It's 4 weeks more to Finals,
and I'm not ready.
It's a few more days to go to practical exam,
and I've not covered all the rocks in the lab.
It's a few more days to go to my physics quiz,
and I'm not prepared.

Assignments dued,
Lab report to be typed,
Presentation for the taking,
unsorted,dangling of proposals,

But then I remember how far I've come,
I've decided to give it one last best shot,
Because you'll never be able to take back
your semester.
It will eventually pass.

I want to look back and
realize ive done my best.
so no regrets.

"I didnt mean to fall in love, but you made it so easy."

I'm sorry if it's the wrong time of the year,
to be told that,
I'm sorry if you heard it first from others ,
rather than my own mouth,
I'm sorry to put you in  a rather awkward,
situation,
I'm sorry that you don't feel the same way.

But don't worry,
I'll be fine.
Always have been, always will be.

I'm pretty sure you're long gone now.
You've probably tried pushing me away,
Because truth is, I'm avoiding you too.
Cause the pain I see in you is  unbearable,
like an empty void.

I wish things could just stay the same,
stay  simple,
But then I  messed it up,
and made decisions
based on my cluttered heart.

So, with these, I'm sorry.

Whenever I fall for someone,
I'll always ask myself; why?

And it get's me to a point,
where my mind gets blank,
like an empty canvas,
waiting to be painted.

I guess you could say that,
I'm the weaker ones.

The weaker ones that falls for the little
things you do,
you know,
those little minute details,

like opening the door
when books are up to my arm,
like walking me to my car
when it's midnight,
and let's me walk first
just because I'm a lady.

I know it sounds cliche,
in a way, you may not understand.
But coming from a girl,
always standing at the sideline,
getting passed by
like rocks along the side walk.

It probably means a lot.
It probably makes her feel like a million bugs.
Or in another lay mans term, "happy".
It makes her feel "happy".

Perhaps the reasons to why I fall for you,
maybe vague,
perhaps even cliche,
but it is the truth, an undeniable truth.
And I hope you will understand it one day.
Or perhaps someday.

It's apparent that talking about heartbreaks
to friends who cares
really do help.
But it's also apparent that there are those
who lets all hell break loose.
Those are the ones we stay away.
But the ones that cherish you at heart.
and help you get through the day,
Those are the ones I respect, trust
and cherish at heart.
Sometimes a helping hand is all you need
to know that the air you breathe now
isn't always going to be stale.

You're half away across the sea,
And I long to talk to you.
You're my other half,
You're my jigsaw to my puzzle,
You're my fork to my knife,
You're my person.

I miss those long strolls we take,
when we get a heartbreak.
I miss those sky gazing we do,
when it's just two.
I miss those piggy back ride,
on a sunny day,

I cant wait to run to your arms,
with arms wide open,
to feel your hug
and your warm embrace.

As your arms grip my waist,
and I'm tip-toing,
I run my fingers through your hair,
I miss you.
I miss us.

When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, “What will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? What comes next? Oh right, will I be rich?” Which is almost pretty depending on where you shop. And the pretty question infects from conception, passing blood and breath into cells. The word hangs from our mothers' hearts in a shrill fluorescent floodlight of worry.

“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty?” But puberty left me this funhouse mirror dryad: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting. My poor mother.

“How could this happen? You'll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist. You ****** your thumb. That's why your teeth look like that! You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were 6. Otherwise your nose would have been just fine!

“Don't worry. We'll get it fixed!” She would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that, as if it were a cabbage she might buy.

But this is not about her. Not her fault. She, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable facade. By 16, I was pickled with ointments, medications, peroxides. Teeth corralled into steel prongs. Laying in a hospital bed, face packed with gauze, cushioning the brand new nose the surgeon had carved.

Belly gorged on 2 pints of my blood I had swallowed under anesthesia, and every convulsive twist of my gut like my body screaming at me from the inside out, “What did you let them do to you!”

All the while this never-ending chorus droning on and on, like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood. “Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Like my mother, unwrapping the gift wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.”

And now, I have not seen my own face for 10 years. I have not seen my own face in 10 years, but this is not about me.

This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl 30 stores in 6 malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven't a clue where to find fulfillment or how wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those 2 pretty syllables.

About men wallowing on bar stools, drearily practicing attraction and everyone who will drift home tonight, crest-fallen because not enough strangers found you suitably fuckable.

This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty?” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer, “No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters.

“You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing. But you, will never be merely 'pretty'.”