i’m so used of not being good enough that’s why i push everyone away,

i don’t want to ever go through with it—pushing people away,

but it’s my insecurity whispering in my ears to push them away.

when will this end?

as she looks in the mirror
she can't recognize herself anymore
her reflection
is slowly changing into someone new
someone she doesn't want to be

they say "I wish I had your body"
but all she ever saw were calories
and she stopped eating

they ask "why are you always sad?"
but they don't believe in
trauma and depression
and she keeps breaking

they say "you can trust me"
but they also say that r*pe
and abuse is her fault
and she keeps quiet about it

she would change
everything about herself
if she could

because one girls dream is
another girls nightmare

and everything they do is judge her

When I fall in love
I become obsessed.

Anger,
Jealousy,
possessiveness,
it all controls me.

All my insecurities exposed,
my anxieties
come out of obscurity.

For rejection, unrequited love
and deceptions,
I have no immunity.

But falling in love requires false expectations.

The stakes are high
when words are at stake
It’s an open hand
we give
we take
waging with words
a gamble for me
playing a fine line
with cliche
or corny
no matter the draw
poker face
or story
that rhyme you find
too profound
too bally
I deal this poem
I roll
you read
double or nothing
a hit or miss
is always
guaranteed

for the longest part of my life
my mother said she would be "better off dead"
for the longest part of my life
i had to hear, "if you dont do what i say i might as well be dead"
for the longest part of my life
i heard "you will miss me when I'm dead"
for the longest part of my life
i was blackmailed, emotionally.

One cannot make a person want to live.
One cannot make a person except what they have done.
One cannot take the blame, if you are only a little child.

~
In her sulking-place
alone and naked

framed in soft sepia
—the vintage, harlequin hue

at this supposed faded hour
she sits looking back on memory

she sits and stares
into the boudoir mirror

at herself
at her embonpoint

yes, at these *******
—at their landscape

how they fall
(like Niagara)

where they point
(like a compass)

what they tell (so fondly)
when pressed together

about their time
—their work and play

towers on the precipice
of judgment

both callous and
uncharitable

if the mirror
truly be her reflection

her vision is turned around
as illusion

—a study of tonality and tolerance
for one's own flesh

the room
an invitation

or perhaps
a lockaway

where she even keeps secrets
from herself
~