I’m done with head down and closed lips
Just making it through one more day
Done with thinking my scars are ugly
and therefore making me unlovable
I’m going to wear them proudly
with head held high
Telling my story to any who cares to listen
Because these scars are an armor
forged in battles I have won
They prove that time and time again
I am stronger than anything that has
tried to destroy me

“Have you written about me yet?”  you asked.
“I write about things that make me sad, you’re not one of them.” was my response.

But even as you made me sad,
Even as my heart started to crumble.
I never could write about you.

I am a poet I string stars into constellations
And weave words into stanzas.
I need someone whose eyes can be twisted into metaphors
And the mere sound of their voice makes my hands tremble so gracefully
That I can make my magic with a pencil.

I was in love with all the poems I wished I could write about you.
How badly I wanted to sculpt you with sentences into something
Too beautiful to call mine.
But you are not a poem.

Yes, your eyes are quite a gorgeous blue,
And your arms are strong.
I’m sure you would make a beautiful painting,
An inspiration for someone else’s art.
But not mine.

You wanted to believe all of my broken pieces
could fit in a cardboard box.
That's what attics are for, to hide ugly things.
You're beauty was skin deep.
And thats how you wanted me.
I didn't want to be empty.

“Have you written about me yet?” you asked.
“I write about things that have meaning, you’re not one of them.” should have been my response.

Because in any set of truth
i just wanna break away from the city.
Let lose my mouth and tell the world or people, its ugly.
or maybe i am.

She was smiling when her parents were fighting.
She was smiling when she met her father's mistress.
She was smiling after getting sexually assaulted.
She was smiling when she was cutting herself.
*She was smiling, oh how she smiled.

My mind is reeling
I can't help but feeling
Like I don't quite measure up

As time continues
I continue to feel used
Like I'm nothing to you after all

I love the darkness
It feels comfortable
happy is fake
my smile is fading
mom, I am trying
I truly am.
but nothing is helping and I don't want to talk to you
I can't talk to you
cause if I told you how bad it is you wouldn't let me live
I would live with so many limitations
which is not living
lying is freedom
I ******* hate myself
I have ******* up
I wish I didn't ***** up my life
mom I don't like where I'm going to end up
so I just want to die
I'm sorry
but I cant live anywhere anymore

her breath colors the winter air gray
not the ugly kind of gray that winter snow ages into
and not the kind that's pretty either.
it's the kind of gray that's too fragile for time to sustain
it's the kind of fragile too light for scales to hold
it's the kind of light that wants to be lighter, that wants to be weightless
it's the kind of weightless that only knows bony arms and hollow cheeks
and it's the kind of bony, the kind of hollow, that turns ribs into cages
and cages into prisons for hearts that want to be—
not ugly, not pretty, not fragile, not light, not lighter, not weightless,
and not even bony or hollow—
but just
*be.