i heard somewhere once that if you read a word enough times

it doesn’t seem like it is real anymore



i want to be backyard bonfire, friday night football,

lit up small town, prom dress pretty



i want to be afternoon strolls in the park,

wildflowers in teacup vases pretty



i want to be rose quartz, smoky eye, red lip

1950s hollywood, broadway show queen pretty



i want to be white gowns but not the kind from hospitals


i want to have butterflies in my stomach but not the kind that make me puke


i want to be west virginia mountains but not the kind my best friend’s first love wanted to jump off of



i want to be pastel paintings i, want to be poetry

i want to be remembered as more than the girl who dreams in holographic white noise



i am tired of being glistening tears like the christmas lights hanging in my room

half burned out half glowing



i want to be full

i want to be well

i want to be the opposite of everything i have ever been




one day i will love everything about myself

and not hate that i can’t stop creating

when i feel like destruction.