I could blame it on the butterflies—
the flightiness of things with wings.
(The fluttering
heart can only beat so fast; irregular
for so long before becoming a health hazard).

So they took off, one by one,
until none were left.

My stomach—hollow and empty;
I hope you cannot hear the echo
as you kiss my bellybutton.

I wouldn’t mention the mothballs
I swallowed to muffle my voice.
Perhaps I’m filled, actually,
with skeletons and broken wings.

Your poem 'Wine Tasting' is absolutely breathtaking to read. I could quote it for days! Such a gift you have - keep on writing girlfriend! :)

Thanks so much (:


Make dark marks.
Erase completely to change.

You ask me questions
you already know the answers to
(or think you do).

I fill in diamond designs—
crisscrossing patterns
up and down the Scantron.

I don’t think you notice.

I wonder when you became my professor,
marking red X’s on my answers.

I never wear mascara.
I braid intricate designs
pinned with flower buds
across the top of my head—

because it’s the only part of me you see.

You must hate the stars,
for having to look up at them.

You understand multiple choices or
definitive answers.

You’d have me write C programming
over poetry:
simple input/output.

I don’t know how you fit me into {braces}.

I’d write you essays instead,
but you’d need more than a magnifying glass
to read them from the height you’re at.

Already Broken

You locked away your heart
after it was already broken.

You keep pieces in a box,
like stowing confettied cash
or snippets of bills
in a bank.

You asked why
I’m not afraid of hurting.

I’ve been sliced to ribbons
and tied bows
with my remains.

I’ve frozen over
and built sculptures
out of my frost and ice.

I’ve shattered
and made suncatchers
from my shards.

Have you ever published any of your poems?

I haven’t yet!

Visible Spectrum

He told me to flip my lenses
on my heart
until everything was 20/20

so he could read every letter,
secret, flaw, complexity
to see if I was pleasing enough
to his eye.

But I am not clear.
I have fractures in my glass.
You can’t see through cracks
or erase the vision loss they create.

I have stained color between my breaks—
I have made myself
amongst my wreckage.

He’d rub Windex on my skin
until I was translucent—

I am not simple,
or easily opened and examined
and seen.

I am bright white stars in darkness;
the longer looked at, the more adjusted,
the more seen—

but I am an expanding universe

filled with outer space,
dark matter, energy

that I won’t light up
because it is mine.

Seeing is believing—
but you’re missing me
only believing what you can see:

I am so far out of your visible spectrum.

How can you write like this ? It's amazing !

Thank you so much! (:


I wake,
sit up
and feel the dust fall.

I check the mirror
six times an hour
forgetting what I look like.

No one has ever tried to sculpt me
into something far less beautiful
without my silence.

I am always the effect,
never the cause.

I let myself believe
I was a victim to circumstance
without realizing
I create my own context.

We think who we wake as
is who we are
but consciousness is not meant
for stillness.
I have hours of mobility
to move myself.

I will be an alchemist;
I can change my skin to gold.

I am oxygen, carbon, hydrogen,
nitrogen, calcium, phosphorus,
tin, titanium, nickel,
arsenic, lithium, radium.

I am sequin-palmed;
freckled like sparkles on pearled powdered skin,
shimmer haired,
and glints,
catching sunlight—

I am starlight.

I am no Ghandi
I will fight
my causeless passivity.
I will kick and punch at wishes
made on my fall.

I will not be the reflection I see.
I will paint my own portrait.

Oh My globbers, Your poetry is just perf. I'm 14 and aspire to be as good as you at poetry love your style <3

Awh, thanks so much (:

What is your greatest fear?

Being too closed off to let myself feel; letting things pass me by, by not being the most active participant in my life that I can be. Not working hard enough. Settling.