Evergreens
Leaning against the evergreens,
the scent of the forest,
you hold me so tight
that I can barely breathe.
Your kiss softly burns my skin.
In life, I always seem to fall between the cracks,
buried deep in the earth’s crevices.
I’m the invisible one.
But when you look at me,
I feel seen.
I always thought being in love was dangerous,
for it has only taught me cynicism and defeat.
But the way your eyes gaze into my soul,
they remind me of the stars above
beautiful, but terrifying.
It seems that I have faltered from my own rules.
Pink Lingerie
I looked at myself in the mirror,
wearing the pink lingerie you bought me.
No shade to Picasso,
but I felt like one of his cubist portraits—
a reflection that never matched
the description I’d been given.
My nipples were hard,
not from desire,
but from the cold,
from being torn apart,
and from how much I hate
the feeling of lace on my skin.
I’ve heard that sex sells.
If that’s true, I’ve sold my soul.
I’ve mistaken sex for love so often
that ex-lovers have owned
the entirety of my being.
They say lingerie makes you sexy,
and being sexy makes you
desirable.
I foolishly thought
it was the same as being loved.
The Worthiness of a Daughter
I never looked for my dad
in the crowd at events
reward days, volleyball games, or graduation.
I figured if I set the bar low enough,
then I couldn't be disappointed.
And if I couldn't be disappointed,
then I wouldn't have to feel any pain.
The same concept shaped
how I approached dating men.
Growing up, I heard my dad’s comments.
I gathered he only respected women
when they had perfect bodies.
So, I thought, maybe if I got in shape,
he'd respect me too.
Then I'd finally be worthy
of a proud father.
I lost all this weight
not only off my body,
but also off my conscience.
I learned treadmills and scales
aren't enough to make him
proud of his daughter.
So, I let him go.
To The Girl
Lately, I’ve been thinking about a girl
whose eyes burn brighter than the stars,
but whose voice is no louder than a whisper
The earth seems to crumble
when she wraps her hands around it,
for she has yet to grasp that no matter how fiercely she claims her independence,
Her soul is delicate, and her pain is immense.
She had not realized that she is not a map leading her parents
to the elusive place they seek.
Nor is she the problem;
She is not the solution either.
No matter how far she reaches,
she cannot bridge the chasms
she is not forged to fill the gaps.
They spend days tearing their hearts apart,
sowing discord and chanting,
“Look at me, look at my pain,
look at what she did, look at what he did.”
When they’re done, they expect her to be waiting
with a needle and thread,
ready to stitch them back together again.
She is not the reason some drift through sleepless nights.
She is not the hero.
They often cliff dive,
waiting for her to catch them,
only to fall upon her,
knocking her off balance,
their weight pressing against her spine.
They smash her face into the dirt,
Yet they wonder why she struggles to breathe.
Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the girl
whose world felt so permanent.
She has yet to realize that life is a dry-erase board,
as some mistakes can be erased.
For the ones that cannot,
the ones written in permanent marker by careless hands
no, they don’t vanish entirely,
but those lines grow faint,
allowing her to create a beautiful, imperfect space.
I want to hold her close,
to tell her she is like the moon
though she is lonely in the darkness,
while others may shine more brightly in the light,
You are the one who brings the tide to the shore.
You move still waters;
your power is so great it controls gravity.
Baby, you are a force whose dreams can never die.
Children of Appalachia
She whispers to us,
Her chill running through my soul.
Mist in the eyes,
Smoke in the veins
Alas, not all is lost.
A path that looks dreary
Only fools those who do not look,
For there are clearings in the darkest forests
Where both the highest
and deepest places can be seen
No comments:
Post a Comment