BeautyInRawHumanity

Here is a girl who's Galaxy mind and twisted thoughts Are too BIG for her skull, (They're too busy shovingAgainsteachother To make sense) So, she said, she'll fly away, S t r e e e t c h  out to feel the world In her hands but~ She can't pull her fingers away from the pulse, always ticking Tick      Tock Tick tock, tick tock ... .... And stop. She's a grenade; coiled spring tight While her briar heart beats hard Against a cold white cage; Made of Brittle bones and her small, cluttered frame Under gossamer wings That will die with the sun She says she can feel them, The wings on her back That she was never given

Flimsy watercolor dreams that can be erased with a few teardrops cannot make you feel alive, but my chest was so hollow that even a dying star was enough to set my eyes alight

She drinks her whiskey straight like her daddy did—it makes her feel close to him. He left during the winter. She sits where he used to every afternoon, watching the setting sun bring cold days to their end. Blanket bunched around her shoulders, she drowns herself, the silence carrying her daddy’s voice.

i trace the raised highways on his back with seven ballpoint pens, one for each pigment in a rainbow, and tell him in depth how beautiful he is. his glance is paired with twisted lips and white-knuckled hands clutching his shirt- how can i believe that when all you do is find a way to color in every goddamn imperfection?

-- choking on gasoline, choking on a mutualistic symbiosis that neither of us ever agreed to       all it takes is a single spark       that flashes between our staticked eyes and i dream of platonic love and you spill nail polish on your pillow, scarlet, cracking as it dries;       night after night we play Pygmalion and Galatea       shaping each other into a more beautiful falsity than love --

I am not your damsel in distress. My skin is no longer the milky white alabaster of a flawlessly sculpted statue, too afraid to jump out the tower she built herself because she knew she would shatter. My skin is the soft amber of a human girl who lost her wings,                                                                   dived into the ocean, and spent more than one too many days swimming this newfound freedom,         but more than two short of enough. I am not your trophy, your jeweled treasure chest. My hair is not an abundant waist-long waterfall of melted gold, and I am not the size 0 I used to so blatantly long for. My body is