He didn't have the ***** to kiss me. His mouth was too busy asking for things I wasn't ready to give.
He didn't have the ***** to kiss me, but begged me to come into his house so he could **** me.
He didn't have the ***** to kiss me, but he had the ***** to ask if he could film it.
He didn't have the ***** to kiss me, but had the courage to grab my arm and try and drag me in.
(The bruises faded)
He didn't have the ***** to kiss me, but he confessed the only position he knew was doggy.
Ironic, because I was never a girlfriend to him. I was a set of *******. A pair of legs. Full lips, a tongue, and all he wanted was between my thighs.
Never a girlfriend, always an object. An animal. A toy.

Sometimes all it takes is one word. One word to completely inspire paragraphs of poems, letters, journal entries. Most times, though, take much more than that. It takes a proper environment. That's one of the reasons why I've changed up my room. There is now a stack of books on my desk, then all of my film cameras. On my window I placed mason jars, a clock, rocks from the beach and tiny candles. I took down my curtains to let in more light. I'm going to push myself to be happier, more positive. Good things are coming and I can feel it. It's autumn and the air is getting more crisp and my sweaters are breaking out again. I just passed one year of being clean from self harm. Now, I'm going to stop skipping meals. I know I can do it. I'm going to stop hating the scar on my forehead from third grade chicken pox. I'm going to love every stretch mark my doctor told me was caused by rapid weight loss, every scar I inflicted on myself, and every bone that pops out of my body (especially my back). The veins that are visible in my wrists and the back of my hands are going to get more love, too. The way they move when I write a poem, inspires me to love myself. Not in an arrogant way, but just to be at peace with my appearance. No more painting my nails black, either. I will dance in my room when I want to, jump on my bed, spin in circles, cry, laugh, scream, when it feels right. I am going to love the 12:08 mood swings and the sudden gush of new vocabulary I need to memorize for my poems. I am going to work hard and put my soul into everything I do. I am going to start making art. I am going to buy more cameras, nicer clothes. Clothes that show who I am. No clothes to hide what I hate on my body. I will love the fact that in the middle of the night, my duvet is my best friend. I will love with all of my heart that maybe it's naive, but I have so much hope for the future. Everything will be okay.

There is poetry in the way I held your hands, keeping them warm on the night before you left

There is poetry in the way electricity flowed through your hands to mine, into my brain and blood

But there is no poetry in the way those same hands left bruises on my arms, red hand marks on my back

And there is no poetry in the way I don't know why you did it

You keep me up (still), wondering the same thing

If you will listen to her when she says no

**NO MEANS NO, *******.

I know I am hard to deal with,
the way I word the way I am feeling.
How I tell you I don't want to eat another thing for the rest of my life,
how I tell you I want to die, or slice lines into my skin until I can see blood coming up.
But the way you ignore me after I tell you,
like you are scared of who I am or the way my head works; hurts me
It makes the empty feeling I tell you about more noticeable,
and you promised me on metal swings,
when I heard birds chirping at us,
when I felt the sun slowly soak into my skin,
that you would never hurt me.

There are demons in my chest
That make me heavy,
That tell me that I am not enough.

There are demons in my mind
That make death feel like a dream,
And if that dream is real, I will sleep forever.

There are demons in my stomach
That communicate with the demons in my mind,
Repeating, "I am too big. I am too big; do not let her eat."

I have told the doctor about these demons
He said if it gets worse
I should come back.
I don't think I explained it right,
Because it can not get any worse.