And you wouldn’t be sorry

for missing what you never knew

If you didn’t know me—

only, my love, you do

Endless Thirst

You are at once a sea full of saltwater, and the endless thirst scratching the back of my throat.

Diorama

Tell me about your life, they say

Do you really want to know about me?

Not the meticulous shopfront of my life

the grinning dolls in the window

forever youthful propped up with pills

The surgeon’s scalpel making me more

what I’m supposed to be, less who I am

Where I’m from there is a name

for women like me

Women who slip into the lives of others

transient, even if they never leave

Who give all they have to a man

and thank him for the privilege

Do you really want to hear about the raised eyebrows

the humiliation of being seen as less than I am

the desperation of proving myself at every party

where someone needs to say in colorful tones

oh, she is someone because if I wasn’t

then I’d just be another eye roll

the absent shake of the head

women grasping the hands of their husbands

a little tighter when I’m in close proximity

I tell them about my life by the sea

the idyllic writer’s life, the bohemian glitz

of never having to sing for my supper

lying around in bed all day in my pajamas

petting cats, eating out of cereal boxes

and the thing I want to say is the very thing I can’t

Because this is not my life

and I know it looks beautiful to you

through the rose-tinted lens of poetry

it looks beautiful to you when every light is on

and the shades are up.

It looks beautiful to you with my head thrown back

easy laughter spilling from my mouth

my arms wrapped around a man

solely devoted to my happiness

his fingers through my hair, watching me

and you think, look at her

so much love, so much life

But only from the outside

Only when someone’s looking in

Fallen Idols

I wish I could go back to a time when I only believed good things about you

To past generations,

You grew up in a time of tall trees and flowers. Stumbled through the dark, blameless and carefree. When you were at fault, you answered only to yourself. The pain you’ve caused others—now inconsequential—because no one was watching. You belong to a world of forgotten transgressions.

Our generation blooms in the era of eyes and judgment. Where our mistakes are timestamped; our broken hearts livestreamed. But does this give you a right to throw stones at us? Self-growth is a long and winding road, and the ground we are treading is unlike any other. Please be patient with us. Be kind. Understand that we must lose our way, over and over, before we can find the best version of ourselves.

Self-Blame

I can’t deny this is all my fault. I have no one else to blame for my life falling to pieces. But let me ask you this: is pain any less valid when it is self-inflicted?