I did this to myself
and what hurts the most is that
I have no one else to blame

this world has somehow taught me
that everything is easier
when there's someone accountable
for every pain  

it's hard to let a corpse go  
without knowing who the murderer is
because isn't this how justice works;
played by the victim and the manace?

i hope you know
that i would give
everything
to make your hurt go away.

i wish
i could take it
and make it my own
so you wouldn't have to suffer it.

you're so great
you're ******* incredible
and i hate
that you suffer this.

i love every inch of you
and i wish
with all my ****** heart
that you did too.

I wish I could say something beautiful.
But all of the words I dance with keep stepping on my toes,
like the boy I danced with in 8th grade that told me
he was surprised by how graceful I was for my size.

I've always carried other people's grief and anger around in my extra pounds,
storing their feelings like I was preparing for winter
and I've never been graceful about it.

I fall and I stumble and I slip but at least I didn't step on Brandon's feet when I was so nervous about my first kiss following the Sadie Hawkins dance.

I wish I could say something beautiful,
but all of the metaphors I try to grow never bloom.
Because I overwater them the way I overwater all of the loved ones in my garden and all of the wildflowers in my lungs.

I've been told my thumb is black, and not green, because I never know when to stop piling fertilizer upon seeds that will never sprout,
and when to stop piling unreciprocated love upon the people that I care about.

I wish I could say something beautiful.
But my voice is always silent like lightning or booming like thunder
and I've never learned how to make it fill a room like the sound of rain,
without being a natural disaster.

I wish I could say something beautiful.
But I still have a hard time looking into a mirror without picking myself apart,
like diagramming myself for autopsy before I've ever even pulled the trigger.

How could I ever produce something beautiful, when I can't understand the work of art that I am?

How could I say something beautiful, when I stand in my hallowed exhibition hall and refuse to paint my walls because I'm so afraid of making mistakes?

How could I say something beautiful, when I'm afraid to frame my best qualities because what if other people think that they're overrated? Overrated like seeing the Mona Lisa in person and still not understanding what the **** she's smiling about.

How could I say something beautiful when I've never been able to appreciate the different hues and shadows and brush strokes that fill my skin and my mind and my mouth?
I've never been able to appraise and value myself because I'm afraid I'll never sell and never find a home.

How could I say or create or become something beautiful when I'm so preoccupied with imitating others' paintings instead of allowing myself to be my own masterpiece?

I wish I could say something beautiful, but maybe the most beautiful thing I could say in this moment is that beauty is in the eye of the beholder,

and kid you gotta be beholden to yourself instead of those critics in your art gallery.

I started counting
counting my calories
the numbers between my thighs
how many times I lied about being "fine"
I cant stop counting
I'm counting down
Ill stop counting when i hit

Zero

i want to be pretty
I want to be kind

i want to be loveable

i want to be wanted

instead

i got this ugly face
ugly personality
this ugly body
that makes everyone go away

I want to love myself
but i hate myself

i want to die die die
no i just want to be perfect

I want what she has
i know i never will

what do you see in her
that you cant find in me

you like because
you love despite

and you say you love me
but never despite

you like her because
she is all this and that
i cant be any of those and im sorry

why cant you just love me

well i do hate myself
a lot
so who doesnt give you the right
to hate me too?


its hard to stay sober
from self-hate

its the strongest drug
i’ll ever take

hooked on its bitter taste
hanging by its threads

tangled in its promises
that nothing will be good

for me atleast.

End.

Detached.
A stranger standing
In front of me.
Extrinsically scrutinizing
This figure staring back at me.
Eyes dead like a corpse
An expression of no remorse.
How did I get here!
Here, I stare.
I stare at a reflection I don't endorse.
Startled by who stands before me.
This is not who I want to be.