Her hair was long, brown, and wavy, like homemade brownies.
Her eyes were different shaped blues, lighter than sapphires.
Whenever she blinks, I look forward to seeing those sapphires again.
Her teeth are perfect imperfections, retainer and all.
Her bite is one of love but packs a punch.
Her nostrils flare when angry but remain miniscule.
Her mouth a light pink, like Starburst, my favorite by far.
Her smile brings me back from the darkness every. Single. Time.
Her tongue is exotic and playful, and I long for it.
I have never heard her whistle, but I know it like the back of my hand.
Her laugh is intoxicating and contagious; I find myself acting the fool just to hear it.
Then she coughed and I patted her baby back.
Whenever those pesky headaches come, we lie still, thus foreshadowing what will come.
Our arguments are stupid, but they happen nonetheless.
Her neck is thin and ripe for the taking.
Her *******, much like Goldilocks: not too big, not too small, but just right.
Her spaghetti arms flail about when I act the fool, and then that precious laugh again.
Her elbows are full of cream, and you will never find them itchy like mine.
Her wrists are disproportionately large for her size, which makes her all the more unique.
Her handshakes are delicate. Ladylike.
Her long and skinny fingers were weird to me once, but they have contracted and fit perfectly between mine.
Her palms tell the future, and she has great things in store for her.
Her thumbs have no story to tell, positive or negative.
Her shadow is smaller than hers, but no shadow can overcome her.
Her cats keep her company, but luckily we found each other.
Her heart is as big as her brain, and thankfully they mutually agree on most occasions.
Her ******* are stumpy and droopy; this is no Snow White fairytale.
Her shoulder blades are tense but minute.
Her belly button (an innie, not an outie, not an Audi) never collects ****.
Her private parts pulse like her heart above with passion.
Her backside is small and smooth. She has no hourglass figure, yet she does, too.
She has no stretchmarks in my mind, but I have enough for the both of us, anyways.
Her whole system is that of a heavyweight fighter; she’s a little spitfire.
Her legs are perfect and skinny; she has “the gap”, not that it matters.
Her knees buckle and wobble in my presence. I should know: mine do when she is near, too.
Her ligaments reinforce her, much like her willpower.
She has the calves of a dancer, but she has not trained in years.
The ***** of her feet are poised, ready to spring into action to tap tap tap away.
Her toes curl against mine, in an attempt to hold hands.
I have never seen her footprints, and I have no intention of ever seeing them. Ever.
Her promises elate me since I know she is good for her word.
Her one-liners are worse than mine, and I laugh all the harder for it.
Her grin, or rather her smirk, warms my heart like a furnace in the winter.
The last time we spoke, it was mumbled in bed, a hushed goodbye for that awful biology class.

She is my rock, ever leaning forwards
with nothing but my Dunder-Mifflin shirt to keep her warm for the foreseeable future.

I told her, Te amo,
well before she was ready to say that inane phrase back in English.
Inane since words do not do it justice.

But then she broke my heart.

My hair was tearing at the roots, unable to stay attached.
My eyes were set ablaze with passion anger, if it weren’t for my sorrow to drown it out.
Whenever I blink, I see a snapshot of what it was, what it cannot be, what it will never be again.
My teeth were her favorite: buck-toothed and all, but that was when I smiled. They hide from you.
My bite isn’t nearly as big as my bark, but do not tempt me.
My nostrils have hair creeping out; it’s hard to keep clean after something like that.
My mouth is louder than all my thoughts combined, but I still can’t find the right words to say.
And my smile would be what brought her back from the darkness every. Single. Time.
My tongue, like my private parts, is limp and dead; phallicly flaccid, there is no passion here.
I have never whistled, but why should I learn now? I keep quiet to quell the roar.
My laugh is contagious, or so they tell me. It’s high pitched. Effeminate.
I cough. I get stares. My cough makes you uncomfortable. Your infidelity makes me uncomfortable.
Whenever those pesky headaches come, I lie still, and for a minute, just a minute, I die. I’m at peace.
Our arguments were stupid, but now there’s nothing left to talk about.
My neck is fat and swollen. **** my thyroid. This vitamin D deficiency is taking its toll.
My ******* are fat, but a momma’s boy would be: too much in the trunk, not enough under the hood.
My arms are as big as her thighs. We measured. Maybe it gave her peace knowing she was small.
She tells me I have a black woman’s ***, and elbows, to boot. Not enough cream. Not enough carrots.
My wrists are the cankles of my life.
My handshake is firm, but is it firm enough?
My short and stubby fingers claw upwards, desperate for air. Her hands are nowhere to be seen.
My palms have no future, and I worry I’ll follow suit.
My thumbs tell all the best stories when joysticks are underneath them.
My shadow eclipses me. It’s not how you feel, it’s how you function.
I’ve never owned a pet. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel possessive.
My heart was full of love, but the love spilled out when you broke it on Friday, December 6th – Saturday, December 7th, 2013, 5:00 AM.
My ******* are tiny and ***** from the cold. I feel the cold indoors, too.
My shoulder blades are dull and sagging with the weight of my world on my shoulders.
My belly button (an innie, not an outie, not an Audi) collects all of the ****.
My private parts, like my tongue, are limp and dead; phallicly flaccid, there is no passion here.
My backside is large and rough. Are you getting the point?
I have all of the stretchmarks, for I am her antithesis.
My whole system is that of down and out former has been; I’m all out of gas.
My legs are thick and fat; I suffer friction with my tree tunks.
My knees buckle and wobble in her presence; I’m weak around her because I’m weak.
My ligaments are partially torn, which perfectly exemplifies me: hanging by a thread.
I have the calves of a soccer player out of shape. Hashtag truth.
The ***** of my feet sting -- unable to carry two hundred plus pounds of failure.
I have finally seen footprints; I’m just glad they were mine.
Her promises mean nothing. My trust is shattered. My faith withdrawn from this or any other world.
My one-liners make everyone laugh but me; I know I mask the pain. Do they?
My grin was effectively wiped off my face when you told me.
The last time we spoke, it was on good terms. But how good are those terms with this double size?

I was comfortable, lazy, ever dependent on her
with everything in my life, especially that which she didn’t need to deal with.

I told her, You deserve to be dumped.
She nodded slowly, crying, and whispered back, I know. My hate described by inane words.
Inane since words do not do it justice.

Then, it hit me.

Our hair is fairly short together, not unlike our time apart since the incident.
Our eyes well up, and the only drowning I hope we get is of love.
Whenever we blink, I want to make sure that I am in front of you, and you in front of me.
Our teeth, much like our personalities, are disparate, and that’s okay.
Our bite is one of teamwork: you can’t bite with one row of teeth.
Our nostrils could use some work. Hair and flare rhyme, but neither fits in our time.
Our mouths chat chat chatter away. We have nothing to talk about. We have so much to talk about.
Our smiles are the reason why people find us cute, and they’re the reason why they were shocked. Let’s give them another reason.
Our tongues dance across language barriers. Mi español no puede vivir sin tu ingles.
We have never whistled. Finally! Some common ground (opposites attract).
We’ve been told that our laughs are nearly identical, like a choir singing in different pitches. Sing.
We cough together, because we know we can take care of each other.
Whenever those pesky headaches come, we take a deep breath, hold on tight, and move forward.
Our arguments ARE stupid. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Our necks are like the Happy Meal and the Super Size Me. I love to see us smile.
Our ******* are life; I don’t know what mine do, but I know yours will come in handy someday.
Our arms have their “things”; you have that birthmark, and I have unseemly hair growing everywhere.
Our elbows could be a rom-com: one smooth, one rough, but they can’t get enough.
Our wrists make sure our hands can keep us afloat.
Our handshakes are delicate but firm.
Our fingers latch onto each other, like a bear trap.
Our palms SMACK together when you high five me. Goofball.
Our thumbs are bound to get sore if we keep caressing our hands while holding onto each other. Raw.
Our shadows slink away when they see us shine so bright.
I hope to God that Rosie the pug is as derpy as your heart can take.
Our hearts have duct-tape all over them…it’s a work in progress, but bones get stronger when broken.
Our ******* are disproportionate. There, I said it.
Our shoulder blades dance across each other when we lie back to back.
Our belly buttons (innies, not outies, not Audis) keep us close to our moms; you’ll agree someday.
Our private parts tingle as we move in motion and rhythm. It’s been too long, mi amor.
Our backsides are like Venn diagrams: yours could easily fit in mine.
I have all the stretchmarks, but I hope you get them after birth someday. We share everything else.
Our systems are the underdog rising up, straight to the top; it took its time, and its chances.
Your legs could fit in one of my own. Please refer to the stretchmarks line.
Our knees buckle and wobble. Please refer to the private parts line.
Our ligaments have taken a beating, but somehow, there’s a strand holding us together.
We have calves of different passions, but we both know what the sweet sting of success feels like.
The ***** of our feet touch down as we’re back to reality. The honeymoon stage is over. Cloud 9.
Unfortunately, we’ve seen footprints, but I think they’re circling back around to meet up again.
This promise should be the last until the most important one comes up. This is it.
Our one-liners keep us close to our dorky sides. Honestly, something is probably wrong with us.
Our grins (or smirks) show that we can’t really stay mad at each other for TOO long.
The last time we spoke, it was yesterday night (or was it earlier today?), but I’m sure you woke up.

We ******* up. Admittedly you more than me,
but I digress: one mistake is not enough to throw away two years of work.

I forgave you.
You were elated. Let’s try this once more, with feeling!
I’ll inanely tell her again, *Te amo.

love   apple   like   time   know   feel   heart   bed   little   life   home   red   boy   georgie   sleep   away   left   dear   ruth   gone   just   right   long   mind   hope   hair   mi   parts   say   fear   met   laugh   makes   sailing   make   tell   hands   day   poem   different   small   words   private   wish   legs   child   man   free   te   welcome   easy   apples   meteorite   smile   flower   want   way   arms   look   eyes   better   war   lie   good   thing   truly   teeth   passion   thought   work   seen   letters   friend   talk   brought   future   fingers   knew   imagination   sure   told   space   cold  la   mask   black   big   bite   age   size   shadow   petals   inane   stretchmarks   medic   we've   wouldn't   hear   tap   really   best   goes   face   gray   maybe   things   dream   tongue   forever   hate   set   room   death   need   truth   comes   night   lost   calves   pain   end   years   brings   touch   feet   blades   memories   new   core   times   dead   favorite   finally   minute   brain   hearts   getting   belly   far   rain   blue   knees   filled   stupid   woke   cream   fit   young   brown   se   fat   tan   cough   spoke   says   unlike   footprints   ******   rough   forward   buckle   blues   task   shoulder   grace   *******   reason   nostrils   firm   juice   palms   someday   mis   thumbs   screams   arguments   wobble   *****   elbows   *******   wrists   headaches   amo   pesky   ligaments   one-liners   thoughts   later   ash   clouds   lips   dreams   breath   mouth   hold   sense   taking   world   bit   speak   dance   gave   shall   ready   skin   air   single   breathe   button   peace   choices   hill   wrong   weak   close   use   quite   sky   phrase   darkness   justice   sound   unable   brave   holding   deep   grabbed   ****   try   building   paper   lunch   think   kind   stay   days   smooth   perfect   learned   care   fair   hard   grant   sweet   high   fruit   short   terms   kept   relationship   underneath   presence   water   looking   fool   sorrow   tree   second   delicate   nearly   happy   line   tall   tried   sad   satisfied   point   feels   falling   purpose   game   lazy   que   amor   agree   known   naught   loss   broke   failed   games   limp   grin   final   spring   act   south   flare   race   sake   car   large   wishes   neck   blink   knife   seeing   idea   steve   company   greens   spread   ship   lo   sally   sum   drowned   december   weep   sting   smiles   lessons   promises   successful   whistled   drowns   perfectly   pleasing   failure   brothers   cliche   harder   thirteen   ale   signs   limit   serenity   mundane   origin   chat   sapphires   handshakes   skinny   contagious   succeeding   super   refer   maturity   destination   civil   uncomfortable   collects   clack   liz   beatles   vez   attract   accomplishment   backside   throes   flaccid   audi   oneself   beastie   applesauce   naivete   bungalow   outie   there's   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means   mountain   boys   true   stars   learn   sliced   naive   decided   player   actually   reality   ease   music   hood   desperate   promise   wishing   begin   miss   caressing   moan   thighs   heard   pretty   emotion   figure   floor   exotic   sand   hits   angel   awake   dreaming   probably   wins   seek   stretch   loved   tears   heartbreak   punk   walking   piece   furniture   unreachable   roots   near   deserve   simple   cats   tail   precious   lovers   loves   mother   tongues   clueless   share   taken   yesterday   faith   freedom   ripe   cursed   running   yes   unknown   feeling   going   stairs   opposite   wonder   afloat   packed   bones   acting   playing   wind   passions   dismissed   hourglass   reached   stares   mouths   singing   shaped   trapped   toll   dies   rock   trunk   discovered   especially   dull   choice   awful   patient   great   indoors   attached   thread   shoulders   warms   bright   bring   ending   drowning   sadness   winter   baby   looked   cute   beating   tight   kids   crying   ran   intoxicating   growing   saying   opposites   melancholy   gives   follow   clearly   dove   tu   soon   entwined   juicy   drown   laid   took   moved   bear   anyways   shirt   negative   clean   guide   sore   location   faux   nodded   glance   caught   chances   week   started   today   obvious   sweat   ***   quiet   laughed   worry   round   ladies   mama   smack   goodbye   rising   sides   wished   beds   infinite   positive   scared   admittedly   mistakes   meal   common   rises   toes   bullets   bound   suited   birth   clothes   belt   pounds   ground   barren   sitting   table   woe   swimming   stick   deepest   motion   cleared   sing   angry   action   sons   smiled   bedroom   wall   wiped   grins   mad   july   store   road   snow   pulse   important   adventure   exactly   foundation   trap   colors   floors   neon   outside   language   summer   north   fifty   served   wavy   kick   raw   thirty   row   changed   hanging   lied   drenched   companion   begins   strength   flies   direction   okay   stories   inky   stubborn   cloud   track   described   lover   replaced   pit   packs   circling   honest   wage   dinner   slave   paradox   faking   screamed   lightning   exterior   stopping   complete   deal   rifle   dependent   gifts   dancer   vision   students   horror   punch   anymore   pack   sagging   folk   honestly   tearing   prepared   creatures   listening   rhythm   unique   roar   card   glass   stage   desert   offered   fought   suffer   awoke   master   eating   furnace   glad   choir   graceful   *****   treasure   ships   bark   musical   strand   bee   finished   pink   slink   stronger   disclose   gravity   schedule   march   medicine   hates   weird   brush   laughs   helped   june   pitched   dumped   tense   sin   withdrawn   stem   proved   whispered   anew   amazing   louder   english   knocked   chilly   boots   false   mistake   toffee   whistle   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difficult   darlings   overcome   oranges   keys   newfound   fairly   occasions   stats   ponder   pools   ablaze   rushes   fret   quell   breads   progress   comfortable   settling   desks   tile   trails   rainy   homemade   stunned   cemetery   plus   ideas   avocados   bananas   apply   latch   rocky   digress   experiences   vacation   sanctuary   earlier   rocket   precise   various   author   pie   explosions   *******   lighter   matched   plunged   isaac   jefferson   abe   measured   saturday   claw   welcoming   gear   trained   suffocation   leapt   gap   lee   disturbed   es   thrill   alarming   grill   frankly   importantly   una   fray   candied   amalgamation   nasty   american   optimism   guns   craters   contracted   rampant   unattainable   spilled   courts   carrots   shuffled   combined   blonde   forgave   artillery   sandwich   comfier   limitation   personalities   friday   strongly   crude   banana   tennis   limits   quaking   recesses   loot   andromeda   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haven't   what's   you'd   they'd   man's   boys'   god's   woman's   fruit's   orion's   newton's   lincoln's   adam's   momma's   ******   jackson's   audis   dulces   disproportionately   charon's   deseos   avocadoes   hailey   eran   beatles'   ingles   he   she   it   rackets   --   hashtag   sixty-three   duct-tape   joysticks   sherman's   15   6th   32   500   7th   2013   extraño   barenaked   tamales   6-year-old   tierras   derpy   ewell   rom-com   themit's   adan   mudpits   puddlepits   war--hell   culp's   shitpits   completaron   chocolatada   levantanse   duraznos   n'sync   huevo   cholitos   levantaron   manzanas   endurece   wozniak's   dispara   nuez   open-endedness   innies   cankles   dunder-mifflin   tunks   buck-toothed   outies   grief-blown   a-gawking

I'm filled with stretchmarks. So many you might think I could fall into one of them. It's like these cracks on my skin want to imitate what's going on in my heart.

My mom told me we could get laser done so they'll go away. She also doesn't really want to remember how broken I was, just like my skin. She always say'd it'd go away.

You also have stretchmarks, I suppose. But I can't picture you falling into them. I see you painting flowers on them and letting everyone kiss them. Kiss your wounds, but never anyone elses.

Maybe someday you'd want to see my stretchmarks, and maybe you'll help me paint flowers on them. Maybe with your voice, with your hands, with your words.

Or maybe just, just.

My bottom blossoms
When I sit atop the
Bed and fine red lines
Run down its sides.
If this is the marking
Of a budding woman,
Then let me proudly
Display my vines.

Fall in love with yourself.

Learn how to be infatuated
with the veins in your hands
and the stretchmarks on your tummy.
Make your own heart race
as you whisper those
three words,
eight letters
to yourself
over and over again.

I love you.
I love you.
I love you.

And mean it.

If you can learn how to
profess your undying love
to the naked, scared figure
in the mirror,
you can learn how to
daydream about a future
where you
and that person
are finally happy.

If you can give
a piece of your heart
to that stranger on the bus,
why can't you give everything
back to yourself?

You,
who picked your broken self up
after dropping to your knees
one too many times.

You,
who dragged your ***
to the toilet
after drinking the night away
(even though you promised
that you wouldn't do it again).

You,*
who wasn't always there,
but tried to make it up to yourself
by covering your wounds
with purple plasters
and starlight.

Because when people
turn out their pockets
with no spare love
to hand to you,
you will stuff your hands into yours
and give them some of your own
without ever running out of supply.

Dear legs...
I'm sorry how i've alwYs complained about you not being long or straight enough.
Thank you for still carrying me even though i've hated you with such a passion.

Dear arms
I also wanna tell you sorry, for punching you when i got mad, and also for complain about you being too floppy.
Thank you for still helping me, do everything and for just being there, life would be a lot harder without you.

Dear ****
I'm sorry for all the times i've said you were ugly, you not being round, small or smooth enough.
Thank you for still going along and let me sit on you when i've been tired.

Dear stomach
Sorry for pinching and hitting you whever i was hungr, and sorry for never liking you beacuse you were floppy but i know it's just skin
And that's how you're suppossed to look.
Thank you for telling me when i'm hungry and keeping in all the food i eat, you work like a machine and that must be hard to do!

dear *****
Sorry for always thinking you were too small, i regret everything i've said you've grown nice and round, i'm sorry for complaining so tou had to hurry so much you got stretchmarks
Thank you, for grabbing so much attention, that id sort of funny.

Dear hips
I'm dorry for punching you and complaining avput you being too wide.
Thank you for giving me the hourglassshape every girl long for.

dear skin
I have so much to be sorry for..
I'm sorry for cutting you, and bruising you and burning you, i' so very sorry i have ruined you this much, i'm sorry for letting my emotions out on you, i have made you scarred and i'm sorry about that. Im sorry for also complaining how you were never clean enough
But thank you! For sticking along and holding my body together you're awesome

Dear face
I'm sorry for never liking you and being sad about my eyes not being deep blue or my nose not perfect
Though i thank you for
Letting my friends know who i am

Dear hair
I'm sorry i put you through a lot of heat and dying and all that but hey you're still on my head i bet i would look weird bald so thank you!

Dear body!
Last but not least
I wanna thank you for being so strong and beautifull i wanna thank you for holding on even though i put you through this much

*dear body... I'm sorry.. Thank you

I.

I'm a growing polliwog,
not a butterfly--

pickled legs hang off of my fish body
and gills close off so rapidly.
A minute ago I could caress the water
and make oxygen bubble in my throat. Now

beating,

pulsing

lungs intrude
like pink bubble gum ready to pop.


What a sadistic word,

oxygen.


II.

After a little nap in a sleeping bag
butterflies are monarchs,
stained glass fluttering perfection,

symbols of luck,

symbols of
beauty,
Their wired bodies are scribbled together
like starving supermodels.


III.

And my seams are

!slowly!  

pinching themselves open,
a la Frankenstein.

I want to think these body parts are mine:

A tentative nose,

very green pointillism eyes
with lashes like brittle grass or bent nails,

These white playdough thighs,
and stretchmarks like remnants of lace
chewed up by my insane canine.

Pink.
Dainty and tangled on my legs,
I think they look like jet-streams lit by sunset.

I am cutting all of my shirts this summer
to change each seam into a headband,
one that matches my stretchmarks –
twenty-two, in fact,
that are in perfect style for anyone to see.

Don’t talk to me, I’m not in the mood

I’m tired, I feel sick, I have gone off my food

I have got heart burn, piles and I’ve got a sore back

Don’t argue with me, I won’t cut you any slack

I have got big, black bags, under my eyes

I look like I have eaten to many pies

I have stretchmarks, I look like a frigging map

The baby kicks me in the ribs when I'm trying to take a nap

I'm forever hot, I forever sweat

My ******* leak, my tops always wet

When I walk, I puff and I pant

I can’t wait to have this baby, I hate being Pregnant

I  want to see you in the daylight
Morning blues creeps onto your birthmarks
Eyes are so very bright
Your hair
Wrists
You.
You own yourself now
This is very important
Please love yourself
Please please please
Listen to me before my voice turns into an insane wild howl
Hitting the highest notes, disappears and I gasp for breath please listen
You are your very own
This is pretty much all you have.
Your belongings consist of two ardent eyes, stretchmarks,
Arms, legs issued by a pair each.
Your mind
Whatever is your every thought
Whatever you believe is true, simply
Because you believe it.
It’s all yours, this is you.
It’s all up to you.

So, you're sitting in a doctors room, wondering why you can't stop crying,
When he enters saying"It's good news" a result from all that trying.
In a haze you drive to tell your mum, she knows from the silly grin,
And there and then, you buckle up, this journey is about to begin.
So, vomiting and painful *******, and screaming at your husband,
Is part and parcel to this little nightmare, nature calls pregnant.
Oh, don't forget the stretchmarks, and the piles that grow like grapes,
And mood swings, constipation, and eating sticky tape?!,
And now you're halfway through your quest, you look so beautiful,
Your hair and skin look radient, maintaining health is dutiful,
Then little kicks bring on the tears as both of you embrace,
And watching as the tv screen shows up a tiny face.
As weeks turn into months, you begin the preparation,
With practise runs for when its time to get to the nurses station.
Your feet have disappeared from sight, no need for the nail clippers,
And lack of sympathy from him, as your feet look like fluffy slippers.
The lack of room within your womb means little or no sleep,
The inability to get up, so give in, stay in the seat,
So here we go, your waters break, and hubby thinks you've peed,
You tell him"Get the car, or i will squash you like a seed!".
The pleas for pain relief and stupid questions from the nurses,
You try to answer politely, between the frequent curses,
The final throes are happening, you're screaming like a pig,
And out she comes, the miracle, "Oh look, isn't she big?!",
Then suddenly all the pain and grief are suddenly forgotten,
"A boy next" Those famous last words of your poor husband!

I have spent many hours over the years
Staring sadly at pictures of girls with delicate pale skin
(Much like mine, but without stretchmarks or scars)
Who wore soft, flowing dress
And high cut shorts
And flower crowns
And lamented mentally the fact that I was not small
Or delicate or sprightly enough
To wear flowers crowns and pastel dresses and golden sandals
And I have spent many an hour soaking myself in the sadness
That who I feel like inside and how I feel I have to express myself
Because of my size, the width of my hips, the set of my shoulders
Were not things that matched
But I am trying my best to remember
That the bulge of my stomach
and the thickness of my thighs
And the stretch marks trailing over my skin
Do not make me unworthy
Of dressing delicately and femininely
And I am just as much allowed
To wear gauze and flower crowns
As the next girl

Because,

He fell for the red on her cigarette,
Her breath on floating dandelions,

The eyelash on her cheek,
The stretchmarks on her thighs,

The little hairs on her belly,
The way her eyebrows don't perfectly match,

The way she loved dogs more than children,
The way she stares at tree leaves swaying.

He fell for her as a whole
Not the way others had before,

And she, did not care.
She constantly fell in the sea

Of arms, that has haunted
Since her eyes began to see lust.

Drowning endlessly,
Knowing he would send her a lifeboat.

father: n. a man who gives care and protection to someone or something.



The last time I saw you, really saw you,
You told me you loved me.
But you didn't mean it.
At least not like you used to. Like you used to pretend to.
Before your other two kids were born.

I guess I must have been a mistake.
An unplanned middle child.
One that you didn't want.
I came after your first, before your third and fourth.
I am my least favourite number.
Is that why it took you two years to say "I love you"?

I can not even remember how those words sound when crafted in your voice.
Unless they were hiding tension.
Or guilt.
Or obligation.
I never heard them for what they mean.
Your excuse was always:
Mom was watching, and you needed to look like a man.
The police guards were watching, and you needed to look like a man.
Your fellow inmates were watching, and you needed to look like a man.
Your other women were watching, and you needed to look like a man.
Your job wasn't to look like a man.
It wasn't to be a man.
It wasn't to sound like a man, think like a man, portray a man.
Your job was to be a father, to love me and make it known that I am your daughter and you are proud of me, even if you never show it. Or even say it.

I expected that from you. I expected you to know I was going to one day become something you were proud of, something you could say to make people think differently about you, because you raised  me to your standards and look how I came out. I expected you to show me what it's like to have a life, I expected you to teach me how to drive, I expected you to help me with homework, and pick me up from school, and
I expected you to care about who I am as a person, because I am your daughter.

Instead, you taught me that when I'm angry, upset, frustrated, confused, stressed, unhappy, depressed, content, or feeling any emotion whatsoever, I should run to alcohol and drink until I can feel nothing.

Instead, you taught me that you didn't care if I carved words into my skin, as long as I wasn't hurting anyone else I was fine and even if I did commit suicide it would be selfish and I shouldn't be scared of the demons in my head because they can't hurt me, they're trapped inside and they have no way to break the walls and besides being scared of yourself makes you a coward and a ***** and that's ridiculous.

Instead, you taught me that crying never gets me anywhere and if I wanted something I should just take it because no one will ever know it was me and no one will ever suspect a blonde girl in a dress to steal from a shop and as long as I look as innocent as I can then I can get whatever I need without ever paying for it because I can pay with my innocence.

Instead, you taught me that when you are drinking is the only time you will ever be proud of me for the one line in the play I landed and that even though you were never there to see it you knew I did good because I'm your daughter but even though I messed up because I looked into the crowd to find your face and forgot my line when I saw my mother with an empty seat beside her, I am still part of your family and we are good at saying things we don't mean and leaving.

Instead, you taught me that my sister will always be better than me and there is nothing I do to compete because even if I was stronger than her I would always be too small to fight her even if it was for self defense and if I try it and end up with a black eye it was my fault because I was warned of the cyclone of rage that lived within her chest and I should have known I did not stand a chance against her for she is better than me in every way.

Instead, you taught me that spending a day out in the sun working on your truck and sweating all over the ground and accidentally spilling your beer all over you which made the grass stick to you which you hated because you hate grass was better than spending a day with me inside watching movies and eating ice cream in the air conditioning with the dogs laying on my lap and cuddling with me because they know that if they did not do so I would be alone.

Instead, you taught me that I was worthless and didn't deserve love because who could ever love someone with a body full of scars and stretchmarks make you ugly because you were not born with those lines on your body, they got there because you put them there, you wanted them there so you can suffer the consequences of your own actions.

I taught myself what it's meant to be alive. I taught myself how to drive. When I didn't know how to do my homework, I didn't do it. I ride the bus home from school because no one cares enough to come pick me up and

I am the only one who cares about who I am as a person because I was taught at an early age that I am the only one I can rely on.

Where were you when I wanted you to come see the plays I was in?
Absent. "I don't like plays."
What about the guard shows?
Absent. "I don't like guard shows."
What about my marching shows?
Absent. "I don't like marching bands."

All of this is sickening.
The most sickening of all,
Is knowing that you expect me to love you even after all the **** you put me through,
like nothing
ever
happened.

But it did.
And every time I look at you,
I see hurt
pain
rejection
loss
death
addiction
abandonment
why have you made it a habit to prove to me how much you hate me?

You're supposed to be my father,
but you don't fit the definition.

f.m.s.

It's 11:11 make a wish
Look out the spotty window
See all the frowns
And boring towns
See how powerful the words we use are
They can cut deep
Deeper than the most violent assault
Buildings and obelisks of befuddlement
Pressed for time
Lemon scented tiles
Scrubbed
No mold
Personal preference
Common courtesy
And common sense    
Scarce but invaluable
A face only a mother could love
And a father can lie to
Coulda
Woulda
Shoulda
Didn't
Searching for carrion
Give way
To the wayside
ECNALUBMA
In the rear view
The worms eat us
The early birds catch the worms
The cat nabs the worm
After being resurrected by satisfaction
And the night owl writes the tell-all
Put the ear to glass
Put the glass to the door
And listen closely
To sound of knuckles cracking
And the chattering of coffee shop patrons
Indian givers going back on their word
Fingerless gloves
Prim and proper
Promptly pummeling
Tunneling to tomorrow
Well done
Slim to none
Fat chance
The local native's tongue
Sold fresh and farm raised
On any given day
You can find demi-gods
Playing a a pick up game
Matchbook
Matchbox
Mismatch socks
Pick up sticks and stretchmarks
Just stay the night
So we can wish this all away together
It's 11:12 open your eyes

post a photograph on the internet
feel stupid
delete it
you mean very little to me but
I desperately want your approval
sit down, place mobile fan in front of face
close eyes
try to breathe
fall back into meadow of linen
rest head on lillypad pillow
teach mom how to properly pronounce "cherry triple soothing action"
fantasize about growing up in Laguna Beach
open eyes
get off bed
stand in front of closet mirror
this is your reflection
this is your mouth tinted in violet
these are the outlines of restless nights beneath the crease of
bottom lashes
these are your shoulders
these are your *******
stretchmarks replicate on the spectrum of your back like
electromagnetic waves
fantasize about growing longer legs
write a letter to somebody that you used to love
wonder where feelings go when you no longer feel them
mind begins to waiver oblivion
you can no longer follow
and you no longer want to
tear up letter in four pieces
stare down at idle light pink hands
they are the same two that caressed his face between them
they are the same two that wrote the words that would tear him apart
attach an emotion to a memory
paste meaning to a sentence where there is none
store consciousness in binary file
shut down computer
restart brim of indifferent heart

I think you're cool I think you're sweet
I'll kiss you from your stretchmarks to your feet
Don't close your eyes leave on the light
I want to see you in all your might
So you've got rolls and thighs for days
But sweetie that's the thing that drives me crazy
See you've got everything I don't have
And I'm proud to call you my man
You're the big to my small, the squish to my lean
I'm not calling you chubby to be mean
Just put your hands on me and look me in the eye
I'm going to make you love yourself tonight

This age has been to me a fist in the abdomen.
Rough. But sweet, too.

18, and the first line of my journal emerges like a rebellious blush, longing and delinquent. It sits in its designated place with blue ink honesty that terrifies that breath out of me. I must keep writing. I must push away from my confession. I must ignore the panic rolling in my chest. Love, in this moment, nauseates me.

18, and I am running my thumb over a round scar on my left wrist with an emotion that is not quite sadness but perhaps disappointment, for not being brave enough, for not putting that blade away before it was too late, for letting myself down. I’m supposed to be a feminist. I’m supposed to A Strong Woman who is big enough to love herself at all times. But I slipped, I fell hard. I let myself visit a place I never should have, and here is the evidence. A little continent of puckered skin I stroke while apology quivers in my fingers.

18, and I’m in my bedroom by the window with the blinds raised so I can see all the stars. I’m soft and sad and laughing. I am thinking of a girl.

18, and everything aches under the weight of awful silence. I wonder what it’s like to be normal. One of those happy faces in the grocery store choosing between black and cannellini beans, ignorant of the sickly fog clinging to my being. I isolate myself from everyone, because who the hell would want to deal with the horrible mess of a creature that I am? I can’t even look in a mirror without wanting to gag. I am my own heaviest burden.

18, and there are no words for what I feel. The warm shock of electricity when my fingers find hers and curl around them is much like a hopeful satellite alighting on a foreign planet. Only this planet isn’t dust or crater or rounded emptiness. This planet is knuckle and pulse-point and heat. This planet is divinity, created from two-sided love so entwined it is one indivisible entity. I sit here in the dark, while a fullness of light breaks open in every part of me.

18, and all I am in a person repeatedly dragging herself to her feet.

18, and I will not let my body be the target of insecurity a moment longer. I look at myself with softness and this is when I see how my inadequacies are actually a language of fierce beauty, how my stretchmarks flow over my hips and thighs like the Nile, delta after brave, pale delta. I glow with gratitude for these marks, these signs of growth.

18, and I am resting on the root of a great tree beside the love of my life. There are daisies in her hair and I think, if vital organs could spurt wings, my heart would rise right out of my chest.

18, and graduation burns like a bittersweet beacon. I smile and hug people and say goodbye, but what I am really saying is, “Watch me.” What I am really saying is, “Someday I will be nothing more than a humble relic in your memory, but today I am now, and now, and now.”

18, and I want to hold onto everything. My flaking yellow nail polish, letters given to me to send me bravely on my way, the shaking of my heart as I square my shoulders and step from velvet darkness into light, the precise slant of the sun as it leaves us for another hemisphere, this chest-heaving mess of adrenaline and perspiration and ache, tears I won’t hold back, pansies blooming on my windowsill, the symphony of myself growing bright and loud and lovely enough to fill the walls of every place I set foot in, like ink dropped in a waiting water glass, endlessly expanding.

I want to press myself into your skin. I want to wedge my words between your fingers.
Let me see the dirt underneath your nails that have etched your face behind my eyes.
My chest is on fire, my soul is about to burst.
Stretchmarks lay across my chest; I think I might be making room for this.
But I'm so afraid to rip at the seams that run along these sides.
And I'll watch your lips for days, memorize the shape that they make when you say my name.
You've made a home in me, and with each word spoken I've helped to move you in.
We're nothing more than roommates in this soul of mine, but I'm biding my time so that I can keep on this rhyme.
My stomach is queasy, I think I better take this easy.
And I'm sorry that I embarrass you with each and every sip.
So afraid to make a slip.
Running away from you with every shot and chasing him down to make it worth every dress I've ever bought.

i am cold in a winter that isn't
so much like winter

i am frozen in the idea of magazines
thinspo
and whatever the opposite of that is

it is still encouraging

i want a ballerina body
i want to surround myself in water and green tea
avocados

i want to be bendy
well, bendier
i want collar bones to push out
ribcage to jut out
thin arms
thin waist

i am tired of stretchmarks and sadness

I have an extreme hatred towards my body, and even losing weight I still despise it so much. I had this idea in my mind that once I lose the weight I want to I will love my body and love myself but I seem to hate myself and my body more as time goes on and the more weight I lose. I still can't compare to all of the attractive men in the world. There are so many men without ANY sagging skin or any stretchmarks or any love handles and I will never, ever be one of those people no matter how much weight I lose and it depresses me so much to the point where I now avoid as many social situations as I can so I don't have to look at the beautiful women in this world and want to cry because I'll never be one of them. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother. Even though I'm at a healthy weight now and I have a really good BMI, I feel like I'll never be happy.  I disgust myself

Sorry.

or find a way to hush punk:
to find punk reflective:
   akin to
                   ♫ above a              u
     with the                       ü
             rather than a pure
command of reflex          
                 or the echoes of forgotten
Europe, in Europe, while
the western powers took
to nautical re-definitions of
what's called access -
                         long they peered into
the h.i.v. **** of Africa when they
became startled by the laboured
brows of forgotten Europe
     (east of Germany)
             and the evolved Europe
(north of Hadrian's concern) -
and         what the French, Spaniards
and English fear most:
                 Cyrillic hordes as my
grandfather remembers the Red Army:
                teenagers sleeping in barns
with goats... not like the sharp-dressed
black-clad SS-men who gave toffee that glued
fingers together...
                 no one mentions the infamous
Krakow smog as they mention the London smog:
difference apparent: crematoriums' whiff down
the drain of history... survivors: Ovid,
Dante... some other poor sod... labouring
within himself the year 0...
                    but how many years
have passed until that crucible: the year
of denial would be discovered?
                     je suis non zeus...
but i guess a woman was always to be a
numbed sexuality... that envisioning
of a deer giving birth engulfed a woman in
having ***...
                         and then sorta oh oh oh,
mow the lawn...
                                    western Europe is
really deluded about its primordial quest
for 1st placed: existentially...
it's comparatively deranged to the rest
of Europe... all romanticism in its ability
to grasp it has died... hence the need to
keep up appearances...
                                honestly, it's completely
deranged. i called English society it already:
an asylum...
                        hence the Calais jungle....
                 it quiet literally is what the former
colonial nations think it is,
                                 but it's not...
i don't know why the Jews congregated in
what was once the example of Commonwealth...
        but no Irish will feel superior to me
faking being English... i leave the scouting
of honour among the Scots and the joke
about inventing copper wire...
                                2 pence stretchmarks
when a. invited b. to dinner...
                                               well,
if the king of Kenya can sell his ******* cousins
i am not willing to sell my identity to fill gaps...
just so a white girl can practice
                         repressive aggression to write
masochistic / moralistic poetry and edge toward
feeling superior, but actually not being
            any more superior than a skunk
                              in a Parisian perfumery...
i too thought the idea was:
                             to make a scent most potent.
                  the most piquant form of morality,
that doesn't translate into Germany,
  Polish, Lithuanian, Scandinavian or Serb...
                     but is currently ruling our concept
of socially-cohesive undermining of future study
in anthropology that's to resemble society: a tale
of the 22nd century and still waiting for the l.s.d. trip
of the crucifix.
                            so too the love long gone...
                to me... Zionism (Eva) became married
to ****** (Adolf) to end colonial-capitalism...
                                        it ended...
           but what was once the norm of the monochromatic
became false...
                              we needed soul-bleach
and soul-bleach is what we got...
                                                you can take any
east London black guy to Africa
and he'll feel as much out of place as someone
who's white...
                             as some say:
in writing, talk of colour is least pardonable,
or at least approachable,
             or at least: the least juggled.
my canvas is being called vermin -
                            it's a great canvas to work from...
               tank-a-rhino-rune;
you learn to twist swastikas like you learn
             to twist the star of David.

Just as over the course
of a year, the seasons change,
inevitably, over the course
of life, a woman's body will change.

The photoshopped
supermodel on the cover
of a fashion magazine
is an 'ideal' that does not exist.

While the allure of
youth & vitality cannot
be denied, neither can
the appreciation for time & experience.

It's the honorable path
walked by
all maidens
& matriarchs.

A path that comes with
blemishes,
cellulite,
scars & stretchmarks.

Wrapped
in every
shape,
size & skin color.

Yet, it's these so-called
'imperfections'
that render her
fascinating & unique.

A paragon of feminal
physique, so luminously
patterned &
intrinsically beautiful.

Slim waist.
Skinny arms.
Thigh-gap legs.

“Perfect bodies,” we call them.
“Beautiful” and
“Real.”
But there is nothing real in plasticity,
Nothing beautiful in being ashamed
Of stretchmarks
And imperfections.

Self-hate is not beautiful.

Self-hate is a bunch of weeds,
Growing on the outskirts of our minds,
Slowly inching their way
Into the flowerbeds of our lives,
Killing everything in their path
And leaving a trail of burnt nothingness.

Self-hate is the wandered gone astray,
The lost hiker desperate for a path
To lead him back.
It is panic and despair;
The road for self-destruction.

Self-hate is an ignored cry for help,
A stumble into a dead-end street.
It is staring into a dark void—
Only to be stared back by your own tormented eyes.

Self-hate is not beautiful.
It is your soul begging to be saved
By your own self.

Daylight seeps through the black and white curtains,
Like fingers tearing through fabric,
Touching his skin.  
Soft,
Dark,
Sound asleep.
His back is turned to face me,
And in the morning light,
I see the stretchmarks I love,
Stretching beyond horizons,
Beyond untouched barriers.
Striae like streams flowing into rivers,
Rivers draining into oceans,
Beckoning explorers to brave the choppy currents.
I trace them with my fingertips,
Sending shivers down his spine,
Electrical jolts down mine.
I close my eyes,
Hold him tight.
Before I know it,
Day has turned into night.
Just like that,
Sunbeam into moonlight.
There is a cacophony,
Of gentle snores,
Groggy moans,
Words mumbled through half-awaken lips,
Words I can’t really make out.
I roll to the edge of the bed,
Prop myself up.
He turns to face me,
Eyes still shut,
And mumbles,
Stay.

No more Polyfilla face
Behold the plain and naked
Made up in poor taste
Death mask and masquerade
Poor state of nature
Tarted up and raw

Fight the flaccid face
Tighten up the lines
Stretchmarks are stripes
Jowls hang and flap façade in crisis
Out flicks the knife
Smile for life with one slash

Round up the rings
Count up the crags
Callous with age
Horns on the hands
Petrified hags hard and rock like

Gnarled old bark
Woman tree wither
Roots left in ruins
Ends split and hairdo dead
All through and done for
Overblown and glory gone