Her own love isn't enough
it never is
not when she can't be what her mother wants.
tears of desperation fall and
linger below her eyelashes
and dry on her cheekbones

those cheekbones her mother gave her
those cheekbones her mother birthed to her
Yet,
she wasn't enough
not when her other children
are there.

One more time,
she tells herself
thoughts of hope and accomplishment
give her pride, give her validation,
yet not enough validation
to be cared for like the other children
not enough to be heard.

her mother's words caress her
endearing her that she's good enough.
But the truth that she feels is
so powerful and vivud,
she knows that she possibly
couldn't be good enough.
No matter how many
things her mother tells her,
she knows the truth,
even if her mother can't see the truth.

It's not enough.
Not when she can't be the daughter
her sister is; she
could never be for her mother.

Sophistication,
is it determined by grace,
by stature,
or by class?

For sophistication is to
be defined by not what
a person has, but
by what a person can
accomplish.

His hands were calloused,
they were home and a
remedy for the mixture of
my sickness that I never
could pinpoint.

Hands, such a feature
that could be the instrument
of a subordinate
and domineering teacher.

They are looked upon,
not given thought nor inquisition,
but that wasn't the case for me.

Those hands were
where I found my
reprieve, an unhealthy
and vindictive reprieve.

Those hands were
a paradox of all
things combined.
Those hands were a
paradox for the cruelties
and involuntary injustices
in the world; A world
that was filled with grizzly
reprimands and slurs for
those who spoke up.

Indeed, a paradox those
controlling and
manipulative hands were.
They were cruel.
They were kind.
They were abusive.
They were reassuring.
They were foreign.
They were home.
They were the origin
for my shred of sanity.
They were the origin
for my absurdity.

Oddly enough,
they were home.

A cruel world seals
its fate and its pearls.
It leaves the rarity of
oddities abandoned among
the normalities of abuse.

Among those normalities
and oddities were those
hands.

Thorns cut so deep
they broke through the barrier
of my hard whipped flesh.

  They were coarse,
they were harsh,
and barbed with
the ambiance of
torment.

They pricked at my skin,
ushering up trickles
of crimson.

   The small droplets and lines
  of such a vibrant color
coated my skin in the
philosophy of neglect and
malnutrition of empathy.

Thorns wrapped themselves
around my body, encompassing
them in a way that showed
no
mercy.

I was the result of such an action,
I was cut and bleeding,
and yet I remained standing,
for the pain and torment of the
lingering thorns and their
barbed prefaces became
a part of me.

I was set aside by my own accord.
  I chose to live in a world of subtle   loneliness,
hiding who I was,
remaining hidden in the shadows of
ever green hope and dismal
sorrow.


I hid from love.
    I hid from affection.
   I hid in fear of risk,
    and I couldn't, for
  risk brought me too much pain.

My prowess kept me away,
it let me leave without as much
as a glimpse being slipped
back in the direction of
my betrayal.

****** and battered.
Weeping and crying.
That's what it took, but
you accepted that.
You embraced it for the
sake of my sanity,
for the sake of love.

    You gave in, and I
  wanted to run, just
   as I always had.

I prepared for it.
Your words frightened me,
but your actions only did worse.
Your kindness was beyond
that of another that I had ever met.

  That's when I planned to
take my leave, but when
I turned on my heel,
when I took a few steps away,
I
  Hesitated.

That's when you had me,
that's when I knew I couldn't leave,
but I had to.
Didn't I?

It's all I knew.
  I only knew to leave
when there was good
because sooner or later
there would be only be pain.

That's all there ever was,
and I was to blame.

You waited for me, and
I shakily turned around,
obliging to the pull
you had over me.

I'd been there before, but there you were,
and in that moment I knew I
wouldn't have to run away;
I knew you made
me feel something deep and raw,
something that only natural emotions
could restore in my fractured
mind and heart.

I risked it;
I wasn't afraid of the outcome,
for being away from you
suffocated me
more than any small space could,
more than any wave that rolled
over me in
an endless cycle could.

You broke me so you
wouldn't have to suffocate.
You tore me apart so you
could remain in one piece.
You stole my compassion so
you could be kind.

You were nothing short of a monster,
nothing short of a being
who fed off of sorrow my
and depression.

You fed such incorrigible
desires with your actions,
and I didn't see it.

   I was far too engraved
  in the very transgressions of my
illusions; the offense
of your brilliantly covert mind.

So manipulative you were,
yet I was so willing to listen to
your words, to anything
around me that involved you,
but you were a
monster.

   Nothing less.

   Nothing more

You dug your claws into my flesh;
you pierced your teeth into the warm fabric,
lapping away at the life force I had.

You did what monsters did.
You broke me.
You stole what you could from me.
You made me weak.
You made me small.
You kept me around for your own
persuasions and manipulations.

I was your means to an end,
just as any monster's victim is.

You chose me.
   I let you in.
I kept you closest to me, revealing
that of my darkest secrets and
fears,
but you used that against me.

Such intimate details were wasted
on a monster, and they only fed
Into your rough agenda.

Fear, pain, and anguish
that's what you
craved, and that's what you
received from me.

A monster you are.
A monster you will always be.

Nothing less.

Nothing more.

Ruining her was a part of the plan.
It was a part of his prose that he
so deliberately wrote down.

   Ruining her was merely a
  fraction of his deepened
attraction and rooted nature
that was of his own accord.

One look, one simple taste
was enough for him to determine
his destructive path.

  She had no say in such a plan,
for she wasn't aware of such intentions
that would soon ruin her,
everything she stood for,
and the innocence and
compassion that
she prided herself in.

That vanity and that admiration
for her compassionate
conceit is what
drew him to her.  

  That's what he wanted.
A passionate conceit because
he so coldly lacked one.
He desired to have it, to
possess what was hers.


He wrapped his digits
around the
width of such vanity,
stroking it with
brutal gentleness,
and then
he ripped it apart,
tainting and corrupting it
until that very conceit
was tarnished.

   Ruined and stained,
  that's what she was.

That's what he wanted.
He could taste it on his tongue,
lapping up at the censure
flavor of power.

It was bitter and prudent,
and he expected nothing
else.

That varnished and
sour taste was merely a
reminder of what he had done,
of what he was relishing in.

  He was cunningly honest.
  He was vehemently kind.
  He was brutally gentle.