My heart is wrong.
It doesn’t want the right things.
Wrong for craving the eyes that
appraise my hips and trail down my thighs.
Wrong is how much mascara I wear
even though my eyelashes are good enough
just the way they are.
Wrong is my desire for married men,
just because they are unattainable but it’s not right,
my desire for fresh scars, for the feeling of my jeans
growing too loose and slipping off.
My heart doesn’t want the right things.
But I have been there and back.
Yet still, my heart is wrong.
It has an irregular beat–
the doctor said it, so it must be true.
And wrong are the people who say,
“You should be happy, because you are so beautiful.”
Wrong is the feeling that while my face
may remotely approach beauty, my heart
is the twisted, the grey, and the withering–
the decay of a girl who used to be happy.
My heart is wrong, I think–
maybe my thoughts are wrong instead.
Maybe what’s wrong is in my head.
Wrong is the way that I will end this poem,
for it is not with redemption
as you wanted it to be,
not with happiness or joy,
nor with triumph,
but with survival.
is just plain survival
and that is not wrong.