beautiful

You’re five and you haven’t yet learned how to spell the word beautiful, but all you think when you look at your mother in the morning is “beautiful.”
You’re ten and you can’t force your face to feel beautiful, but all you think when you look at the girl sitting across the room is “beautiful.”
You’re fifteen and you try to force your body to be beautiful but all you think when you look at the girls around you in gym class is “beautiful.”
You’re nineteen and you’ve watched everyone around you grow into these long, lean figures that leave you behind wondering how you could be as beautiful as they are.
You’re twenty-three and you finally known what it’s like to be beautiful and all you think when you look at your reflection in the mirror is “beautiful.”  

– confessions
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things I can’t tell you anymore – part I

i’ve been hiding since you left.
i’m building my walls back up like clockwork.
i hide behind layers of mascara and loads of smoke, food pushed across a plate and smiles that don’t reach.

i pretend not to recognize you when I see you. i know it seems so fucking cold, but there’s a wall between us,
it’s got “PULLED APART” graffitied across.

i love your goddam freckles and moles, but now i look away, trying not to count them all in the back of my head.

not sure what happened to all my defenses, but it felt like time to hide again.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write

There is no future for us here 

soon the earth will split itself open 
and I will be folding oceans trying to get to you.
there is no future for us here, 
I know that now.

there is no future for us here, but right now I am trying to catch you,
 in all the places the streetlights fall 
(on bedsheets and carpet floors)
 and keep you there;
remembering you only in this softness.

right now I am holding you, 
and holding you, 
and holding you, 
like my hands can’t believe 
they’re touching something so goddamn holy.

I have run my fingers a thousand times 
over your lips,
 and your eyes, 
and the place your neck curves into your chest; 
like memorizing roadmaps,
 like leaving breadcrumbs to follow right back home.

there is no future for us here, 
but I’ll hold your heart in my own chest,
 study its grunts and sighs 
before all the hurt catches up to me.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write 

confession: a series – part I

no, your body is not a puzzle.
you cannot pick yourself apart into a million pieces until there is nothing left of you but marks where you once stood.

No, your body is not made of paper.
you cannot burn yourself into the ground until there is nothing left of you but ashes where you once stood.

No, your body is not a dress size.
you cannot peel off layer after layer of yourself until there is nothing left but ragged bones where you once stood.

No, your body is not a battle ground.
you cannot go to war with yourself and your mind until there is nothing left but dead bodies where you once stood.

 

tell me I never even mattered to you

Make this easier for me; tell me I never meant a thing to you.
Tell me my eyes were nothing special, that you never got lost in them and they never made you feel like drowning. That when you told me they looked like universes, you really meant black-holes; you really meant all the dark and none of the stars.

And my hands; how they only looked like wounds about to break open; how you only held them to keep them from bleeding out. Tell me how you never let go because you weren’t ready to watch me break yet. Tell me how you hold her hands close to your chest now, hold them to your neck and your lips; how they never shake like mine did.

Make this easier for me. Tell me you never loved me at all.
Tell me I was a passing breeze and you wanted to get caught in a storm. Tell me you were looking for something so much more; tell me how you had to settle for less. Tell me how the next breeze came stronger and heavy with rain; how you couldn’t wait to chase after it.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write