Your hair is glowing,
Fine silver and gold.
Never dying of love,
Never growing old.

Your eyes are brown,
Autumn ceases to exist.
Worlds are renowned,
Time starts to shift.

Your skin is hazed,
Your fire unblazed.
It sparks the night,
Mistakes out of sight.

Your smile draws the sun,
Captive motion reflects.
Joy has only begun,
Regret has fled.

You left no trace,
Bearing the pain.
Still showing your face,
Still touching the rain.

You caused the smiles,
Made them open.
Running for miles,
Waiting for moments.


Words are just words.
Yet they ****, they burn.
I’d hate it to happen.
Leave stains on your shirt.

Time saw it happen,
Sat by and watched.
Hearts being blackened,
Love being locked.

Your divinity,
Love’s infinity.
Your song’s made to be,
Heard and sung beautifully.

Your skinny jeans,
Just made to be seen.
Your sweater enhances,
When their heart almost ended.

Your jacket adds some weight,
Keeps you warm, keeps you safe.
It feels so good, but feels so bad.
You know it should, but’ll never make a comrade.

Come on skinny love just last the year
Pour a little salt we were never here

-Bon Iver, Skinny Love

I wish I was smaller.
I wish I was petite.
I wish I was weaker.
I wish someone would be here to hold me and keep me warm.
Someone here to prevent the chills from going up my spine.
I wish I was smaller.
I wish I was shorter.
I wish I was skinnier.
I wish my body weren’t so broad.
I wish I had a feminine body.
I’m happy with my body, I swear.
I just wish it wasn’t the way it was.
I wish I was skinnier, that I was not so broad, that I was shorter. That my nose was like the models from the magazines or that my thighs wouldn’t touch. Because I’m envious of my thighs.
I wish I had green eyes. The eyes of the leaves.. Not of the bark, because who finds bark beautiful? No, everyone looks to the leaves. They simply carve their lovers initials into the tree bark, leaving scars on me.
I’m envious of my thighs.
I’m envious of those skinny, pretty girls.
I’m envious of the model's bodies even though I know they go through hell.
I wish I was smaller.
I wish I was petite.
I wish I was weaker.
I wish I was pretty.
I wish I was light.
I wish my voice was soothing when I sing. Instead it’s raspy and grated. I’m quiet when I sing.. I’m quiet when I talk too… If I talk..
I wish I was smaller.
I wish I was petite.
I wish I was skinnier.
I wish I wasn’t so broad.
I wish my voice was smooth.
I wish my arms wouldn’t look the way they do.
Why do I keep getting picked on because of them?
I wish I was pretty.
I wish I could be loved.
I wish these voices would leave me alone.
I wish I could think straight.
I wish I was pretty.
I wish I was skinny.
I wish I looked like the models in the magazines.
I wish my hair didn’t have split ends or had different lengths.
I wish I didn’t have blemishes on my face
I wish I didn’t say the things I do. Because I always regret it in the end.
I wish my voice smooth.
I wish I talked more.
I wish I wouldn’t always feel the need to say sorry after I speak because I’m afraid that my voice isn’t smooth enough.
I wish I walked, talked, and looked the way the models do.
I wish I felt pretty
I wish I was I was skinny
I wish I could feel comfortable in my own skin
But I’m not.

Surrounded by the lake, no soaking clothes glued to my skin
Just the ice cold water hugging me tightly.
The sound of the small lake waves lapping against the tiny, brown beach
Aside from my splashing and the occasional birds in the woods
Was the only thing that pierced the quiet of a silent, cloudy day.
The air was cold but the water was colder,
A frigid blanket hiding whatever lurked below.
The joy on my face was undeniable
Despite hidden under the tendrils of the loose strands of my ******* hair.
The New York mountain air combined with the lake scent
Despite the cold July afternoon
Undeniably smelled like summer.
Freshwater smells different than saltwater,
Like sugar cookies baking instead of chocolate chip.
And the taste of those freshwater summer sugar cookies
Are a taste I refuse to forget.

Wow your pretty why would you ever call yourself ugly?
Ill finally tell you what I’ve been trying to scream for years.
Was I pretty when I had ******* glasses, braces to fix my crocked teeth?
Was I pretty when you made fun of my freckles or when you said my waist was too big and my four-head looked like a five head.
Well now my glasses are contacts, my teeth are straight, my four head is contoured to make it seem small, my freckles are unseen under my make-up and my waist is tinnier from working out every single day.
Does the makeup that smudges when I cry myself to sleep because no boy will find me good enough make me pretty?
Am I pretty now because my clothes are so tight they could fit a sixth grader.
Or are my legs still too big, my waist still not skinny enough no matter how many hours I work out or how many miles I run.
“Maybe if you worked out more you would be skinnier” they said.
Wear that short dress but be careful just because you are pretty now doesn’t mean you get to be a ****.
They even make fun of my name. A name my loving mother gave me
“What kind of name is Anna it’s the most average white girl name ever”
Nothing is ever good enough something about me is always wrong.
Maybe I liked it better when I was chubbier and had glasses and braces because the worst people would have called me is ugly and fat.
So am I pretty now that I have trouble writing a poem that I can call myself pretty. Because no matter what the hurtful words you once put in my head are glued to my eyelids every time I look in the mirror. The words swirling around in the mirror as I try to achieve your version of perfection. What is wrong with my version?
So now I’m pretty but I’m broken and no boy like a broken girl. No one likes a broken girl who they have to help pick you pick up the pieces.
So, what’s the point of wearing these jeans that make it hard it to breath but I must wear them to show of my figure. My **** must be big, my ***** pushed up to my ears and my waist shoved into my pants.
But it doesn’t matter if I cry when they still call me names, ****, ***, fake, and still no matter what I do to try and meet their expectations, ugly.
At least I have make up to cover up my mascara tears.

The thing about glass shoes is that they break far too easily
In order to wear them, you have to glide like an angel
Sing like a delicate hummingbird
And weigh as much as one of their feathers
Wearing glass slippers takes a lot of practice.
If you press a little too hard, your feet are engulfed by glass shards
It's the fine line between beauty and self-harm.
Glass slippers are meant to be worn by princesses.
They symbolize all your fairy-tale dreams coming true
If only they didn't break whenever I set my foot in them.
I do my best to make myself petite for my glass slippers
Using the old pieces to carve out my cheekbones and make my love handles disappear
Somedays I wonder if I've crossed that line between beauty and harm
But I'll do anything it takes to get that Cinderella waistline.
You know what they say,
"A dream is a wish your heart makes,"
I have to do what my heart says, right?