I wonder just how human I am,

if I crave the heat of lingering touches and fevered whispers, 
yet incessantly turn their smiles and warmth away.

if my heart only knows of exits, 
not entrances - the doors are locked from within.

if I feel like a speck of dust in this frightening landscape,
but no one ever seems to be good enough for me.

if all I’ve ever wanted was to belong,
but all I am is fucking lonely.

- i wasn’t made for goodness // 

I’d have thought,
18 -
I’d be used to my bulbous nose,
my swollen cheeks,
and a squarish jaw rounded only at the edges with poor finesse.
18 - 
I’d have gotten around the sloppy hunch of my back,
the gangly arms,
and the knobbly knees.
18 -
I’d have found my way to company,
that embraces me for 
my uncanny ability to stay locked up and shut down.

But self-love is not a birthright.

It is a concept so entirely foreign, and I have spent only 17, trying to curl my trembling hands around the very notion that I could possibly be enough, enough, enough.

And while others float through these edged corridors as if they were made for this, as if they were loved by life, as if they could do no wrong - look at me, my trembling legs can barely keep up with the consuming dread of acid layered within me.

I have only known thick eyeliner drawn upon lashes saturated with the salt of yesterday’s nightmares,
Only tasted the bitter vile of lip stains smeared against thin lips that no longer recognize how to feint a smile,
Only slathered powder on skin, as if they could possibly conceal the perpetual dampness of my cheeks.

I’d have thought, 18 - I’d finally be happy.

coming of age //