Literally¬†To the Boy, Adult, and Man¬†is the first poem I’d consider reading as spoken word simply because I’ve read it to my therapist like 100 times

To the boy who called her fat:
Congratulations.
You are dumb enough to regurgitate
the lies your society has taught you.
When you have a daughter,
will you too teach her
she is worth the amount
that her breasts to her waist to her hips
are measured?
Perhaps it is a waste us women
are even educated,
it takes away from our time
at the gym or in the toilet.

To the adult that called her stupid:
She is a product of your hell.
Her brain is sliced open
and ripped to shreds
when she is taught to memorize and speak
rather than learn.
How can she absorb
when men like you insist
she is nothing bigger than her body,
rather than her brain?

To the man who called her a slut:
Have you so quickly forgotten
that you were an active participant?
Whispering in her ear
she is a whore if she does
and a prude if she doesn’t.
Who knows which is worse?
Remember, if she is so soiled
after you have finished,
perhaps you should look at your own hands
rather than her skin.

Michelle K., To the Boy, Adult, and Man.

It is a diagnosis,
not a definition.
It does not know you,
nor does it own you.

Michelle K., Overcoming My Diagnoses.

How dare you
fall in love
with someone so human?
Frail and mortal,
skin and bones
are no match for the world.
A man
is no more than a man
no matter what love he created.

Michelle K., I Am So Sorry He Left.

I have so many messages I need to answer but please be patient it has been a rough week(end)

He will take you by surprise,
and you won’t notice the first steps
that turn to falling.
When you make room for him,
hollowing yourself,
be careful what you throw away.
When he stomps around your heart
like he owns the place,
remember who was there first.


And do not lose yourself.

Michelle K., Do Not Lose Yourself.

If none of this
makes you
sick to your stomach
doubled over
then you are not paying attention.
Open your eyes.

Michelle K., The Media.

I like to think
that bottom is not rock,
but actually rubber.
When I fall,
I come right back up.

Michelle K., Optimism.

Food is not fuel,
you are not a machine.
Has this disease
so riddle your brain
that you don’t remember
who you are?
You are a human being,
and you deserve to eat
just because.

Michelle K., Food is Not Fuel.

I have quick lipped
sorries in my back pockets,
I still never coped with anger.

There is a handful
of diet pills that could easily
silence the pulse of stronger women
and I threw them out.

I don’t need the possibility of death
anymore,
I no longer pull blood
from the side of the easy way out.

There will never be a perfect balance,
always too much
always too little
but there are scars
not fresh wounds.

There is nothing simple about this.
There never was.

Michelle K., Twenty-Two and Strong.