I want to be the kind of girl
that you write stories
about.
To love and be loved
To be felt in your
soul.

Then it hits me.
I’m unimaginative.
And I can prove it
My poems are nothing
but the thoughts in
my head.
And I can’t write poetry without reading
some first.

My brain it wanders
and they say
my lies are
beautiful

What’s beautiful is
the blood in my veins
and my scarred thighs
along with the bruises
I get from picking
fights.

But these lies that
I spill onto paper
from my veins
is not beauty!

It couldn’t be
for my cuts are
not deep enough
to be considered
beautiful.