from you

Bullets, bullets
Love them all
I lift you up
To watch you fall

I've figured it out
That its all my fault
And I'm sorry
I should only expect that much from myself

Rainbows, rainbows
In the dark
The song of magpies
And meadowlarks

And this caterpillar becomes not what I thought
Not what I expect
I lift you up

Stop making me feel bad
for things like having higher grades

Stop being jealous
on someone you don't know

Stop expecting things
what will come will come

Stop comparing
I am not you and you are not me

You wouldn’t understand; no one does.
Who I am doesn’t fit who I’m supposed to be.
Cramped and crowded in leftover expectations,
like a cicada larvae in too-small skin.
What will I be if I ever emerge,
and how long will it take everyone to **** it?

I sit on our recliner,
Luna bar wrapper on the floor.
My robe is cinched
too tight, a reminder--
your fingers should meet
around my waist, but my ****
and *** should spill out of your palms
because defined curves and wiles
are the definition of a divine
woman worthy of insta-fame,
tumblr posts, and right
swipes.

I'll twist and turn and pose
in front of any mirror, desperate
for a flat-planed stomach and fuller
cleavage, the whole time
wondering if you look at me bent
over the bathroom counter, fixing my eyeliner,
and think that I'm a dime disguised
in a size 0 dress.

If my sides could shrink as fast
as my self-esteem, I'd never crunch
my abs into idealistic numbers again.