Mouthful of Koryn

When I was eleven years old,

Someone told me I was pretty for the very first time.

It was un-ironically the same day that my mom finally let me start wearing mascara.

I thought about it for a very long time.

I still think about it now,

Especially when I am taking my makeup off at the end of the day.

I never went anywhere without any on after that.

Even if I was running late to school,

I would have rather been more late; or just not have went at all

Then let anyone see me without it ever again.

______________________

When I was fourteen,

I started to wear more.

Foundation, concealer,

I was noticed by an older boy;

I didn’t get called pretty often,

But he had told other people that he thought I was more than just pretty.

It felt nice,

It felt, really, nice.

______________________

I had just moved to a new school and I didn’t know anyone.

I started my freshmen year all alone,

While all of the friends I grew up with all went to the same highschool.

To finally feel noticed, especially by someone who was so well-known and liked,

I felt so beautiful. The most beautiful I had ever felt in my entire life.

I finally felt like my mom no longer had to sit me on the couch for long sleepless nights after everyone else had gone to bed,

To force me tell her five things that I liked about myself and once I somehow found five that were acceptable to her, to find five more.

Then five more.

Then five more.

Then, five more.

And I lied, each time

Just so the day could finally be over.

______________________

I spent so much time defending myself from other people growing up, I finally felt like I could rest

Like I could let my guard down, and close my eyes.

I wish I had opened them,

I wish I had seen what was really waiting for me.

______________________

I often find myself meeting people that I thought could turn into love,

Only to find out when I got there,

That it was only lust that was waiting.

______________________

If the multiverse is real,

I hope there is a version of me who said no, just one more time.

______________________

I don’t think anyone will ever truly love me for me,

And I do not know if I can ever love anyone ever again.

After knowing all of the things someone can do, say, watch,

There is so much access to everyone and everything

And I don’t want anyone to have any access to me anymore.

Men heal in bodies that aren’t theirs

______________________

I don’t know how many more of these I can write,

And I wish I knew how many more I am going to.

How much more do I have to write about the same hurt while uncontrollably sobbing,

Before I can finally get over it?

It isn’t poetic anymore, and I don’t think it ever was.

It’s pathetic