I.
There are days when
I think everything in my life is a graveyard
That nothing lasts forever
and I will outlast anything good
There are days when
the tide is always going
out
out
out
and this exposed shore's
scattered with salt soaked corpses
But today it's golden hour
and I'm holding your hand

II.
I'm in my room with a trash bag
I'm tired of holding onto things
because it reminds me of something
and I'm scared no one will love me again
So I'm in my room with a trash bag
because I will be loved again
I'm sorry everytime a good thing happens
I think nothing will ever be as good as this
I'm sorry when I'm happy
I know that it will end
So I'm in my room with a trash bag
learning to be okay when something ends

III.
You are not a poet
you were not a poet before me
and you are not a poet after me
for a brief moment,
our paths intersected,
I was a poet
and maybe you were too by association

Take the words about me off your page
Take the pencil out of your hand
And stop writing about me
Stop writing
You are not a poet
Stop writing of my death
I am not dead

IV.
The other day,
30 girls in the locker room
Crowded and busy but mostly
warm, cosy, here you can borrow my
shorts
deodorant
eyelash curler
Perfume spraying everywhere
everything and also
Fire alarm ringing
suddenly the warm isn't cosy it's
hot
stuffy
burning and still
Shoes lacing up
Jackets unzipping
25 girls in the locker room
Fire alarm blaring overhead
"Can I borrow your mascara?"
"Does this shirt show too much of my
stomach?"
20 girls in the locker room
Flames licking up their stomachs
But then again is that any different
Than any other day
Because being small and
Being loved feel exactly the same
Skin and bones and then just bones
But at least their shoulders aren't there to be
distracting,
right?

Beauty standards come before comfort and
This is not a drill