pictures of fake plants
and plastics cups with cheetohs inside.
Yells in a drawl
masking sardonic delight.
Captures something sullen inside me
and slips in under my blankets at night.

Wonders at charms left behind after parents paltry
insecurity of status held them in duress
to purchase it from momentary vendors
in, completely on the joke.

The joke, being the only source of escape.
Just happened to have a glorious *****
underneath in an isolated moment
of soothing promise
he gorges himself on a feast of slip dresses
and hairy knuckles wringing with their own precipitate.

Emptiness, used to live under my bed.
Now serves the safety in my
head.

They say "love yourself"
They say "everyone is beautiful"

Society thinks they're helping,
But they only make it worse,
When curves are beautiful but what about me?
My body, my *******, my stomach,

That is what's beautiful, not your face,
The way your eyes sparkle with passion,
The way your grin expands through the depths into your dimples,

None of that matters,

For you are not beautiful unless you have this, or that,
****, ***, legs,
That's all they care about,

Saying "everyone is beautiful" doesn't help my self consciousness towards the awkward movements and gestures that make me stick out like a sore thumb in society.

Everyone is beautiful?
I call *******

I used to believe that love made you beautiful
That you couldn’t help but act upon the world with more grace and instinct faeth
Than was previously thought possible because of it

Now I experience that it does not. I have shrivelled and become less of myself – like my mother will I look upon pictures in the years to come, retrospect and think
“I was ill, then.”

Because with every flicker you remain integral and I used to think that I loved you because you made me feel greater than my frame, made me feel better, desirable, desiring of the world and succulent amongst the leaves and limbs of my arms, hands and feet

But I still hitch for you now even though my skin has honeycombed and the nectar has dimmed and eaten away at my eyes and lips – I was not compelled to love you because you made me feel beautiful, but because you were beautiful and I only felt the afterglow and mistook it for a light that was shone with purpose. I loved you because you were beautiful, and I forgot that I wasn’t.

I love you because you are beautiful, and I recall that I am not.

It's harder than you think to be content
to be happy without looking at someone else
so if you ever have trouble
if you might think your ugly
just remember our differences aren't reasons to be jealous
but God's fingerprint

After a great deal of climbing
I reached the top
and paused to admire things from
that new place. The sky was
a trio of hues (halcyon dragging to
teal fading to slate) and the sun was
a great big bright thing
(inflamed, illuminated).
Inch by inch, I lifted my arms,
as if to embrace the gusts of wind
licking at my skin.
I tilted my face toward
the volcanic dazzle and
stood there a while, imbued with
ponderous joy. The longer I
remained, the more sure of
everything I became,
of the steady drumbeat of energy
pulsing in the dirt,
of the synergistic tangle of
death and life.
My scalp began to tingle with a
giddy, glowing sensation:
a breathless sort of reverence
I had never known.
Oh, what a life,
I thought
and took off down that hill with
arms out like airplane wings,
not caring what the neighbors
might think