I am not a pretty enough boy to kiss
I think about it all the time.
maybe at one point I was a pretty enough girl to kiss, but not anymore. I wasn't even a pretty enough girl to kiss. everyone told me I looked like a boy...
rough, jagged shoulders. my bones peeked out my skin like hands from behind a curtain, making no efforts to hide themselves. my hair was long and scraggly, like the pencil lines of an anguished child, my pale skin was the handmade, coffee dipped paper. and I always wore a black sweater much too big for myself, though people lusted over the skeleton underneath. I would say I had a body but I did not- I was nothing but bones and holding me hurt as much as you'd expect. but I was a girl too boyish to kiss. and I lived with that.
I don't look that way anymore, of course- my figure is soft and curved with just a few sharp edges, my hair is short and fluffy like a puppy's brand new fur coat against my scalp- my skin has regained it's sunkissed glow and my long closet of outfits perfectly fits who you think I am upon the first gaze. those raggedy old clothes I had finally grown into and out of peacefully were replaced with every colour and design you could think of, supplied entirely by me. you know my parents don't have the time for me so they just throw coins my way.
but now I am a boy, and I am far too pretty to kiss. or see as a boy. I have heard it time and time again- people lusting just to look at my lips. you eat up my writing like hungry, feral dogs and never consider what else there could be, if I am anything but a man built out of poetry. writing in this book makes me scared because I am exposing myself to you and you listen eagerly because you think my agony is art
I guess that's inherently what all art is. neverending agony.
tell me, hold me close and tell me. am I an ugly enough girl to love? am I a pretty enough boy to kiss?
can I get 1 mango milk tea, extra boba, and 4 cream cheese cinnamon rolls?
