I could never understand,
comprehend,
why all the dolls I had
when I was little,
were so pretty.

they stared at me,
through glassy eyes,
eyes with the most
dazzling pigments.

their tiny dresses,
sewn by a few threads
and idealistic whims,
fit their skinny bodies perfectly,
exposing a carefully crafted figure.

their painted lips curled up,
into an everlasting smile,
and they seemed to mouth
'what is fat? what is imperfection?'

I also could never understand,
why all the girls wanted to be,
not just like the dolls,
but be a manifestation of those dolls.

do they want
to not have a single thought in their heads,
except the desire for perfection and admiration,
for people to think that they're beautiful?

do they want
to blink behind vacant eyes,
with lashes curled?

do they want,
to have constantly worry,
about having a fold of fat
on their skin?

there is a reason,
why dolls are unmoving.
they have to be controlled,
by a superior force,
guiding their actions.

is that who you want to be?

I can assure you, my friend,
I may not be a beauty queen,
and I may have some fat to my name,
but I am not a doll.

And I am **** proud.

shut them out,
clog my ears,
I cannot listen.

the words,
they attack me,
choke me,
wedging themselves within my core.

I cry,
I scream,
I take those words as truth,
and drown as they push me,
past the deepest darkness.

but as I hold my breath,
I tell myself that
even though I may be a wounded gazelle,
I have the heart and will of a lion.

and somehow,
I poke my head out of
the web of pain.

though the words,
continue to float around my head,
taunting me,
prodding my nerves,
I remember that
I am a lion,
and I will perservere.

i feel like crying
but i'm not
only on the inside

sadness is more
than just a tear
you wipe away

Like a stubborn flower
I'll bloom
but only in time

This is what happens when i give you my heart
wrapped up in paper and ribbons-
it's delicate
and gifts are made to be kept

you dont just wake up one day
and recover
but you can just wake up one day
and choose to recover

Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful

than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon

and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again

out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower

streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure

that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you

as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--

or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?