Harsh Complexion, Sincere Reflection

January 3, 2018
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5 feet,
2 inches.
Long, brown hair,
Big, blue eyes.

This is me.
The girl who sobs whenever she sees dogs,
The girl who prefers the discomfort of sand on the beach,
over the shivering goosebumps
on the highest mountain peak.
The girl who drags her feet across the ragged concrete
because the only way you can go,
Is forward.

But, people don’t see that.
They don’t see the cracked wrinkles around my eyes,
From laughing too hard..
They don’t see my skinned over scar,
That I got from dancing on the jagged wood floor in my socks.

They see her.
The girl who’s headphones are so loud,
That the drums pound on the base of her neighbor’s eardrum.


The girl that “struts” through the hallways
with a stone cold expression.

But do they know?
Do they know how it feels to
push through the pressure
to become metamorphic?

Do they know how to fight through the heat
to see themselves become igneous?

But mostly,
Do they know how it feels to push through pressure,
and fight through blazing heat,
Just to become sedimentary, again?
It’s a rocky feeling.

The girl who, they think, is a not-so friendly butterfly,
After all,
Camouflage is meant to keep you alive,
right?

The girl who gives harsh, raw advice;
advice so raw that she leaves bloody footprints as she walks away. 
But instead of slapping on seasoning
and barbecuing it to perfection,
they let it rot.
Let the putrid smell sit in their nose because
changing it for the better taste,
means that there is room for mistakes.

But I get it;
I mean I get the fact that you can’t barbecue anything to perfection
Because everyone has different taste buds.
And I understand that
and I just want to show them that taste buds evolve
The longer they let the flavor
Sink into your tongue.

But I can’t.
I can’t show them how to savor something
I can’t show them because I don’t have the power to take it
and shove it down their throat until they realize
“it’s not that bad”.
I don’t have the power to dangle it over their nose
Dangle it until the aroma grows,
On them

But I’m trying.

Trying to show them that my harshness
means that I care deeper than the Mariana Trench.
That I will fill my lungs with salt and seaweed,
Just to bring you back up for air.

I know what it’s like to have someone
turn away from the salty stench


Trying to show you that your silver armor,
Doesn’t always yield the fiery breath of a dragon
Don’t they see these burns I harbor?

They don’t.
All they see is the black.

I slip on the black leather boots,
that hold my feet together as they dance over rugged gravel.
I shakily dance on my black, ripped jeans,
that resist the rubbing together of my thighs.
And l slide my black woven sweater over my torso,
that hides my faded pen tattoos.

And all they see is black.

They don’t see that all I yearn for,
Is a partner to tear my boots up with,
As the gravel makes jagged cuts
Into the leather.

And that I would love
if someone took their pen
And caressed it over my skin,
So I’m their canvas.

They don’t see that
I will clog my pores full of salt,
So that they can crystallize.

That I will shed my armor and
bear the blistering burns,
So that they can protect their porous skin.

That I will stand at the grill
Until clock hands intertwine
and help them barbeque it to perfection,
As long as they,
drizzle the seasoning.

But most of all,
They don’t realize that I am
5 feet
2 inches
With long brown hair
And I have big blue eyes

So where in the centimeters measured,
Where in the inches counted,
Where in the strands of brown hair,
Where in the blank gaze of my eyes,

Did my deepend care,
Turn to shallow despair?

When did
my blatant honesty,
Make me bossy?

But most of all,

When did my fierce reluctance,
To not let anyone make
the same mistakes as I,
Turn to emotional absence?






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