you may tire of me,

pretty,
something i'm

not.

there's nothing pretty about knuckles going white from hugging myself too hard.
it's not messy, curly tangles stacked on my head or bigger-than-usual hands.
nothing pretty about eyes like black holes or skin so pale you can practically see my insides.
there isn't anything pretty about short, bitten fingernails, or knees splotched with blue and purple bruises.
pretty isn't having the hiccups too often or legs that give out all the time.

no,
it's nothing like

that.

i'm not screaming anymore for you to listen.
you say i'm full of these stories.
but i don't tell stories, i tell the truth.
i'm telling you the truth, my black holes are telling the truth.
the truth is my hands are warm all the time,
but my insides are frozen and i'm just waiting for the right person to come along and thaw me out.

please,
just melt me

whole.