Your Most Vulnerable

Insecurity lurks in the deepest part of you,

waiting until you are at your most vulnerable

before sinking its teeth into you.

For me, it’s when I get too comfortable;

blur the lines between my hopes and my reality.

I think If I repeat something enough,

it surely will become true with time.

That’s not always the case.

I try to love myself and make myself believe

That I am good enough and deserve to feel good

but that listen voice whispers in my ear,

when I’m at my peak; all alone:

“But actually you don’t.”

It’s poison keeps dripping, from sharp fangs.

The rolling rock gains momentum:

“You don’t deserve anything really.

You’re kidding yourself if you could ever believe

that you can ever be happy, find love, feel pleasure

because why on this earth would anyone ever choose you?”

Words can cut you worse than catching a falling blade.

You realize what you’ve done moments before

you feel the pain; see the blood.

Insecurities find ways to surprise you

and remind you that when you think you are at your strongest,

you’ve actually never been weaker.

 

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To Be Happy

I work so damn hard to be happy

which is why it kills me that I’m not.

I Tell Myself

I tell myself

not to worry;

everything will be fine.

But my anxiety doesn’t listen.

 

I tell myself

let them be negative.

You can still be positive.

But my anxiety doesn’t listen.

 

I tell myself

their words have no power

unless I give it to them.

But my anxiety doesn’t listen.

I tell myself

to ignore their drama;

Don’t let it affect you.

But my anxiety doesn’t listen.

 

I tell myself

to just let it go;

Move on with your life.

But my anxiety doesn’t listen.

Hurricane

I’ve never been one to mind a little rain.

Everything needs a little water to grow.

It’s when the hurricanes hit that I begin to quake.

A little rain won’t hurt they say,

but what do you do when you’re drowning?

Drowning in despair, emotions, thoughts

with no idea when or why the storm had to strike now.

Maybe you’ll get some false hope

in an eye of the storm where

you’ll let yourself believe

that it can get better; it will get better

only to be hit by the other half of the storm,

far more furious than the last.

All you can do is bunker down and stay inside,

hoping that this storm won’t be your last.

But that’s hard to do when you know at the end,

when the sun decides to make a reappearance,

you’ll be faced with the devastation and despair

that came from the havoc and furry of the beast.

It’s hard to let yourself rebuild everything up

when you know that at any moment

another hurricane could strike and tear you right back down.

I’d like to believe that horrible cyclones are few and far between,

but I’m more realistic than that.

Whether I intended to or not, I have to realize

that my life has set its roots on the coastline

and I am forever destined to keep being hit

by bad hurricanes over and over

and the only way out is to either succumb

or get my shit together and move out,

but that’s a lot more strength than you’ll find

behind these batters doors .

Lipstick on a Pig

You can put lipstick on a pig,

but guess what?

It’s still a pig.

So maybe if people continue

to call something

other than what it is

in your eyes,

even though you’ve tried

to cleverly disguise it as

something else entirely,

then maybe,

just maybe,

it’s time to admit you have a pig.

 

 

Author’s note: Please don’t actually refer to a girl as a pig. This is just a metaphor. She will not appreciate it.

 

The Last Time

I can’t recall the last time someone looked at me

and told me what they like about me.

I can’t remember the last time someone gave me

an ounce of hope that maybe I am pretty.

I can’t distinguish in my mind the last time someone

made me feel good about myself…

but I can sure as hell give you a list

of all the times someone told me the opposite

Fairytales

I wish that fairytales were real

because that would mean that

dreams really do come true

just because you will them too

and patiently wait for them to happen

and everyone gets a happy ending,

even me.

But that’s just not the case.

Love is a sham

and the more you believe in it,

the more you’ll get hurt.

then again, if you don’t believe in love,

the world reveals it’s cold self,

and it’s miserable living there,

but so is living in a constant state

where you believe that any day now

you’re fairytale will come true

and your prince will finally love you.

Go ahead and pick you poison:

reality or an apple.

 

Girls Like You

It must be nice to be you.

Girls like you that look like that-

tiny, thin, attractive.

What society wants girls to look like.

It must be nice to be able

to talk about your weight

and weight loss with ease

in public settings like the pool.

But it’s not for me.

I know everyone has their struggles,

and a different mountain to climb,

but when you sit 5 feet from me

and complain about going from

104 pounds to 110,

and calling yourself fat,

it kills me inside.

You are so thin.

You re so confident.

You are so beautiful.

I would give almost anything

to deal with your dilemma.

Because as you stated,

girls our height are supposed to weigh

one hundred forty pounds max.

You may be far beneath that,

but I am far above that

and hearing you flaunt this fact

while I am in earshot

right after I just worked my ass off

discourages me.

I wish I could flaunt confidence

the way you can flaunt your stomach,

but I can’t. I’m insecure.

And my progress is slow

and a long journey awaits me.

But please, just please

let me feel comfortable

and supported

and empowered to take it.

Don’t slow me down.

I have an extra 100 pounds

to do that for me.

 

The Perfect Love Story

Someone asked me today

to describe the perfect love story

but the truth is you can’t.

There is no such thing.

Love is messy.

Love is unique.

Love is all over the place.

One story that may speak to me,

may speak differently to you

because we don’t have the same heart.

And the things I have felt

in my 21 years of experience

cannot ever be fully captured in words

no matter how hard I may try.

The truth is love is its own language

and it writes it’s own stories

that are intended for small, intimate audiences

and it’s not up to me to put it into words.

I cannot capture the full meaning

behind a smile’s joy

or certain looks given

or even laughs shared.

I cannot only feel the perfect love story

and hope people can catch a small glimpse

of it through my eyes

as I try to live the story.

Love is not a perfect story to be told.

Love is a life to live to it’s fullest.

 

9 Years

9 years.

That’s a long time.

That’s how long I was waiting.

Waiting for you to notice me.

Waiting for you to see me.

Waiting for you to say you love me.

Waiting for you to hear me cry myself to sleep,

maybe on just one of those nights

and to ask me what was wrong.

That’s 3,287 chances you had

and you didn’t use any of them.

So now here we are.

You want to make amends

and try to make  it up to me for

all the times you ignored me

when I needed you most;

when you were all that I needed.

But you have damaged me.

I cannot be fixed.

I cannot be retaught that I deserve love

after all the times you showed me I did not.