Twelve to fourteen
       A good girl she must be,                 🦋
               but with the exception
                     of fake notes
                          to skip P.E
                              Her nose buried in books,
                                sitting in the nook
                                of her mind,
🦋                       still dazzled by magic,
                         adventure
                     and love
                A soirée
           with the feykind.....🦋

your idea of perfect is a girl with blonde hair, so when you say that you like me i look at you with a confused stare. i'd always wanted highlights - i used to hate that my hair was dark brown. i used to wish to be blonde, like i used to wish my hair was straight when i wore it down.

i used to wish for a lot of things - like not being the last choice, like not being afraid of public speaking and being more comfortable with my voice. like always being perfect, like always being completely okay. like always giving the benefit of the doubt, but you know what? i'm tired today.

your idea of perfect is a girl that looks absolutely beautiful but nothing like me. and that kind of perfect is something i will never be.

It’s rained.
Crawdads swept up on the street.
I chase them down with small bare-feet.
Across the street, there rises steam.
The neighbor makes hot oysters sing.
Carolina, is still that child—
She’s in my heart, she’s roaming free.
No need to brush your hair, little Bee.
I like it stringy.
I like black feet.
The story here is one of Me.
It’s where I copped the name “Beezee”
Where I road bikes and scraped my knees.
I ducked and dived and climbed up trees.
It’s forever and a day so sweet.
Nostalgia is my favorite street.

what fear did she feel when she was told that her womb would carry such a deity?
did she feel the fear that my heart did,
after he used my body as a play thing?
how heavy did her chest feel at the thought of loving a holy human being?

how long did she spend deconstructing her own virginity and actions?
mulling over what she may have blocked out of her young memory

did you feel violated, my dear, while you scrutinized what had happened to your body?
did the lack of violence scare you?
how frightening was the son of God, lodged into your fragile womb?

oh how i long to hold you
reassure you that you are not the grime that you feel deep in your gut
you are merely a girl, carrying the burden of the world’s greatest gift
but you never as much even volunteered

My mother told me
I was a fool to go after you,
but I thought it poetic,
to be foolish for you.

Thought it was romantic
to rush and jump in
much too fast,
thought it was fun to be dragged.

Thought it was endearing
to love
someone who didn't love back,
thought it'd be fun to see,
how a bad idea would end,
so I slipped you
an invitation,
sent it as a joke,
but then you showed up,
and I don't even know.

So go ahead and choke me,
I'll cry on my birthday,
dreaming of faraway.
I feel like I'm drowning,
I feel like I'm sinking,
deeper and deeper
into a bad something.
I should start listening.

Shouldn't have had you at my party,
wouldn't have stopped me from falling,
wouldn't have stopped me from sinking,
wouldn't keep me listening,
but maybe my mascara wouldn't smudge,
even if my heart wouldn't budge,
I could have cried some other day.

Other than my birthday.
Other than my party,
could've cried in the backseat,
of a random taxi,
on a random Tuesday.
could have ate my feelings away
right beside a driver who didn't even know me.

But I didn't cry in a taxi,
didn't cry in the backseat,
I cried in the bathroom,
at the big venue,
I messed up my makeup,
we didn't even break-up,
we aren't even dating,
so why did it matter,
why did my baby heart shatter
on my birthday?

Over nothing?

Oh why did I have to cry
on my birthday?

I’m in a Target parking lot
wearing his sweatshirt
and a sash that says
'Poet Laureate of American Mistakes'
because I won it in a landslide
against every girl
who’s ever texted
“you up?”
knowing **** well he is,
but not for her.

I didn’t cry today,
but I did stare at a peach
for ten minutes thinking
about death,
and foreplay,
and if any of this even counts as research.

I think about texting him
just to say
I’m sorry I made you a metaphor.
But the truth is
I’m not.
He was the only thing
that ever meant something
after I wrote it down.

I came here for toothpaste
and left with a bikini top
I’m too emotionally haunted to wear,
and a notebook I won’t open-
because if I do,
I’ll make art again,
and I’m trying to quit,
but I never really try that hard.
I don’t even know if I want to get better.
I just want someone to notice.

A man honks behind me
because I’m not moving.
Because I parked
but forgot to arrive.
Because I’m not really here,
I’m three texts back
and one year late.
You don’t know it’s the last time
until your hands feel stupid.

I wave like I’m sorry
but I’m not.
I’m just poetic.
Which is worse.

This parking lot’s a stage.
I’ve died here six different ways.
Once in June.
Twice in sweatpants.
The fourth time I thought it was over,
but the music kept playing.

I wear the sash like I’m in on the joke,
because it takes a hint of genius
to be this stupid,
because when I said
“I’m okay,”
no one fact-checked me,
and when I said
“I didn’t learn anything,”
they gave me
a crown.

I take the sash off
before starting the car.
Fold it like evidence.
Leave it in the front seat
like I’m done with the bit.
But I’m not.
I just need a break
from being clever.

I should’ve bought the peach.
Let it rot on the dashboard,
at least then
something would’ve gone soft
without making it my fault.

The sweatshirt still smells like
whatever I was hoping he’d stay for,
(mainly, me.)
And the notebook?
Still closed.
Which is hilarious, really.
Because you’re reading it.

(This poem is a lie.
I opened the notebook
before I even left the store.)

Heat waves rush my body,
Warming my skin,
Threatening to blind me,
But I just breathe it all in.

Sunglasses on,
Two hands on the wheel,
We’ve got somewhere to go,
And I want something to feel.

She plays in the park,
Discovering more every day,
And I watch her quietly,
Realizing I’m the same way.

I thank the moon
For all the guidance she’s given,
But I want to live now
That the sun has risen.

So I’ll play the monster,
And swing on the swings,
Chase my daughter around
For the joy that it brings.

It feels so good,
Being free in the sun-
I can assess my thoughts later,
Right now, I’m having fun.

I touch things I’m not supposed to
and call it prayer.
mouth open,
spine bent,
tongue tasting the fence line.

They say longing is holy
if it stays quiet,
but mine doesn’t—
mine breaks the jar and drinks the oil.

They told me I was an open wound,
festering with verse and girlhood.
They weren’t wrong.
But wrong feels a lot like worship
when done slow enough.

They say impure
like it’s a curse,
but all my favorite girls
are made of swampwater and sin.

I’ve never confessed
without turning it into performance.
My mouth was built
for poetry
and plea deals.

I was thirteen
when I learned to ache
without making a sound.
Seventeen
when I turned it into scripture.
Twenty-five
when I realized no one was coming
to carry the body but me.

I keep trying to write
the right-sized truth
but it never fits in a single poem
or apology.

I want back the girl
who ran barefoot into fire
because she believed
it might be heaven.

I want someone to touch me like I’m soft—
even if I’m not.
Even if I bite back.

I want to grab
without apologizing
for how hot my hands are.
I want someone to look at me
like a threat they’d die for.

I want the kind of love
that makes funerals nervous.
I want to be written about
by someone who isn’t me.

And I want to want less.
But I don’t.

You want a softer girl?
Tell that to the altar
I keep burying her under.