i knew that from the moment that i texted you for the first time i would come to love you

i knew that every pen-stroke from then on would be a confession of my love with no remorse. i knew that every ink-filled page would only be about how i couldn't get myself to look away from your eyes and how every word to drip from your lips sounded like Shakespeare's sonnets

it's crazy because i never understood you or your love. i didn't understand why you would never let me in completely and why you would only come back o me after a long night out

what i wanted to understand was why it hurt you to open up. i wanted to know why i couldn't be yours when the sun was out or why you could never fall in love with me

i don't understand why you would look for me in other people, hurting yourself, why not come back home to me where you'd be unharmed and warm. i don't know why you don't want me to be yours

i'm sorry for every night i fell asleep waiting for to come home safely. i'm sorry  for not being beautiful enough for you to be proud of me. i'm sorry for ever making you wait. i'm sorry for not being what you imagined me to be.

but i'm begging you to see past that. see past my frizzy hair and dry skin. see past the uneven melanin and my slightly lazy eye. see past the treads of fat on my abdomen. look past by stutter and thick glasses. see the i want to give you love and refuge and i can give you something to hold on to.

who the **** am I?
what the **** do I look like?
where the **** do I fit in?
I say as I'm mindlessly brushing my teeth.  I look at the image in the mirror and ask them, "where did you even come from?"
There is no reply, only an echo of what I think my face is.

where the **** am I going?
how the **** am I going to get there?
what the **** do I even want?
I ask the image. There is no reply, only desperation in its eyes. "Do you even want to be here right now?" I ask the imagine. No answer. But I think yes. I think the image wants to be more than that. I think it wants to be. Simply, be.

I walk back to the mirror. Exist, I tell the reflection. Just exist, I tell myself

I feel so lost and trapped again. every turn is a wrong one
never enough space to breath or understand or talk
it’s upsetting that this is what it comes to sometimes
I need more, I need less, I need something
i feel so out of touch with myself, it’s makes things uncertain
but only for those who count on me to be blind
turn
turn
turn again
it’s always a wrong turn,
maybe it’s more of a circle and we are simply getting dizzy

"you're really pretty for a black girl"
I swallow that backhanded complement hard.
I can feel the shards of glass that came with it.
"you're pretty for a black girl" feels like beauty isn't synonymous with being black.
"you're pretty for a black girl" feels like passing a test I don't remember signing up for and I should be grateful I passed without preparation.
"you're pretty for a black girl" does not mean you're pretty. that means you're pretty by exception, and not because you just are.
   and that's not a compliment.
"you're pretty for a black girl" I hear them say it for the last time.
I clench the hem of my shirt , look them straight in the eye and say without missing a beat, "No. I'm just pretty."

she makes me look her in the eyes before she asks me questions.
she thinks she can tell whenever I'm not being truthful. the only thing I hope she sees is hurt. I hope she can see how badly I wish she'd just be honest with me. she says she can tell whenever I lie, she says I can't lie. but why would I when this is the only life I will live at one time and if I ever lived another, I can't remember.
lie detector.
I'm not telling the truth until I'm so overwhelmed with defeat that my eyes slowly push tears from my eyes, like a string of pearls.
I didn't know lie detectors could make you question your psyche's interpretation of everything you knew about them, about yourself.

doubt: as tiny as a mustard seed that grows a sequoia in your diaphragm.
its branches growing leaves in your lungs, making every breath you take rustle in your throat, further restricting your breathing day by day. doubt is killing you. doubt makes your stomach turn every morning and night when your mind is most tired, vulnerable, empty.

growing until its roots are attached to your bones and it becomes what wakes you up every day before the sun rises just to think about it. just to feel its weight on your body, sinking you further and further into the floor. before you know it, there is no more soul. there is no more you. you have been replayed with this flourishing sequoia tree of doubt, that when it sheds its leaves, and it is no longer present, you will never remain the same. the bowls of your soul will remain deep and echo. doubt has changed you. your lungs are empty, brittle, and ache. doubt has left you tired, vulnerable, empty.