Friday, January 25, 2013

and i think i've been carving myself into something to show them, 
something breathtaking and it's not working because the paints
are all dried and cracked like a desert floor 
and i curve where i'm supposed to stand and what if someone is just born wrong.

it's shameful
to understand that you're as old as the sea and as soft
as a fledgling

i could write books about places i've been and seen
D.C. alone at seventeen, wasted and hollow and strung up by my ankles just
trying to make someone love me 
and it seems 
to be all it amounts to- trying to make someone love you in a way that 
you can't. 

breaking down in the butter aisle because i can't really control
anything that i thought i could. 
breaking down in the butter aisle because i fear i'm a stump and i'm supposed to be a tree
breaking down in the butter aisle because 
she is dying 
quickly
and i could have been her and she could have been me 
so easily.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Your saddest writing is also the most beautiful. Everything about this is perfect.

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