i am the type fromed of a generation
that couldn't care less
or more.
our apathy matches our passion
our rebellion matches our morality.
somewhere between remaining normal
and standing out,
average and unique:
a girl like me can only be an extreme.
Built with a sign next to my number that inevitably will read:
"nowhere near enough"
or
"way too much"--
that is how my substance is determined,
fating if i'm worth sacrificing a need for beauty.
not: funny, interesting, special enough.
too: heavy, average, much.
i'd like to think my personality outweighs
my weight itself
that what is inside me is more than enough
to carry my heft--
easier ever to believe the only that are second chanced
are those that ever got a first.

i know you hear my complaints
pay attention to them, God.
i don't know how to ask for help
but know i only ask you.
hear me late at night
when the ocean is the only living
and i am awake with the worries
of a shallow heart.
I refuse to believe your happiness
n my disappointend appearances
but rather delight in my renewed faith
and sincere need of you.
Because of you inmistakable purpose for me
and granted confusion in my understanding
i remain a girl who has yet to understand
why we've been chosen to bear our such burdens;
but puts th outcome of such decisions
in he palms of your wisdom.

i am the sume of the things i must be.
most can depend on their perfect curve
a narrow mid
slender features
an ability to be daintily loved by anyone.
by a bat of a lash
a walk from wall to wall
they warrant an affection that takes me
all my best talents
efforts
material.
i've grown to learn that i add up to
a person you wouldn't just
love
but rather would have to decide to
learn to
consciously choose to.
and if i were to change one thing,
if nothing else
it'd be for that decision
lesson
choice
to be forever.
because i've also learned
nothing one can feel
is set in
stone,
besides already wishing
what one can feel
happened more
often.

Everything

(my perfectly curled hair
my evenly applied skin tone
my sugar painted lips
every sparkle on my lids
every gem on my lobes
every streak on my lock
all my layers pulled tight
all my straps well adjusted
all my fixings kept discrete)

isn't what it seems.

Lack of motivation,
a messy collage
or disorganized emotion,
lazy,
disgraceful,
a baggage loaded depiction
of a pretty face.

How has He created me
(designed,
crafted)
to define the need of
overcompensation,
despite the work done to
measure up
more than enough,
never enough.

I cried out to the One
whose idea this was,
created in His image,
disappointed without progress,
lacking vision beyond the moment,
despising what i see.

How am i to represent you, God
if you haven't done the same.
How am i to change the flaws
if you've kept the same mistakes.
How am i to ever love,
if in return is hate.

I cried out to You,
and despite my muffled
desperate
temporary
insincere
pleas for strength,
you've blessed
(in sight.
in faith.
in (true) beauty.)

and i've yet to know how
to have what i've wanted for
so long.

I've nothing but the face of one you'd like to love
but can't bring yourself to look
beyond what you think you see,
what you'd rather believe
what you've always sworn by.

I am more than the width of my back
the skin from my chin
the gravity of my legs.
My character adds up to more
than the number you've
engraved on my chest
burned on my arms
replaced for my face.

I chose not to judge you
by the weight of your sin
by your mass of humanity
by the heft of mistakes;
they remain etched under your
beauty
same ugliness, harder to read.

"i know everyone had their own reinvention...
but yours has a taste that's hard to swallow."