yo- so uh here’s a place for me to dump my dumb@$$ poetry uh enjoy i guess gods, poetry is my comfort language.
—————— Covers (4.12.25) why do mirrors lie to little girls who went from wondering about which barbie they’d play as to what blush shade matched them why do cameras gossip about troubled twelve year olds who don’t think they’re attractive without flesh colored liquid covering their face why do reflections lie distorting faces so that the struggling teen will finally give up and believe that she will never truly be pretty our reflections are supposed to help but instead they make us wish we bore a vampire’s fate never wanting to see ourselves like our mothers tell us or our fathers speak of never wanting to record ourselves because “true” feminine beauty is only on the cover of a Vogue magazine and the only remaining picture of us is when we’re old and frail wishing we could have our old body and not believing ourselves when we told us we weren’t pretty —————— Time (4.11.25) My life forever a sand timer. Drip Drip Dripping through my fingers. Slowly leaking out until there's no sand left to turn, no time to be let, and the wooden rims stand still. How will I know when the timer stops dripping? And the glass finally stops turning? How will I know when I can leave the timer untouched? When I can pass it down, generations upon generations? When will it become so old that its story becomes forgotten, like an old black and white movie, where the actors never spoke. When will the timer be misplaced? Shoved in my grandchildren's basement, only for it to get sold at a yard sale to some stranger who will never know that they're holding my life in their hands. —————— Pages (4.30.25) Procrastination is my mastered subject that I only get to flaunt when the pieces of myself, broken and battered, lay strewn across the floor. My chin turns it’s back on compliments, refusing to look anywhere but that damned mess. It’s not useful when writing those stupid English essays, the ones you push to their very limit, and the struggle of writing it before it’s due somehow reminds you vaguely of yourself. I’d push myself to hell and back for some sliver of recognition, but my pride is too high to admit that I’ll never get any. I’ll never get that paper done. I’ll never pass this damned class. I’ll never be good enough. I’ll only finish one damned page —————— Love is a Feeling (8.25.25) Love is a feeling. Whether new or old, platonic or romantic, something you feel in the moment. No matter the strength, you always feel in some form. Love is an object, something passed from your favorite person, to theirs, to their friends, to anyone, though it’s never endless. Love can stop. Love can deceive. Love can destroy. And love can not be stopped. You can’t control whom you love, just as you can’t control the weather, it’s something so unpredictable that you can feel it before it happens. You love your mother, even when she’s angry. You love your father, even when the tension is so thick that you can’t cut through it with the sharpest knife in the kitchen. You love yourself even when you don’t want to. Even when you knock yourself down, over and over, hoping that love will fade. But it doesn’t. It can’t. It won’t end. You can’t let it. Hope is a being. Hope knows when you’re sad, Hope picks you back up, because even when you don’t want dust yourself off, Hope is there. Hope is always there. Even if you can’t see her. She’s there for you. She’s there to fuel your love. Love is a feeling.
