I cannot say you are beautiful.

 I can not compare your eyes to stardust or nebulas,

 or say your voice is as delicate and soft as lace.

Although you are my whole universe,

 you are not my whole univers because to say so would be an insult to space.

People are not that beautiful.

You are not a complex planet or system of stars.

 you are only human,

 you are broken,

you are messed up,

 I am messed up,

 we are messed up.

 we made mess to tell people we were uncivilized

 and no matter how enticing that sounds,

they are brittal lies.

There are no great galaxy in your little eyes.

I cannot say you are beautiful.

I have no words to convince you of how real this is how
 deep I feel this is the most I can give you.

I cannot say you are beautiful.

and I sure as fuck can't forgive you.

I am sorry.

I am sorry I write poetry to make me feel like I deserve you.

 Like the longer you spend on the tip of my pen makes me more qualified to love you than any of them.

 I am sorry I write poetry in part to preserve you

I've observed you on so many accounts,

but it amounts to nothing

If I can't wait to see you in person

and patience was never my virtue.

 I am sorry I write poetry sometimes just to hurt you.

and wonder if you wonder of who it's about.

I doubt it.

 But lately, the trees have been smelling like broken promises,

and the grass has been far to green.

 and sometimes I make metaphors to mimic you mannerisms

and I don’t even know what they mean.

When I was young,

I used to eat all the food I hated first

 and save the best for last.

 It felt like an honor.

 I keep thinking you're just waiting to honor me.

That you are saving me for last.

and I have been fasting but today,

 I ate my dessert first and it just gave me a stomach ache.

 And standing in the rain gave me a cold.

 My mother told me not to do these things.

And to stop talking on telephones.

She warned me of the colds and the aches,

and the cold aches in your bones.

 And when the grass is too green and the trees smell like burned toast,

 I imagine your mouth taste like stale candy.

And today I ate stale candy,

and it settled my stomach,

 but not my fears.

 And today the raindrops filled my bed with tears.

And my mother said: "Honey, he is not the type of boy to call anyone his."

So I will not call you beautiful,

because no one really is.

-Aleah Bradshaw