I’ve known you for far too long,

through the halls of high school,

as you did a once- over on girls like me,

who’d never make it on your cheer squad.

I’ve overheard your conversations,

told far too loudly and I bet,

your diaphragm was being squeezed,

far beyond the limits of antique corsets.

Modern day madams of the ball,

Birkenstock bitches with belly rings,

we all know the real reasons,

why you’re never around for lunch.

I’d say snap out of it but, its too much to, stomach for girls who don’t eat breakfast.

Buy Starbucks coffee before school,

skinny iced coffees, grande size,

take a sip and decide to pitch it away.

’Cause who really drinks Starbucks,

with all of those hideous hidden calories!

You take bikini selfies and post them,

hash-tagging the concepts of self- love,

while you photoshop the next one and,

secretly cry because you don’t think,

that you look as good as your friend.

You diet for prom, as if you weren’t,

already starving yourself into a size -1,

and your life won’t go on if you aren’t,

declared prom queen or if the corsage,

is a little too small for your wrist.

Girls who think life is measured,

in size two crop tops, life,

it has no size charts or borders, but,

if it did, they wouldn’t be perfect lines.

Life is beautiful with every change.

Daily, it grows, it’s flame flickers like,

a candle, but it melts away quickly.

Eat the damn lunch with your friends;

nourish your body, it will feel alive again.

Post that make-up free selfie;

you are beautiful the way you are.

Extend your loving hand to others like,

one you wished had pulled you out,

of that dreadful pit of self- compromising.

Life is not measured in size two crop tops!

I am 16 when I realize,

that longer-than- necessary showers,

are the perfect remedy when under,

the weather of an existential crisis.

The time to stare into your hands,

and watch as the water bends,

around your wrinkled fingers.

A reminder that, in your complexity,

You are still human.

You are complicated, but,

far too predictable than you know.

I am 16 when I learn,

that none of the fingers,

on the right hand have,

a direct connection to the heart.

Though, I remember yesterday,

spilling my heart out with,

poetic curls of my right hand fingers,

above the thin, white nothingness,

that transformed into inky beauty.

I am 16 when I remember,

that I don’t like how I look.

I stare down at my wrists,

and I’m surprised that I’m,

not built of glass slightly shattered.

I recognize my blue veins,

like waves of the oceans,

vivid stretches of life that,

will never hide in times when,

life is a barren, heavy desert.

They will look back when,

we challenge our continued existence.

I look up from my wrist,

and I pray that the Heavens,

will part the waters so I, too,

can make it through the depths.

I glance back and I notice how,

my two mortal lifelines diverge.

I am 16 when I realize that I have,

the privilege of feeling the sand,

beneath my feet as I walk amongst,

the waters I thought would drown me.

I am 16 when I make my way,

from the blue veins in my right wrist,

to my chest’s western waters.

I’m not the type of person,

Who brushes their teeth,

First thing in the morning.

I’m the type of person,

Who’d rather take coffee,

On the couch with a blanket,

Because we all know I keep,

The house way too cold.

I’d slap myself awake two times,

Before I finally decide that,

I should suck it up and get ready.

I’m not the type of person,

Who pretends that I don’t cry,

Armed with frowns as default expressions.

I’m the type of person,

Who cries when told not to,

When some say they’re proud,

Because I’m happy I made them happy.

We all know I should probably,

Start wearing waterproof mascara,

Before I’m forever a raccoon or,

The embodiment of an existential crisis.

I’m not the type of person,

To win the hearts of a crowd,

No new love interest in every episode.

I’m the type of person,

Who doesn’t declare myself a type,

But look where we are now.

Because I’m open to change,

Like a bird opens its wings to fly,

It’s what is required to hold us up in life,

Before we become so detached,

To the monotonous flight we call, ‘life’.

I’m not the type of person,

To leave without ‘goodbye’- it could,

Always be ending, ’til then, just goodbye.

Monday morning,

Cold coffee,

Running late.

Monday morning,

Eyelash in my eye,

Left pant leg up.

Monday morning,

Pocket change,

Growling stomach.

Monday morning,

Angry bosses,

Happy school kids.

Monday morning,

Static radio commute,

One lyric thought.

Monday morning,

Wet roads,

Sunshine ahead.

I asked the Universe,

if I was worth it and,

when I felt my smile,

sprout back again,

with the spring warmth,

of your touch,

I thought I’d gotten my answer.

Like Ohio weather, though,

my spirits froze on the eve of,

what was intended to be the start,

of March, a lucky month.

Frostbite with every non-loving kiss,

isn’t this the luck we always find?

Or, like when the radio goes out,

on my favorite part of “Ironic”.

Maybe we just avoided the rain,

on our wedding day, right?

Maybe that’s the best fortune,

we ever could have found.

You look at me,

And the clouds seem to drop,

From above our drooping heads,

As tears begin to follow them.

Blue shards of the sky,

Rain down like splinters,

That match your eye color.

The broken windows of your soul,

That leave me to cut my feet,

As I make my way towards you.

A mourning lover,

Wondering why the better half,

Of her heart had to be broken so soon, but,

That was years ago.

Now, the sky falls,

With 2 am nightmares.

It crushes me with the weight of life.

I am buried under expectation,

And the invisible, heavy, but intangible,

Gravity of an anonymous future.

Girl with hair so frizzy,

Learn to tame the humidity in your heart,

That smokes out with billowing, fragrant,

Clouds so soft, but so impossible to caress.

Girl with a few teeth imperfect,

Continue your smiles,

Even when they don’t smile back.

Girl with a rounded frame,

Learn that size is just the distance,

Between one side of yourself to the other.

Your West and East coast attractiveness,

With Midwestern friendliness in the middle,

Something they all like about you but,

Where that stomach you hate is.

Why are you like this?

Girl who promised herself,

That she’d never look pretty,

By nature and makeup skills,

Just got a compliment on her makeup.

Isn’t the universe funny that way?

Why are you so funny that way?

Girl who cries to herself at night,

After laughing herself breathless all day,

Wonders how it’d actually be breathless.

Says she can’t stand herself,

Berates herself with insults,

Like a soldier in combat with his reflection.

Girl, learn to take their compliments,

With a smile on your face.

Understand that you matter,

As we all do in the end.

Saturday night and,

nothing lately has made me,

feel more alive than shopping,

at Bed, Bath, & Beyond,

for a new toaster because,

I have to be as best prepared,

as possible for Monday’s breakfast.

Or, because I don’t have anything better to do.

Saturday night and,

I think the Bed, Bath,& Beyond employee, working next to the toaster section,

is really cute.

Saturday night,

is nothing close to being a fever,

but more of a dizzying headache,

with a cold chill as I get lost in the isle,

with the pressure cookers and yes,

I am under pressure.

Saturday night and,

I get a smoothie at 8 pm,

in 30 degree weather.

Saturday night and,

I walk in for dinner,

just shy of closing time.

Saturday night and,

I reflect on my hot Cheeto addiction,

and remind myself that I should’ve talked,

to the man in the appliance section,

Because now I have another hot thing,

to long for.

Misery loves company.

So I sat next to her one day,

Upon the park bench,

drenched with the falling rain,

Though she had no umbrella.

I gazed over at her pale face,

Trodden with fresh tear trails.

I whispered in her ear,

“Can you tell me,

how did I lose my love?”

Her eyes washed up from,

The depths of the ocean,

Enchanting blue whirlpools.

“You danced too long in the rain.

You laughed a little too hard.

You pushed love on him so hard,

That you broke it’s back.

Love caught the pneumonia,

You didn’t.

Love lost it’s voice,

You didn’t.

Love can’t walk your journey now,

But you still can,” she said.

And with that,

Misery took me by the hand,

And walked me all the way here,

To your doorstep.

So, do you love me again?

What is this,

This feeling in my stomach?

This knotting, tensing,

Suffocating pressure?

Is it the weight of violating nerves,

Or is it just a side effect of flu season?

Why am I grasping for air as if I’m hostage,

To this murdering anxiety?

Is this pure heartache,

Sickening lovelorn withdraw?

Is this depression?

Have I lost all damn will,

To allow my body to function?

Every time I open my eyes,

Tears come crawling out,

Too weak to climb to their feet,

So they slip all the way down my cheeks.

Can barely do they same,

Why am I so hypocritical?

Maybe my mind just flu away,

And left me riddled like a virus.