Photo on 9-21-16 at 8.21 AM #2.jpg

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My star

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I woke up this morning feeling utterly useless. I’m ashamed to admit how insecure I am in my art and in myself. I’m ashamed to admit the horrible things I say to myself, how I am never happy with the things I make. And this morning as I creep out from under my shell I feel the overwhelming urge to share these things I never dared to utter. So please listen to me, please someone, something take this horrible hate that lives inside of me away. I am so tired of hating myself, I am so tired of never feeling good enough. I just want to be loved. I want to be loved by myself. I want to paint beautiful things, I want to create earth-shattering gorgeousness. And today I feel so extremely far from all of my goals that they appear as small as a star. Will I ever reach my star?

Pink Cellophane

Mythical brightness

in pink cellophane

glistens around

a spiraled sweet.

Do you wish to hear

the whispers of

crunchy plastic

as you untwist it,

undress it?

And when you

bite into it,

how refreshing

it is to find that

it tastes all too

familiar.

Salvia builds

and the sweetness

touches the back

part of your

mouth that

makes you

smile.

 

Its gone.

Broken Doll

Reconstructed porcelain

doll, painted eyes

and beauty in her

fragility.

But if you were

to reach out to

stroke her cheek,

you’d recoil, only

to find a red drop

march down the

creases of your

finger.

Beauty she has, but

smoothness she lacks.

Perhaps she’s better

off sitting on your

shelf, a glorified

book end.

You dance around

the room, so much

lighter since you’ve

spewed your 

sharp words at me.

How I wish I didn’t

have to pretend

that you didn’t 

hurt me,

how I wish I

too felt light,

but I am heavy

with hurt and

wonder if I’ll

ever be able

to feel light 

again