Staring at the empty bottle
Need another til I waddle
Just enough to let me forget
The day I had was complete ****
I want to quit!

Trapped in four walls,
hammered by orders and calls
until I fall and then more

I still try be strong
but when I hear all day 'you're wrong'
It makes the day too long.
I swear I just don't belong

I walk through the door of my home
around the rooms, alone I roam

greeted always by no one
left to myself to find something fun

What the **** am I doing?
Pursuing a life I want but can't get?
Misconstruing the signs I'm viewing?

I reach for another one
looking at my gun, I wonder
what a ton of fun it would be
to not have to run, or see the sun.
I'd be done! I have no son, or anyone!

Who would miss me?
I'm down on my knees
my only plea is to be free!

I may be in my prime
but I don't have time
to get up and climb out of bed
another day. I'm sick of this ****
Is it such a crime to make it quick
one click, and I'm barely a hick
in the world that kicks me when I'm down?

I dread the day ahead
but if my mother read 'he's dead'
oh the tears she would shed
Seeing my home stained red.

So I lay in bed, eyes wide.
I cried til my eyes dried
No more pride, I tried
and applied to hide
my fears and tears
from my peers
But i have no bride
I'm alone on this ride
So I'll keep drinking my beers
until the day is so unclear
That I can sleep.

Hope rarely flies straight;
it flutters and weaves
like a butterfly
in a stiff breeze,
sometimes making headway,
sometimes blown off course,
sometimes interrupted,
but never completely
disappearing;
always present,
always whispering:
maybe.
- mce

Onetime I let a boy inside my ribcage

I warned him upon entry that the path to the     space     between my lungs was a oneway ticket

that I had never smoked a cigarette,
but the walls inside me were tar-filled  

and sick

that sometimes my heart failed to beat with my brain and instead fell into
perfect
uneven
synchrony with the faucet

where I threw-up cherry red the other night.

Onetime I let a boy with a knife inside my ribcage

and I had seen the knife

and I didn't care

he climbed inside me so gently
like he belonged there and was just taking his place

like a missing *****
he made me his home
reassembled my insides

vital pieces of me now resting on his body,
depending on his body

one hand on my heart

the other on my throat.

Onetime I let a boy with a knife and a bottle of bourbon live inside my ribcage

he cleaned the tar off the walls
but didn't cure the sickness

I think he liked the smell of it.

One night he carved his name everywhere

spine
clavicle
esophagus

and I pretended to sleep

cut
nick
slash

he tried to claim me
he tried to clean me

but lost souls can't be claimed
and I'll never be clean enough

my heart follows faucets
not boys

and that scared the boy

so one night he poured the bourbon down the throat he held

and I didn't stop him

and I almost drowned

gulp, gulp, gulp
slash, slash, slash

cursive illegible sorry's
over every spot he had once cut his name into

and he kissed the wounds
and I woke up heavy.

Organs are worthless without their host but

Onetime I watched a boy tear his way out of my ribcage.

Knife and empty bottle in his place,
nothing's been working right in there since.

I haven't let anyone in there since.

i want to tell you the truth  
everything hurts, my organs
are  filled with black rocks and
i can't write poetry without gaining
weight, sometimes i wake up
in the middle of the night trying
to convince myself that i'm still alive
i’ve stopped eating anything but
apples and your pastel pink tongue
i want to tell you the truth
that my heart is a collection of
boys who  didn’t ask for my name
only whispered words like beautiful
into my neck, only painted words
like obsession  on my spine
i want to tell you the truth
when i cross the streets i close my
eyes and the thought of dying
doesn't make me cry anymore
i want to tell you the truth
last friday i got so angry at you
that i nearly burned all of my
poems, i threw a plate at my door
and cleaned up the blood saturday
i want to tell you the truth
that i am made of stone, my hands
are never warm, my skin will be grey
my soul is aching because you’ve
made it empty
i want to tell you the truth
i still love you, i still care about you
but when you ask how i'm doing
i'll say that i don't know you anymore

but all you will hear is "i'm fine"

i want to be
the stars in your sky
and the sun rays
that shine on
your face
and maybe even be
the air
in your lungs
and i want to
be one of the reasons
why you smile
why you wake up
and want to be more
than who you are
and i want
to be the soundtrack
to your happy days
and i want to
make you feel
things you've never
felt before
and i want to
maybe even
own a little
piece of your
heart.

For my mother,
who told me when I was 4 and didn't know better
that I was beautiful,
and when I believed her.

She told me,
"You know,
women pay hundreds of dollars
for that strawberry blonde color
that you already have."

And I looked in the mirror,
and I believed it.

When I was
12 years old,
and angry at my reflection,
for not being
thinner and fuller,
for my skin not being clearer
and my hair not being longer.
and my mother telling me
that I was beautiful,
but I didn't believe her.

When I was 16
and crying,
because my there would never be
a gap between my thighs,
or a perfect curl
in my hair.

And my mother wiped my mascara stains
off my face
and told me
I was beautiful.

And I told her she was lying.

My mother,
who is beautiful.
Who gave me honey hair
and almond eyes.
Who gave me a garden of freckles,
and the softest skin.
How could I look at my mother,
and say I was not beautiful.

For my mother,
my grandmother,
my sister,
my cousins ,
my brother,
and everyone else in my blood,
who ever felt like they weren't beautiful,
I will tell myself that I am.

I am 19,
and I am so far from home,
that when I look in these different mirrors,
and I feel lost and scared,
and I feel like I am not beautiful,
I look to my mother,
my gorgeous mother,
who will tell me
I am beautiful.

And I finally believe her.

I am learning to love myself,
to love the skin I am in,
it is my home,
and I will not destroy
what my mother built me.

Today,
I wake up
and I look in the mirror,
and my mother doesn't even have to tell me
I am beautiful.