how am I supposed to trust myself
when you have made me question
everything

Can you be so sure that you're eyes are not deceiving
That it is not you who's glasses are fogged over with those roses
Pink film world
Can you be so sure, you have seen me?
When we are naked in bed, how can you tell?
When I tell you those secrets, am I obvious?
In truth, we're just scared children learning about love.
Different experiences to add up.

My apologies, fear speaks strongly

No paper has no folds. Look closer and it will be apparent;
A crease, hidden beneath its purported smoothness—
Though blatant once told of, a fool, sir, will not see it patent,
And seizes within a denial of but his faulted blindness.

No paper is of even thickness. Feel it and it will be known;
A bump, then a sudden thinness somewhere on it—
So whether his benevolence hides it, he hides it from his own,
And dumb as he may’ve been, will never confess of it.

No paper is of ideal quality. The fact cannot be denied;
No man can ever craft a sheet of paper beyond half-perfect—
And thus, sir, do accept readily, for it has to be resigned, that
Likewise, no man is of perfect character, nor hasn’t defect.

1,2
3,4
count breath
maybe 1,2,3,
4,
5,
breaths
if i feel like my lungs are in need of special attention.
i am alive
and my body will allow itself
to breathe
whenever it needs to.
listen to it.
feel the rise and fall
of your body.
be alert to take it all in.
stand in the rain
let it soak that t-shirt you care about so much
and keep your eyes
open
so you can see how lovely he looks
when the sun returns.
you are
alive.
you are alive and your heart is beating and when he kisses you, all of the electric charge revives itself and blood flows through once empty veins, eager to serve a purpose once more.
you are alive and cognizant of it every
moment
you are awake,
for you recognize the pain of feeling dead in a living body.
you are alive
and
you are with him
and there are no graveyards in sight.

You hate me.
Even if you don’t yet, you will.
I can feel the hate brewing.
Impending, ready to spill.

It kills me knowing even if you do love me,
One day you’ll grow tired, get bored.
I’m nothing special and soon you’ll see,
It’s just a **** head you thought you adored.

I can feel all the hate.
I feel so alone.
It’s burning through my body.
It’s breaking all my bones.

You hate me.
You just don’t know it yet.
But I do.
I. Do.

they tell you,
"you can be anything
you want."

but you wake up
each morning,
and the mirror
greets the same face.

and heavy you sleep,
tied down
to who you are.

words
i am searching my mind
thinking hard
where are the words
how can i make you know me
hidden, lost or else forgotten
i struggle to express my desire
for you
to like me, but real me
so i will not fake it
have my language
magnify and judge and once all finished
come back and stay
or else
discard
forget

who is she?
i’m not saying that in a cute, quirky, self-confident way either, like
genuinely, who is she?
i don’t remember when i morphed from a
bony, pimply, bowlegged teen into a
soft, dimpled, hunchbacked “adult”.
there are still remnants of her--
my forehead still bears the marks of farms of blackheads
and my collarbones are still visible when i allow them to be--
but her
this “woman”
looking back at me is still as foreign as blood pudding.
i still feel the same, relatively, as i did when i was 5 years younger.
i still tend to wear clothes that are comfortable over flattering.
i still feel my stomach tied into itself at the thought of making a doctor’s appointment on my own.
i still feel like me.
but her?
i don’t recognize her.