I Should Look Like Jennifer

It's okay to think you're beautiful.
It's okay
It's okay
It's okay
Breathe.

I don't think I'm more beautiful than you or her,
But I'm beautiful.

Everything says to hate me.
Everything says he's out of my league,
and that I need some new mascara,
and that I should look like Jennifer,
and that I should talk to more people,
and that I should tell funnier jokes,
and that I should make my eyes look bigger,
and that I should only eat lettuce and Kale.

I'm supposed to loathe myself.
I'm supposed to despise my lack of eyelashes,
and my long nose,
and and my size 10 waist.
But I don't.

Because my eyelashes still catch my sweat,
and my nose lets me smell the roses,
And my size 10 waist doesn't weigh me down.

I have this able body,
and I can use it to dance and run and laugh,
which is a gift that not everybody has.

And I'm supposed to hate that?

I'm not supposed to find beauty in the way

I can pick up my baby brother and twirl him around
and laugh at the way his nose crinkles when he laughs?

Or that I can literally do anything I set my mind to?

Or that I can use my arms to hug my Dad when
he finally gets home every Thursday?

Or that I can use my mouth to eat a really
good chocolate cupcake?

Or that I can use my brain to help my little sister
with her math homework?

Or that I can use my words to say
whatever I think or feel?

Or that I can use my heart to love you?

And maybe I'm not a supermodel.
But who even cares?
God thinks I'm beautiful.
I think I'm pretty.
That's enough to be happy.
I like to get dressed up,
and I like my smile and how happy I look when it's genuine,
and I like the flecks of gold that swim around my eyes,
and I like my pink skin color,
and I like that I can be content by myself,
and I like my taste in music,
and I like the way I look when I wake up in the morning,
and I like that my hair has a good mix of brown and blonde,
and I like that I like the outdoors,
and I like my nails even when they aren't painted,
and I like being alive.
and I like being in love.
and I like being Abby-esque in any and every sense of the word.

I just like myself.
(I'm sorry if that offends you.)

I Just Forget

Oh my stars do I have a hard time letting go.
I love so fully and openly that my heart is just made up of little chunks of
people
places
things
sounds
smells
feelings
And when I have to let something go I feel like I took a chisel and cracked off a
little tiny piece of my heart.
And it throbs.
But as days melt into weeks I forget it hurts.
It doesn't stop hurting, I just forget.
but when I remember you,
it all comes back,
not like an echo but like a scream,
and the only way to silence it is
to forgive you.
You don't feel sorry.
If you did, you didn't tell me.
But holding on to you hurts.
It feels like I'm gripping at flames.
So I forgive you.
Don't come back to apologize,
And don't worry about me (not that you would)
I'm not burnt.
And maybe there is a little scab on my heart.
But scabs heal up pretty quick.
And you don't need to apologize because

I
Forgive
You.

But I also

Choose
Me.

Does This Count as Poetry?

Outside is peaceful.

It feels good to just go sit and

breathe and rest and

smell and see and

feel.

Inside is peaceful.

I've been singing hymns and

Reading and praying and 

Dancing and I feel

solace.

I've shut the regular customers out and the only thing coming into my heart is light.

And it's filtering through the blinds. 

I Don't Like Birthday Parties

I think my heart might spill over.

The days like this are the ones where I want to sit on top of a billowing building and yell

"HASHTAG BLESSED!" until I run out of air to yell with.

and I wouldn't even care if people thought I was weird. (not that I ever have)

And I know I'm selfish. Because I want to collect all of these people and places and words in my heart and not share them and just go on feeling full forever and ever. 

But I guess I'll share them. 

Because everybody should get to feel like this.

Everybody should get jitters in their fingers that make it hard to type.

They should have a stamp on their hand that says "Received July 03 P.M"

They should drink all of their nasty cucumber water.

They should get to dance at 6:00 in the morning.

They should accidentally fall in the toilet, but then laugh for an hour.

They should have little sisters that make up dances for them and 

They should have Mothers who cry at the Cheesecake Factory because they are too old.

They should have a billion birthday wishes and

They should have baby cheeks that smell like Johnson & Johnson to kiss.

They should get free balloons and rainbow suckers.

They should also get a sugar cookie and some cake.

They should get to end it all with some good old Curious George episodes and 

They should get to rip up drivers ed homework and never do it again.

Okay I guess they should probably do the homework. When they have a less tipsy heart.

And they can think a little better. 

And I can't wait to get older.

Because every time I do, 

My body gets a little more graceful,

My mind becomes a little less stupid,

My soul gets a little more grateful,

And my heart gets a whole lot bigger.

The Sky Is Blue and So Are You

I like to have one hour.

One hour a day where I stick my face in the grass and audibly inhale the green goodness.

That's what alive smells like, you know?

I like to lay there and let the sun lick my back while I think.

Because nature is courteous unlike my sisters,

and the trees won't scream at me until I give them the iPad charger.

Instead the trees politely sway side to side like,

"Hey, go ahead. We know this is your thing and you just need a few to feel like a person."

And so I give them a gracious nod as if to communicate,

"Hey thanks trees. Thanks for being so patient and understanding." 

And then me and the trees just have this mutual respect for each other. 

And then sometimes I scrape my knee on the cement by pure coincidence and end up laying across the sidewalk hugging the rosy patch tight to my chest.

I like to just fall asleep there.

With the wind gently brushing my arm and whispering sweet nothings.

Until the little caesars lady from up the street kicks me and her mean dog growls and I stand up and stalk away like I am angry with her (which I kind of am) (mostly because she owns little caesars and has never brought me a free pizza)

And when it rains it courses through me.

Then I am the thunder as I dance aimlessly through the back yard, soaking my taylor swift t-shirt. 

And then I slide across the grass on my knees.

And my mother is going to kill me but I do not care because I am the thunder and I have no time to worry about grass stains. 

So instead I turn it into an air guitar solo and I am on a stage and I do not care that my neighbors are on their porch watching me.

Because it is my hour.

And I like to have one hour.