Being told I'm pretty
Has ceased to be a compliment to me.
I've gotten it a thousand times.
I know, I know.
It's been told by his fingertips
As they dance along my stomach,
As they trace my hips:
Holding and keeping,
Grasping firmly,
Not letting go.
I know that I am pretty.
Trust me,
I know.

I want to scream it, but I'll never be
Loud enough for him to understand that
I can't breathe if I'm not being told
I'm alive

When I ask you how you sleep at night,
I'm really hoping you sleep alright.
When I ask you how you live with yourself,
I'm really asking what it's like to do everything right.
And when I say
"I never want to see your face again",
I'm thinking
'When can I see you next?'
I can't get these thoughts of you
Out of my head.

I'm sorry I made you the saddest person alive
But you made me broken inside.
I'm the saddest happy can be.
You touched my vulnerability
You memorized each part of me.
You ripped me open,
You dug in,
And I let you

I'm alright
I'm alright
I'm just fine;
Spinning madly through time

free verse
free as it could be
something inside me
is set free

Your hands linger on me
I can feel them
Why can I feel them?
Can you feel mine?

Where am I on your body?
Where am I on your heart?
Where am I on your mind?