I want to be beautiful. I want to have constellations between my freckles and metaphors wrapped around my fingers. I want to sit in a field of daisies and let the petals scrub my skin free from all my sins. I want to walk on beams of light, dainty and grand, instead of my own two clumsy feet. I want to feel the stars burning in my bones, shining through my skin onto everything surrounding me. I want to feel a power rush through me whenever I touch; I want to be able to feel the world transferring its energy back and forth, back and forth. I want to hold the beauty of the ones before me and hold the outlines of the ones to come soon. Right now I am a rough draft; I am left here to be looked back on and revised. I am an incomplete masterpiece, full of crossed out words and arrows and changes. No one ever calls the draft beautiful. I want to be the final piece. I want to be the one read by thousands. I want to live with cold feet and white teeth and I want to have something more than blood inside of me goddammit, poets have been lying to me. I am not made up of the ocean tides nor do I hold galaxies within my eyelids, though I pray to God I could. My ribcage does not speak to my lungs nor is my heart a crystal drum; it will always be a weapon more than anything. I am far from the beauty I display and I take a step further everyday as I find another body part that doesn’t match up to the braided stanzas. I try to see my mirror in writing, thinking maybe I’ll be better in paper but all I get is a jumbled mix of codes and letters and error messages. I want so desperately to be that girl. I want kissed little collarbones and faded skin and cliffsides carved just from my voice. I want to be dancing in a room alone; I want to be sitting by the water at six a.m. in the early light; I want to hold melted heartbeats in my eyes; goddammit, I just want to be beautiful.