The Loveliness of Being


I am not delicate.

I’ve always been a little too much of something

and not enough of everything else.

A little too quiet

and far too loud,


but not too pretty,


but not smart enough.


See, the problem with me

is I have always been too




like the sunlight in your eyes during a hangover;

something that should have been soft

but wasn’t soft at all.


Perhaps that’s why

I’ve taken to standing

on the roof of my house

when it rains,

because I hope that

the storm will blow me


and then I’ll just feel

this weightlessness,

this incredible lightness of being,

that comes with being



Can you imagine that?


My eyes will be cool and pale,

pearly like daisy petals,

and my bones–

oh, how they will

rise to the surface of my skin,

shyly at first,

like a bashful virgin

gazing up through her eyelashes

at her lover,

and then with growing confidence;

they will ripple within me,

blades of grass breathing in the wind,

and for the first time,

I will believe that these bones of mine exist,

because I wasn’t sure before.

But now, I can see them,

and what lovely bones they are!


I will float

from the lightness

in my stomach,

and my heartbeat will

grow faint with time,

until eventually I find

that it ceases altogether,

because lately,

I’ve been feeling less

with my heart

and more with my eyes;

my heart never felt

what my eyes chose not to see.

I have taught those eyes

of mine

to only see the beauty

because the ugly

reminds me too much

of what I was like before.


How divine I will be–

a dwindling woman–

with these dainty wrists

and exquisite collarbones,

swaying to the low hum

of dead poet’s voices

singing love songs

on the record player.

And I will be thin as smoke,

and white as snow,

like Ophelia,

with flowers

in my hair

and water in my lungs,

because sometimes

I think I might drown myself

when I don’t feel lovely enough.


And I will only wear light colours;

periwinkles and lilacs,

silvers and greys–

the colour of cobwebs.

And when they all see me,

they will gasp,

because they will think

that I look astonishingly similar

to a butterfly.

And I will be graceful,

and elegant,

and some man will be able

to sweep me up into his arms

as if I were a feather,

and he will be able to look deep

into my hollow eyes without flinching,

because they always say

everything feels so much better

when you are thin–

and how right they  are!

I will be delighted

at how little I have become,

because he will be able

to fit has hands all the way around

my waist,

and when he spins me

as we dance,

he will admire how fragile

I am,

because ‘they don’t make

women like that these  days.’


I will be simply dizzy

from how slender I’ll be,

for I will never have felt so

significant before,

in all my years

of existing.

I’ll be like

the fluffy white seeds

of dying dandelions–

the ones you make wishes on

when you’re just a kid,

and I will hang,


in the breeze,

waiting to be planted and grow roots

that stretch down past the ashes

from the parade of lost souls

that are buried beneath the ground.

I’ll be so soft,

and light.


And I’ll be top-filled

to the brim

with the most remarkable loveliness

that only comes

with being



Isn’t that a wonderful thought?

Swan Lake

My Sky

I used to sit and fix my gaze upwards… and I would wonder who I was meant to be.

My sky was meant to be painted in the raw spectrum of the rainbow, where every color jumped in vibrant exclamations of wanting to be great. Every hue in my sky was meant to be lurid and glaring, flaming in its brilliance, thriving in the pulse of its unlovely but spectacular color.

But instead, the sky is pale and pretty, painted from a pallet of clear, fresh tints and sketched from delicate pencils. Soft shades and sweet hues blend in loveliness… but I don’t want the sky to be lovely.

My sky was meant to bleed reds and greens, blues and oranges, yellows and purples, and every single shade of gray. It was meant to catch fire from the force of its unrestrained passion and daring fervency.

But instead, the sky falls apart like the petals of a rose, perpetually dropping in silence and taping itself back together with lines from forgotten melodies.

My sky was meant to be woven from drops of heaven sliding down the horizon like fallen stars. I was meant to hold a needle and thread so I could sew the curve of the sun into a seamless circle that ends where I begin…

…but instead, the muted hush of reality has hemmed itself into the lining of the sky.

my-sky-1My sky was meant to breathe in my ardor and breathe out a freedom that I could take and pin to my spirit to make it wilder. It was meant to curve so that it could fit the splendid arches of the rainbow. It was supposed to unite the strokes of sunrise at the horizon with the arms of trees reaching upwards to stroke the dawn. In its effervescent fearlessness, my sky was supposed to meet the demands of the world with a smirk written in the stars. It was meant to pull vermilion clouds into middle-finger taunts for those who overstep their grace – unashamed and strong. Bold and beautiful, it would be transcendent of expectations and limitations.

But instead, the sky is lined with tentative slips of mist that shyly offer themselves to others, too pleasant to consider brushing away the covers of cordiality.

My sky was meant to be a dome to cover every raindrop of my inexpressible sadness. It was supposed to guard the billowing winds of my panicked terror and stand strong against the depressive iron-bleak, snow-stilled winters. Against the wild rains and slashing sleets of my ire, my sky would hold together. It was supposed to fortify the scope of my emotions like a snow-globe that captures the essence of who I was meant to be.

But instead, the sky is gentle and carries only a trace of the emotion suppressed beneath remote breezes. The sky only just hints at traces of sentiment laced in the acquiescent spread of

My sky was meant to be a liquid mirror patchwork of everything I’ve ever felt, it was meant to bind the ranges of my rainbow to the steadiness of blue. It would reflect my lights and reflect my darks, it would safeguard the malignancies of shadows lurking between my heartstrings, and it would magnify the brilliance of moonlight playing among strands of my soul. To balance my wretchedness and my cheer in the steadiness of midday, my sky was supposed to blend the sunrise and the sunset in the swirl of daylight.

But instead, the sky hides its darkness behind the demure serenity of phantom peace and still nights that are perpetually holding their breath.

My sky was meant to bind my turbulent emotions to the ghosts of my tears, to take clotheslines of the words I will never say and braid them into the tresses of willow trees.

my-sky-3But instead, the sky is complacent. It’s satisfied with the sweetness of pale pastels. The sunrises are dusted with watered-down versions of rose and peach. The sky is simple and sleepy and the sun shines placidly. The sky is wistful, a quiet reminder of everything I could have been.

My sky was meant to be beautiful, daring, a quilt of everything I’ve ever felt, a patchwork of everything I want to be.

But instead, the sky is polite and pretty, pleasant and passive… predictable. It’s suffocatingly silent, shallow in its stagnant stillness. And it’s not enough.

My sky was meant to be dauntless and striking – I was meant to be dauntless and striking.

But I am not. I was meant to be so much more than this. But I am not.

Nowadays, I sit and fix my gaze upwards… and I wonder who I am.






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