College drop-out, writer, artist, photographer, and broke adventurer.

20. ♀. Bi. Poly. Minnesota. Ramapo-for-Lifer
Occasionally #NSFW.

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#insomnia #writing #poetry

Unsent texts to my summer lovers. #writing #poetry #polyamory

The problem with being an ugly girl
in love with pretty boys
is that every time they talk to you,
it turns out to be a joke.
By the time you’re eleven you know they’re the comedians
and you’re the punchline.

The problem is that at twelve you
are not suave enough to be one of the boys
but not pretty enough
to be someone they lust after.
The problem is that at thirteen you date a beautiful girl
and you’re still worried about what the pretty boys think of your hair.

It’s that at seventeen you give yourself up to a man
who is twenty-three and more gorgeous than anyone you’ve ever dated
and at eighteen he tells you
you’re not pretty enough to keep
and that’s what’s keeping you apart—not
the thousand miles between you
and Boston.
The problem with being the ugly girl is that you believe him.

The problem
with being an ugly girl and loving pretty boys
and pretty girls
is that when they treat you wrong
you let them
because they remind you how hard it is to find someone who will keep you.
It’s that the pretty boys will sleep with you now
and won’t meet your eyes the next morning.
It’s that you spend the night with a beautiful fool
and still can’t figure out why he chose to sleep in your bed
and the idea that maybe he likes you
for you
never enters your mind.

The problem is at twenty you have more notches in your bedpost
than years on the Earth, and your lovers
tell you they love you and you
They tell you you’re beautiful
and you tell them to hush.
You still expect to hear laughter.

The problem
with being the ugly girl and loving pretty boys
is that somewhere you think you became a pretty girl
and you’re not sure how.
The problem is you spent so long loving pretty boys
that you never stopped to love yourself. The problem
is that maybe you loved too many pretty boys
who called you ugly
and now the word “pretty” tastes funny on your tongue.

The problem
with ugly boys who look pretty
is the way they make you think you’re not. The problem
with ugly boys is the way their words scar.
The problem with pretty boys with ugly hearts
is that they don’t see the way your smile blooms like flowers,
the way your laugh fills a room. They don’t see you
bursting at the seams with light.

The problem with being an ugly girl in love with pretty boys is that
you are not
an ugly girl.
You are a warrior
full of battle scars where they touched you.
You are a lion,
and gazelles are pretty, too.
You are an earthquake,
a firework, a
lightning bolt.

Now strike.
On being the ugly duckling and never turning into a swan // waitforhightide

The crickets sound different here, different
than the background to the touches of lovers who fade
to real life and indifference as the maple leaves burn red.
They are freckles on my skin I never had,
campfire embers aglow in the dark of a room that’s too big,
a house that no longer feels like home.
Cigarettes don’t taste as good alone. Free time isn’t free
with no one to spend it on.

Give me back your jutting hips in the moonlight.
Give me back your smile in the dark.
Give me back the way your hands found me
in the middle of the night,
the way the music sounded in all the cars
while we blasted down upstate roads,
Give me back what it means to feel alive.
On Missing People // waitforhightide

I once traced the freckles on your arms at two in the morning. I said,
You are the sky, and apologized
for covering you in black lines. You said
not be sorry. You said
that you liked it.
When you fell on your longboard and lost
half the skin on your left arm,
I could still see the constellations underneath.

Every time I said fuck you for three months, you said
We already played that game, and you
The night you left you never said goodbye,
only looked up at me from that rock in the parking lot
where we’d spent so much time avoiding work
and other people,
and said, oh, fuck you,
and I think maybe that meant I made you feel something
other than the emptiness you try to fill.
So I said that we already played that game
and you hugged me
and as I walked away, you shouted out,
rematch, next year! and all I could think was, oh,
fuck you,

Falling in Love with a Vagabond // crash





He’s Counting Down From 21, And By The Time He Reaches 15, My Stomach Is In Knots

When you catcall me on my bike, I
cannot even hear your words, only
your voice. I am not
turning my head out of interest, I
am wondering
how many of you are there?
I am looking to see
the size of your car
and I am wondering how much it might hurt
when you turn into my lane,
block my path,
and demand
my attention.
open letter to the men who shout from their car windows // waitforhightide

There is a deck on an empty townhouse in Belle Plaine where you can see Cassiopeia at the beginning of August. In the basement there is a bathroom with a door that sticks and somewhere down the street there is a cemetery awash in the glow of suburban streetlights where I never looked at any of the names on the headstones.

There is a series of bright green post-it notes on a desk in New York City and there is more love in those lines of ballpoint pen than in all the books stacked wall-to-wall around the windows that look over Central Park. There is a four-poster bed with a white comforter and unspoken goodbyes still caught in the sheets.

The campsite in the woods is easy to find. The secrets etched into the wood grain are not written in a language anyone is ever meant to read. The answer is in the smell of the ferns at night.

The bricks of dorm rooms hold souls that grew up and out, but never quite faded from the chipped paint.

In every room you’ve ever stood in, someone fell in love. In every house you’ve never lived in, there is a whisper of everything someone hopes to be.

Home is built with the memories of other people’s hands.

"She loved him and never told him… but I love him unconditionally."

He is God
in blue jeans. His wife,
a saint. She’ll has his children.
They’ll have his eyes, I have this moment
between the jump and the ground.
I know he doesn’t belong to me.
I am the thief, not the victim. My bed
is an empty ring box, an unmade apology.
When he leaves, I will write my vows
in the tangled sheets.
I will not yearn. I will not mourn.
I’ll hate every man with his name.