xoSoul

please, don't tell me how beautiful it is that i've parted my thighs like the sea. because there is nothing pretty about the tears in last nights dinner, or the way my hands shake around silverware. i am not poetry, but a language lost --in the spaces where flesh used to occupy lies everything i needed to say, kept as the only thing i could ever bear to swallow. if you try to write sonnets about the scars on my knuckles or the arch of my ribs, i will tell you in nine syllables less that this is more than abstinence and foggy reflections. i will tell you how my little sister can carry me in her arms like a child, and how my father can hardly

1. there is no center of the universe. there is you. there is you and every time i look at you, i figure out all over again that miracles exist, because you are not anything someone could ever repeat—you are a mess of perfectly executed mistakes and you have never failed to take my breath away. 2. sometimes, the girl dances. sometimes she doesn’t, but it rains and rains more and sometimes your clothes stick to your skin but don’t you dare care. promise. 3. you are not an apology, no matter how many times you say you’re sorry. your mother did not create you for you to regret the amount of space you take up. 4. someth