Every night, before going off to bed,
I lie down, and reflect on all the things I've done, heard, and said.
Have my words affected peoples lives?
Have my actions, changed how I'm viewed peoples eyes?
Am I still self conscious about the things people have said?
Do I still think I'm fat or think that I'd be better off dead.
Am I still just a whiney little girl?
Will I actually get somewhere in this world?
Will I ever be loved?
Or will I continue to be pushed around, bullied and shoved.
Yes, I've heard some pretty nasty things in my day.
But now, I've learned not to listen to what people do or say.
I know exactly who I am inside.
I've been depressed it for so long, but now, I refuse to hide.
I love myself, in every possible way.
So, for now, I drift asleep, and hope that tomorrow will be an even better day.

I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.

You make me feel nostalgic for things that never happened.
You remind me of someone who I never got to truly know.
Random person in the world,
it seems we'll only ever be granted fleeting glimpses of each other's soul.
Then we'll lay it down to rest.
Some things are best left unknown.