Both are similar,
Both have content matter,
Both save hassles,
One in communicating,
The other from washing,
Both have to be checked often,
What is going to happen,
One to see what is up,
The other to check what is the pile up.
What are they, "Sirs."
They are Whats app and pampers.

it started with a simple gesture
I ran my hands through my hair
felt its texture
i was fine

I started to get nervous
running hands through hair is a normal thing, right?
but then I watched as my hands transformed into claws
digging into my scalp

the nails digging deeper and deeper
i felt all of my feelings, thoughts, secrets pouring out of me like blood
as the claws caught hold of my hair
pulling everything inside of me
out

i couldn't breathe

but just as quickly everything returns to normal
examining my hands again to make sure i'm not the monster i once was
feeling my scalp to check if i'm bleeding
noticing all the quizzical stares and pitying eyes

can they see? the real me?

i know that you watch t.v.
all the time to drown out
the sound of your pain
but can you please see me?
just ask how i'm doing?
this house is not a home
and you're one of the reasons

I knew someone one day
and the next they were gone
no one knew where they went
they vanished like snow

snow melts on a warm day
and melts into the earth
my someone's personality
did just so

so now I sit here
wondering where you went
knowing that one day
it'll snow again

hopefully, you'll come back
when the snow falls again
because if snows around
then you're around
and there are no more fears

you make my day much better
distract me from my life
but just now I realized
that my someone is me
that someone is my happy side

so now that I know
that I can be alive
no more depression for me
my suicide will subside

I'll be happy once more
able to see with new eyes
the world in which I live in
will finally come alive.

and suddenly time stops
after weeks and weeks of moving too fast
the stillness makes my head spin
or maybe you make my head spin
because there you are
a friend of a friend
standing in the living room
had it been my living room
i'd have asked you to leave
our history was crashing around
inside of my skull
a ricocheting bullet i didn't know how to stop
as it were
all i could do was stand there
statue still in the doorway
frozen in time
your silhouette blurred against
the afternoon sunlight streaming in
through the window
and i stared for moment after long moment
wanting
wishing
needing you to be someone else
and just like in all my bad dreams
when i scrounged up the courage to greet you
your face fell into an expressionless mask
our eyes barely met
your irises the same shade
as the coffee that holds my eyes open every morning
and nothing fell from your mouth
i tried hard not to feel anything
i know you were as terrified as me

Collect me in moments,
          and then play a slide show  
on tattered white sheets.

Within the creases you'll find
          all that was hidden,
collected out of perceptions view.

I'm more that what is seen,
      in the ruffles you'll
                                  see the true me...

If you grow up the type of woman men want to look at,
You can let them look at you.
But do not mistake eyes for hands or windows or mirrors.
Let them see what a woman looks like.
They may have not ever seen one before.

If you grow up the type of woman men want to touch,
You can let them touch you.
Sometimes, it is not you they are reaching for.
Sometimes it is a bottle, a door, a sandwich, a Pulitzer — another woman.
But their hands found you first.
Do not mistake yourself for a guardian or a muse or a promise or a victim or a snack.
You are a woman — skin and bones, veins and nerves, hair and sweat.
You are not made out of metaphors, not apologies, not excuses.

If you grow up the type of woman men want to hold,
You can let them hold you.
All day they practice keeping their bodies upright.
Even after all this evolving it still feels unnatural.
Still strains the muscles, hold firms the arms and spine.
Only some men will want to learn what it feels like to curl themselves into a question mark around you,
Admit they do not have the answers they thought they would by now.
Some men will want to hold you like the answer.
You are not the answer.
You are not the problem.
You are not the poem or the punch-line or the riddle or the joke.


Woman, if you grow up the type men want to love,
You can let them love you.
Being loved is not the same thing as loving.
When you fall in love, it is discovering the ocean after years of puddle jumping.
It is realizing you have hands.
It is reaching for the tightrope when the crowds have all gone home.

Do not spend time wondering if you are the type of women men will hurt.
If he leaves you with a car alarm heart, you learn to sing along.
It is hard to stop loving the ocean even after it has left you gasping — "salty."
So forgive yourself for the decisions you've made.
The ones you still call mistakes when you tuck them in at night and know this:
Know you are the type of woman who is searching for a place to call yours.
Let the statues crumble.
You have always been the place.
You are a woman who can build it yourself.
You are born to build.

-Sarah Kay