seventeen-year-old girls.

no one loves as crookedly,
as blindly
as a seventeen-year-old girl
when your friends tell you stories of first kisses
and you’re flunking out of geometry
and you’re wondering if you’re ‘pretty’
when a boy tells you he loves you–
a seventeen-year-old girl will sell her soul
for a taste of something she’s been told about since birth
from Disney and her mother’s wedding album

no one teaches seventeen-year-old girls about
or how boys sometimes are abusive
how to stay or
how to know when to let go
and seventeen-year-old girls begin to believe
love is kissing someone new every night,
taking a punch during a fight,
or running away from commitment
and soon your soul belongs to half your high-school

no one tells seventeen-year-old girls
love isn’t about
or dating the cutest boy in school
but it’s about finding someone
who sees you, understands you,
makes you feel safe,
and never selling your soul, but sharing it.



normal girls.

We were normal girls.

We fell in love with boys, recklessly, hopelessly, and constantly.

She would cry tears of mascara and glittery eyeshadow on the steps. And, we’d swear off them as if they were drugs.

And, maybe they were, because we always found ourselves falling again.

We worried about our bodies. We pinched our fat, and sighed. We skipped breakfast, and then she started skipping more.

It got us nowhere.

And, we had our hopes for a good times in high school, but they should’ve just put a banner over the corridor saying, welcome to hell.

Welcome to trust issues,

to mental issues,

to peer pressure, and boys chasing one thing.

We were just normal girls. Labeled and screwed into our positions of future housewife, goody-two shoes, slut, or whatever they wanted to call us.

We were just normal girls. We stopped wearing glittery eyeshadows and rolled our eyes at a hypocritical society who told us, be what you want, and backstabbed us.

We were just normal girls. Who wanted to wear a dress without getting catcalled. Who didn’t wish for perfection of their bodies, because we were brainwashed with some stereotypical model in their brain since the age of four. Who wanted to be known as more than ‘pretty.’






he touches my back

whispers in my ear

touches my thigh,

says since we’re family,

he can do whatever he wants

when I asked him to stop


told I wasn’t skinny enough,

told I was psycho,

told I was a mute,

catcalled and made fun of

never was the pretty girl

never was the untouchable girl



the clique doesn’t accept

a new presence,

even if it’s been there for ages

they told me to go away,

laughed in my face.


afraid to leave the house;

afraid to be alone

he’s everywhere, he’s watching

he knows everything

he could ruin me in a moment

I close the blinds tighter


and, everyone asks me

why I don’t like to be touched

why I hate superficial girls and guys

and I just shrug

they tell me to not be so guarded;

and I just nod, not really listening



so, I hold a razor in the shower

and I think of about dying

I think of him, him, and him;

of her, her, and her

and I could blame all of them

but, I’m to blame, aren’t I?










analysis of self.

I don’t recognize myself anymore,

who is this girl?

I never look her in the eyes

or tears will ruin her perfect facade

of foundation and mascara

and then everyone will know.


people say, “I love you.”

people say, “you’re not alone.”

but I feel alone

when they hug me, I feel numb

as if I was static on the television

as if I was peering in from the window


24 hours of misery

sometimes a break in between.

I’m lying because I’m so accustomed

to keeping my feelings to myself.

I hardly cry, instead I bleed

I hardly try anymore.


and, I’m scared to be happy

because I know what’s like to have it stolen

and, I’m scared of what people think

because I know what’s it like to be rejected

and, I’m not scared to die

because I’m so damn tired of fighting myself.





there she goes.

there she goes

laughing at someone’s joke

society’s embodiment of beauty

kind, her smiles sent warmth to your soul

they told me once,

she was the greatest person you’d ever meet


there she goes

the laugh occurs less often

she keeps confiding in others she feels ugly

her smiles hold cries for help

she’s trying to tell someone,

the greatest problem she’s ever faced


there she goes

the laugh is forced

she refused the meal in front of her

she dazes off with a frown

yet–no one notices

the greatest girl wears the greatest facade.


there she lies

there’s no laughter

her body looks malnourished

a slight smile of relief curls on her blue lips

everyone is crying, everyone is confused why,

the greatest girl died…but I know why…


Dear Someone VIII

Dear Someone,

Let’s be honest.


When was the last time one of us looked into the mirror and didn’t point out a flaw?

When was the last time you walked alone and didn’t glance nervously behind you?

When was the last time you weren’t harrassed?

Girls, what happened to us?

We grew up. We filled the voids with boys and makeup, and it screwed us up. We tried to make a statement, and the world shot us down.

We are like pliable clay, and society isn’t even pulling us apart or flattening us. No, they’re rolling us so thin; we’re breaking slowly but surely.

And why don’t we stand together? How can we fight the world if we can’t even stop making fun of each other. Stop calling her a ‘slut,’ and give her a hug.  Stop calling them ‘anorexic’ or ‘fat’ and tell them they are beautiful the way they are. Stop calling her ‘goth,’ and show her the cuts on your arms.

After we can unite, then we can take on the society that was made us turn on each other.

That’s all.









Brittle Is The New Beautiful.

Change this, change that,
Your mouth needs to be upturned,
Even if your smile is fake.
Your personality needs to be ours,
Even if you forget who you used to be.

Spend your money,
On clothing items that you’ll wear,
To impress, but feel idiotic in.
On makeup,
You don’t know how to put on.
On people,
Who whisper and laugh,
When you turn your back.

Count your calories,
And if you still aren’t the status quo,
Starve yourself.
It’ll be alright,
Brittle is the new beautiful.

Talk about anything,
But don’t bring up,
The world,
Or starving children,
As we buy the new fashions,
You couldn’t change,
The world anyways.

But I can’t,
Stand this anymore,
I feel numb every day,
My heart is heavy,
Though we seem to dance every hour.
I hear the lyrics,
Screaming at me.
But all you seem to hear,
Is the bass.

So, I left,
And shed my layers,
Of disguises.
Because now I understand,
That there is pain,
In this world,
But not for frivolous things,
Or chasing unattainable beauty.

I’ll give my money,
To charities and causes,
And I’ll give away,
Those ridiculous clothes.
And I’ll talk,
I’ll write,
About world issues,
Speak my mind,
Even if everyone else stops.

And I may not change the world,
But I will try,
Which is more than you did.
I will feed those starving children,
Who are brittle,
But not by choice.
And adopt a few,
Teach them that who they are,
Is already perfect.

My last words to you are,
I forgive you.
It’s taken some time,
Years of bitterness,
I’ve found myself,
And a joy,
That helps me smile,
When life is sour.
I hope,
You find yourselves,
Somewhere besides a magazine cover.
And I hope,
You find everlasting happiness,
So you don’t have to fake your smiles.

This poem is a letter of encouragement for girls to break free of the bondage of bullies and cliques. I did it, I hope you can as well.

Beauty’s Subjectivity

More and more posts I’m reading lately are about beauty. I was especially inspired by my best friend Sunny’s post.

Personally, I don’t talk about the topic much, because when I do, I write that all people are beautiful, but then look in the mirror, and shame the person I see.

But–I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, partly because of swim-season, and looking at swim-suits. Model after model. Fit person after fit person. Skinny until I’m sick.  It’s all a bit discouraging until you at it like this:


Some people like qualities in someone’s personality. Others like feet, hair, eyes, figure, shoulders (yes this is a thing…don’t ask me how I know,) noses. Some people like the way you look when you smile or the way you flip your hair. Some people like funny people, others like adventurous people. <<<I could go on for ages…but I think you get the general idea.

Everyone is not always going to think you’re beautiful, and that’s ok.

People will find you beautiful one day, if not today (though I’m sure someone does.)

No one can truly know the definition of beauty in full, because all of our beliefs are flawed by personal bias.

Thus the reason, I try not to shame myself when I look in the mirror. I try  to accept the fact that I’m not tan or super skinny. I tell myself it’s ok, because someone will love me the way I am.



Miss America?

“The winner of Miss America is…Liv!”

We all know that would never happen. You don’t even have to ask why…it’s obvious. I cannot meet the qualifications that would make me ‘acceptable’ for Miss America. I’m not pretty enough or fit enough. But I don’t care, the reason I’m writing this is because of the injustice Miss America is doing.

They’re fake. Absolutely fake women. They plaster their faces with makeup, and work themselves for what? A scholarship?

So many little girls look up to them, and it’s a shame. Because I believe a role model should at least be achievable. For some of us, being a size 2 is impossible, being 106 pounds is impossible.

You know what I want? I want Miss America to put real women up on that stage. I don’t want them to whiten their teeth, airbrush their skin, make their faces ‘perfect’. I want them to put women up there who are human–not some unachievable ‘angels.’

The first Miss America is human. She wasn’t a size 2, she didn’t wear a mask. It’s quite refreshing to see her and think tMargaret_Gorman_first_prize_beauty_Altantic_Cityhat Miss America hasn’t always been this way. “Margaret Gorman, was chosen as “Miss District of Columbia” due to her athletic ability, past accomplishments, and outgoing personality.”

She wasn’t chosen because she was ‘gorgeous’, but because of who she was. But when society changes it’s ideals, everything changes.

Does that mean that men want size 2, super fit, fake women? I hope not because most women I know look normal.

I hope men take in account our personalities, our dreams, our humor, our writings, and our intelligence. I hope they see our personalities first and then find us a bit attractive after that.

But I also hope that society will wake up, that the world will wake up, and see what true beauty is. But today is not that day…

Sometimes I wonder if it is just me that thinks this. If anyone else thinks that Miss America is fake. That Miss World is fake. Maybe it is just me.

So congratulations Betty Cantrell on winning Miss America 2016. I hope that one day someone will be brave to step on the stage who does not look like you.