I wasn’t beautiful in the sense of unblemished skin, or how my outfits weren’t put together; how I snorted when I laughed, or how I clumsily walked through life.


I collected my tears in jars, to be remembered but not dwelled on. I let the scars heal, and watch the new skin cover my self hatred. I opened the windows of my heart, and let joy seep through.


I’m slowly learning that beauty is found in the excitement in my eyes when I’m about to climb a roof. In the tips of my hair dyed teal, because I wanted it. In the slight tremble in my hands when I’m nervous, and the bruises on my knees from unknown adventures. In my voice when I’m talking to someone I love.

That was beauty. I had looked at self-love all wrong all these years.

It wasn’t how my collar bones showed, or how I painted my nails.

It was the inner beauty, that I found and could be proud of.



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.





once, or now

once, I was young and lively

now, I am ancient and dead

once, I fell and scrapped my arms

now, I scrap them with the razor

once, I cried when my mother left me

now, I cry when they all leave me

once, I dreamed of paradise

now, I know paradise is lost

and, sometimes I ask myself

where are you little girl?

and she cries from a corner in my mind

so far out of reach

hidden with the color pink and dresses

with the dolls and the Narnia obsession

with the smiles and ribbons and glitter

my heart hurts to touch the things

my soul cringes and steps back

and I find myself in the pitch black world

filled with weapons and boundaries

with poems and bullies and high school angst

and suicide notes and boys who didn’t give a damn

I cannot figure out if once, or now are relevant

because sometimes, I’m breathing

but my breath is not off my lips

and my body has no feeling at all




Dear Someone XI

Dear Someone,

The music was too loud. Perfect by One Direction. It was a cacophony against the wind and messy off-key voices. Yet it was MY wind and MY messy voice.

The windows in the car were rolled down; the car top down. We were going faster than the speed limit.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to fly; to touch the sky and the stars. I wonder if it would burn.

I was stuck in that car. I was stuck on this planet. I was stuck in this body.

It wasn’t pain, or hurt.

It was longing for something I could never have.

And I think that is the worst type of sadness.

Wanting to be out your body, but you are bound to the ground.