Angie-
       ​fickle, effervescent, esoteric, impatient.

Relative of writers and hedonists.

Lover of spoken word poetry, packing peanuts, and emergency exit row seats.

Who feels that words mean so little yet so much,
       ​you will almost always **** at something the first time around (it's okay),
       ​the 10,000 murderous butterflies attacking her stomach when she sees him.

Who needs the TV on, no matter what,
​       to hear that she is not crazy, everyone else is,
       ​the time to just sit and read for a change.

Who fears that she really does fail at life,
       ​the huge spider she's sure lives in her closet,
       ​the actual use of physics and calculus in real life situations.

Who gives away advice like guidance counselors are supposed to,
​       away hair ties like pencils,
       ​love like its cheap.

Who would like to see an actual shooting star,
​       Sarah and Phil Kay(e) confess their undying love to each other,
​       the Doctor be happy.

Resident of Underland.

Acuña

I'm lost in this heart crushing sea of emptiness that resonates from you.
Like the waves of an ocean
it ebbs and then crashes again
reminding that I may touch the sand
but I'll never hold it in my arms for more than a few seconds.

Do you remember that night that you stayed up, trying to find some way to cope.

When you turned and screamed into your pillow, desperately seeking release.
                                  
Once you sat next to me and talked about nothing. I listened and let you vent.
                                                  
Or when you called me at 2 in the morning to tell me that you were too scared to sleep. Sometimes the worst monsters were in your dreams.
                            
You probably don't remember when you laid next to me, staring at the night sky, hoping for a wishing star.

Do you remember that day in class when I first saw you cry. You ducked your head in shame, but left invisible puddles everywhere you stepped. Maybe only I could see them.

One time, you stood in the center of my living room and sang the most beautiful, heartbreaking song I had ever heard.
                        
Or how about the time when you said you loved me, but never meant it.
                                                            
I bet you don't remember the night the shiny silver blade  ran across your pretty little wrist, leaving behind bright red lines that stayed for weeks.

Do you remember when I finally left?
You didn't even try to stop me.

The black and white butterfly is now stained red and purple.

When I was 16 my mom decided that the best way for her to feel good about her body again was to get plastic surgery.
Now my mom was always beautiful.
She was petite, had a tiny waist, full hips, and an overall curvy body.
In my eyes, she was perfect and I would've loved to look like her.

But she was unhappy.

Her stomach wasn't flat enough.
Her thighs too big and lets not even talk about the **** she felt was too small.

So cut, cut, cut away.
Tear her open.
Take the undesirable parts away and throw them out.
Never speak of them again.
But add some there.
Too little.
Not enough.
Don't worry about the person under all that skin.

Make them pretty again.
Make them pretty again.

And now look at her.
Hunched over because "beauty is pain."

And the butterfly tattoo on her lower back bleeds and red and purple, the colors of her bruised skin.