{2} never alone.

{8}

she bounds -
flying actually
- from the roots of my hair.
i'm lucky to be in mere orbit
of her.
let alone her galaxy.

/she makes me stands on end/ /she's a rose/

and i want to be her, so badly
i want her musical laugh
and her jubilant smile
and her relaxed shoulders
and her playful eyes
and tasty hair -
like chocolate
- and i want her starry freckles
and her turned up nose
and the crinkles at her eyes.
the thorns run eagerly to her
they lap up her beautiful words
and she's never sad,
never really sad.
she has no idea
what she has
and is capable of
because she just doesn't see
she just pretends to be
someone she's not
because she doesn't see her beautiful petals
and her colorful smile
she doesn't see that her heartbreak
isn't as real and deep as the rest of ours are
because hers are on a daily basis
and i'm not saying she's easy,
i'm saying she's special
more special than me
because i've never had what she has,
i'm the complete opposite.

/a metaphor is what we are/ /i'm not/

flat laugh,
overgrown smile,
taught shoulders,
swirling eyes -
a witches brew
- straw hair,
sandpaper face,
troll's garden nose,
awkward lines making up the crevices.
the thorns take precautions
and then step over me
to get to her
their sharp points
drawing my blood,
and only all of you
listen to my pathetic words,
and i'm not really sad
but i'm not really happy
i do try,
i'm sorry for being ungrateful,
but that's the thing about me
i'm not going to pretend to be someone else
because i don't know exactly who i am
whoever i am, is me
and that's who i'm gonna be.
and i see my serrated leaves
i see my ghastly yellow petals,
and that thorn saw it too
and sliced it, right through
so now i'm torn and serrated
but i like the paradox that is me
and i'll accept that i'll never has what she has.

but you know?
she's not like me, is she?
she can't write sonnets like i can
or sing woefully or jubilantly as i do
so even though we aren't exactly alike
i'd like to believe that i'll
be content in my own
flat, overgrown, taught, swirling way.
i want to accept my sandpaper life
and fall in love with my troll-like beliefs -
it's not because they're bad,
it's because no one likes them.
i'd like to be content
and not see it as never having what she has
but as having warm sand between my toes
and trolls carefully tending the garden that
creates my garden.
i'm my own garden,
not combined.