it feels like the feather of a bird;
so light and airy like
when you're walking down the street
and someone bumps into you
you praise every higher power out there that
you didn't collapse because
you're just so small and everyone
else tells you that you're so pretty
but you don't feel pretty you just want
to go back to the old you but
that's impossible because the feeling of swallowing
something scorches your throat as if there's acid
in it and the feeling of substance in your stomach
scars more than any stretch mark ever could
and big sweaters become your best friends because they
cam hide your weight and when you're tired of everything
you just swing by park and engulf yourself with a big
sweater even though you wish it could be human touch but
you haven't let anyone touch you in 3 months because then
they'd see how hollow you are and somewhere in
the back of your mind you know this is a problem but you
don't want to admit you have another problem,
so instead you let big sweaters swallow you whole;
and you keeping cursing every time that guy on the
street comes around because if he bumps into you with
that basketball you might shatter
and you've already done so much,
and everyone thinks you look so pretty
that's all you ever wanted to be, pretty

*do you feel pretty now?

the scars that line your wrists remind me of
fallen paper planes, like you
tried so hard to make it perfect, to
make it go places, to make it wonder
through hills but instead it went crashing down like
your tears midway, like it thought it was hopeless
you thought you were hopeless because all
the other planes had engines and
they were battery operated from the start,
so statuesque so perfect
they were trained from the start to stand tall,
****** in stomachs, labored breathing and it
hurts so much but it doesn't matter because they
were pretty, the best of the best
and you were just left in the dirt, stuck in the mud
like a fallen paper plane so you gave yourself
paper cuts because you thought you deserved it, you thought
that they were right, that everybody else was just born better than
you; they must've received some sort of memo
that you didn't because god it feels like that,
it feels like a bitter desperation and a lonely hatred all
at once because some part of you hates their beach blonde hair
and magazine worthy body
but the worst part is not watching them receive praise
and lead the life you can only dream about, no,  
the worst part is knowing that no matter what
you will never be able to compare to them because
you are a fallen paper plane, filthy from the dirt you had fallen
in, scarred from the thoughts you can't turn off, and hopeless;
already too old to know better than false naivety

what they never tell you however,
is how easy it is to rebuild a paper
plane and how all batteries will expire
and one day, that certain shade of beach blond hair
will become discontinued and that
life goes on until it decides to stop  

(h.l.)