a boy who spits out apologies like they’re tied to the roof of his mouth,
a girl who’s apologetic about existing.

a boy with eyes as reflective as sea spray
a girl who always fantasized about drowning in the ocean.

a boy that has hands that look like chiseled marble
a girl that’s used to being carved by other people.

a boy, struck with the thoughts that makes him unaware he’s art
a girl, who’s seen the greatest works in European museums, seen the crowns of kings, blood in the bathtub, lovers leave without grace, struck with the knowledge she has never seen a masterpiece like him.

Do you feel your hands, tight----------
... Around my neck?
Do you see my face,
the same shade of purple
... To go with the walls.
!!! YOU SAID YOU'D PAINT ME !!!
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So,
Why is black and blue
... The only color, in your life?
And I still don't know you--------
Know me?
... And I could NEVER
write about you.
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Do you hear yourself, how---
How can you paint me?
Do you see your face?
My face, the same face.
Staring back at you...

The same blue eyes,
And a different mirror.

Now you see me, now you don't
I want to run, but maybe I wont
Frozen in time, still always moving
Memories flawed, futures always proving
Agony unwavering, is always changing
Happiness unreachable, yet so nearing
Things unwanted, forever need
Wounds have healed, scars still bleed
Always right, standing in the wrong
Feelings left to die, forever live on

Things return to the same,
Always as before.
Roads winding,
Insides grinding.
Putting too much touch,
In hopes galore.
I thought I saw signs,
But again I ignore.
That things will always be this way,
Always as before.

I am the same
The same as any other sixteen year old girl,
Subject to questioning glances and stereotypes,
Being controlled by expectations and society,
Taking and shaping my life, as if I were a mere puppet in the hands of a master
My actions are no longer my own; I conform to the status quo.

~ a poem : part 2

Same blood.
Same mother.
They don't
know me.
I don't
know them.
So far away
and miles
apart.
We live our
separate lives.
I will carry
them always
in my heart.

It's the eve before Christmas, the best eve of the year.
But I can't help but cry, and shed a tear.
Why you might ask, would I be crying on Christmas?
Probably because everything is so different.
I don't feel excitement, or happiness in the least.
It seems like any other day, but with a holiday feast.
I wish I could go back to when I was seven,
Where Christmas was basically one day of heaven.
But those days are gone, as well as the rest of them,
and now I am laying like baby Jesus in Bethlehem,
wishing that I could be happy again,
hoping that someday I will feel the same.