I am the bane of your existence
I am that which you seek
I am but a circle
In a rectangular prison
But if you release me
I will take you
On adventures,
Over mountains,
Through caves,
Beneath skyscrapers.
I make you happy
I make you angry
I am an experience
Or merely just a game.

A lowly bud grows
Someday it will be
A bright red tulip

Stone, stone, stone,
How ancient and wise you must be.
With ages and ages of knowledge and pages
of books hidden within your gray outside.

Stone, stone, stone,
What would happen if you were to be thrown?
Into a river, down a hill, past the moss-covered path to the mill.
Into the lake, dark and deep,
Where for many a year you soundly sleep.

Stone, stone, stone,
You seem to be extremely tame.
If a person trips, are you to blame?
Is your long life but a useless game?
Do you find human culture lame?
Or do you think it's all the same,
Because you are a stone?
Stone, stone, stone.

I suppose I ought to let you know
Just how appreciative I am
Of your service to me
And my feet

You took me places
On clouds
I don't remember
Ever getting sore heels

We've seen all kinds of weather
Fierce rain on the morning walk to school
And mother nature's many mood swings
Have taken a toll on you

Your smooth black laces
Are frayed and caked
With crusty salt
From the sidewalk that once was icy

Your once black leather
Is dull and gray
And has splotches
Of mud and dust

Once you were fit for any occasion
Now all I put you on for
Is to go get the mail;
A job better suited for slippers

Someday I promise
To shine you up
Give you new laces
And go for a walk with you.

Some secrets
Ought to be kept alone
Ready to wait
Ready to die
You made me this way

Not once did I flinch
Only did I fear that you

Might try again
Or maybe take things farther. Id
Rather not think about it for
Every time I do, I become                                           *S T R O N G E R

An empty canvas
arose in her heart
as she picked up her brush
and began to paint

She mixed her greens with her dreams
and the blues with hope
and the reds with her anger
and the yellow with her fright

She gripped her tools
with white knuckles
and stared at the canvas
with her black pupils

She painted how she felt
green and blue
and yellow and red
until all she had was a ruined canvas.

Sorry.

Not for the bruises inscribed in my knees at six years old,
or gravel-shaped cuts dotting my palms
after being kicked off my bike like a rodeo bull,
or even the sliver of a scar on my right index finger
from closing it in a van door when I was seven.

No, I have no remorse
for the innocent;
not a twinge of sympathy regarding the unfortunate results
of relatively harmless careless actions
and playful worth-it memories.

I’m sorry for the other things.

I don’t mean running
or swimming
or dancing
until the soreness embedded itself in my muscles, my
heart racing, pulse pounding
in my ears.
I don’t regret that.

I’m sorry
for the other things.

I’m sorry for hating you.
I’m sorry for all of the
preening and plucking and
shaving and waxing and
hair burning.

I’m sorry for the countless repulsed glances at the spot
where my stomach puffs out
and all of the daggers I stared into the place
where my thighs meet.

I am sorry for getting slashed at
by the perfectly intact glass
of the bathroom mirror, for feeling severed,
just by seeing its reflective surface.

I’m not sorry for taking up space,
but I’m sorry I ever was.

I am sorry for
switch off the light,
lock the door,
the scratch of fingers in my throat
and the starkness of the cold linoleum floor
routines
I practiced because I loathed
the way you curved
and the fatness of my pseudo-waist.

I’m sorry for falling into patterns of self-hate
that I aimed at you. Patterns
not unlike that of an alcoholic,
commencing with afternoon drinks or slightly restricted meals
and ending with wildly depressing stories to tell
and crying on stranger’s floors—
but there is no Lackers of Self-Esteem Anonymous,
no chips to collect
for every time I tell myself I’m beautiful
or, better yet, value more
than my appearance.

I am sorry for thin red lines that ran deep into my wrists
and I am sorry for the faint-inducing heat
that followed,
caused by the oversized and long-sleeved sweatshirts I hopelessly donned
to cover you up.

I’m sorry for discarding that one dress
(that you looked stellar in, by the way)
because I had degenerated into such an unhealthy
and addictively abhorrent relationship with you
that I feared
even the slightest tightness
in my attire.

I’m sorry for habitual body monitoring. I’m sorry
for using my fingers to count calories
and not positive attributes. I’m sorry
for all of the aforementioned repugnant routines
I’ve picked up over the past few years,
whether I’ve stopped them or not,
I’m sorry.

I am.

So, body, when I say
that this is an apology note,
I don’t mean I’m sorry for  the time
I skipped salad and went straight to pizza,
or even the countless dinners when
I put an extra brownie on my plate.

No, I have no remorse for that.
I don’t regret that.

I’m sorry for hating you.

But, like a sinner coming up after sinking
in a blessed lake of holy water,
I am ready to fill my lungs with new breath. I will repent
with the radical act of self-love

and I promise that I will treat you better.