You reek like a poison.
You are not pretty.
There is not a faint whiff
of almond tracing the
path of your putrid
perfume
—a crumpled cookie from
the bottom of
Grandmother’s tin.

The apple doesn’t
fall far from the tree,
and you are the rat
succumbed to its curse.

Although the vermin
is you, she is the prey.
Praying to get away
from the suffocating
scent of your racing
heart.

Obey her. Because
without her, you are
nothing.
You are not a diamond
littered in a field of
whimsical confetti.
You are not the gold
plated juice fallen
from the apricot,
sliced open
solely for the pleasure
of your mortifying mind.

You are invisible.
Looking for a reason to
exist. Looking to pass
your pain onto an
unsuspecting soul.
An object. A doll.

You want to be the
air which courses
through her veins,
the thing that makes
her weak
but Peaches,
you
are the weak one.

A puff of smoke
doesn’t do it
anymore, or maybe
it’s in your jeans,
but the picture
is clear.

You are sick
of being pestered.
Terrified of being
labeled as something
you’re not.
You have a headache,
but all she wants to do
is look up at the stars
without the sky falling
down on her.

She wants to go to
sleep at night without
the rats clawing at
her covers.

She wants to breathe.

i have never understood when
someone tells me that snow is beautiful
the shimmer of white dust
settling like a veil on the now dying grass
the grey clouds they’ve descended upon
the yellow of dog **** giving it its only color.

how is that gorgeous?
don’t you want to make a snow angel?
let’s go sledding!

i want the summer
i want the springtime
i want to open my sunroof
feel the cool breeze on my skin
take of this ******* hoodie
go outside
go on a walk
look at the trees
remember that people exist.

i’ve never liked flowers
i don’t have a good sense of smell
but I would take the pain of a beesting
over the tears of a snowman any day.

I don’t like it.
I hate that I love it.

I hate that I love obsessing
over something that isn’t real.
I hate that the reason I love it
is because it’s not real.

Because it’s a fantasy.
They are a fantasy.
They are my daydreams.

I am stuck inside my own mind
A reality created by the fabric of my imagination
And I love it
And I dread who it’s made me become.

I no longer exist.
I am a shell of a person.
In my right arm is his love interest.
In my heart is his other.
My leg holds his best friend.
And he has snuck his way into
the deepest crevices of my mind.

Now, in my soul, or,
the remainder of it
Is her.
The self insert.

The one who holds my anxieties
My fears
My denial.
She is who I am not
She is who I hate
She is the me who will never exist.
Because I don’t want her to
Because I long for her to.

I’m so thankful for each one of them
I’m thankful that when I no longer care to exist
They are right there with a petty argument waiting to be had
Or a date night that needs planning
Or the exact words I need to calm myself down.

I also hate them with my entire being.
I hate that they love the food that I don’t
so I owe them a cheesecake or green apple candy,
and after one bite I’m sick of it.
I hate that when I’m doing something important
my mind drifts off to live their life, their fantasies.
I hate that even when they’re miserable,
at least they have each other.
And I don’t.

I hate that I speak of them constantly.
I hate that I’m not just me.
I hate that one day they’ll be gone
and I’ll just be an empty shell
With all but the absence of a soul.

You are not a wolf, my sweet.
You are not all that’s wrong with your world.
You are not the silver bullets
your fingertips let slip away,
you are not the knife at her throat.

You, my darling,
are a prince in disguise.
You, my dear,
are the bloodied rabbit
who wriggled your way from the fox.
You, my love,
are the villain who escaped
the prison of your own imperfect poison.

You are the laughter I feel on my lips.
The cracked song of a crinkled French lullaby.
The memories of a duet passed down through the ages.

You are the pain in between my heartbeats.
The open door after a wave of tears.
A bandage that will only separate
from a soul after a lifetime of picking.

You are the sweet, sugary lies I could only hope to believe.
The maze I long to get lost in.
The fountain which clings to my youth.
The fairytale I choose to believe.

You are tied to the girl who fell at your hand.
You traded a wrinkled suit in order
to join her in within the stars.
A crown of gold for the shine of a barrel.

You are tied to the girl whose blood matches yours.
The girl whose purple flowers you’d never trade
for the twinkling power of another’s eyes.
A hero in denial with other matters at hand.

You are tied to the girl whose future
lies in between the pages of a story.
The girl who ran into the woods
leaving your soul empty as the blackest of nights.

You are not an angel.
You are far from a demon.

I am unfinished.
I am not yet me.
I am not complete.

I am not who I was yesterday.
I am afraid of who I’ll be tomorrow.
I am unrecognizable.

This is not my face.
There are not my hands.
These are not my words.

I am a paradox.
I do not exist.
I am hidden from myself.

I am joy.
I am pain.
I am an enigma.

How do I know who I am
when that fact changes
every day
every hour
every minute

Do I exist as a point
or as a timeline

I am who I will be in twenty years
and as the little girl who held up
three fingers when she said
the word five.

I am a mystery.
I am an open book.
I am myself.

A girl, I met when she was just a baby
A girl, who I am now just starting to see as more
A girl, who is strong, and smart, and opinionated
A girl, whose ability to become friends with anyone
will always perplex me.

A girl, who is my sister
A girl, I hardly know
A girl, who I’ve known the longest.

A girl, who never answers her texts
A girl, whose favorite color is grey,
or orange, or whichever color I find most
disgusting at the time.

A girl, who likes her hair up
A girl, who likes her sour sweets
A girl, whose sport means
the most to her.

A girl, who loves
A girl, who is loved
A girl, whom I miss dearly.

You push me,
shout at me,
pull me around
like I exist as a form of playdough;
one which molds at your touch,
like you are my creator,
and I, just your masterpiece.

Like I am an object,
a toy,
some plastic, a bit of wire.

Even if that may be,
even if you reduce me to
be held in the eyes of a child,
is that all I am?
Am I not more?

Does a child not feel?
Not love?
Not play?

How is a child’s love any less than yours?
How am I any less worthy?

I am not a ball of dough.
I am not to be rolled around.
To be pushed;
to be shoved.

I will not let your words penetrate me.
I will stay guarded;
strong.
I will not unravel under the thread of your fingertips;
I will only be picked apart by my own.

Resilient.

Like the last breath of a flickering bulb,
those sweet sorrow seconds of a candle
right before the flame dies down.

I am a flame, and I will be fire,
and I will not be stopped.

It’s exhausting…
Being two people at once.

The person who holds love at her fingertips
who lives each day for a better tomorrow
who believes, with her entire heart
that people are good and strong, and beautiful

And the person unable to feel it.
Who believes that tomorrow will never come
That can’t see past all the evil,
and the death,
and the broken.

I’m the person who lives and breathes
the words on a page;
who longs to meet these characters
my brain conjured up.
The ones who hold me
until I feel safe…

But I’m also the person terrified
of getting them wrong.
Of their flaws, of their desires.
I’m terrified that they’re a reflection of me,
and I’m nowhere near perfect.
That underneath their safety and security
they hold my evil,
the evil even I don’t know I own.

I’m terrified of being wrong.
Of lighting a candle at both ends
and using each to start a fire;
one which is sure to engulf me
piece by piece
until I’m nothing more than a burn
and a bit of wax, a braided string.

What if I’m a stain
on the fabric of our earth.
On the hands of my family,
my friends.

I’m trying to hold myself together,
I am.
I’ve lit the candle.
I’m taking deep breaths.
It’s balancing, holding.

Yet one tilt is all it’ll take,
a sad drip of wax,
to come crashing right down.
And I’ll be sitting under it when it does.

I don’t want to date you.

And no, before you ask,
it’s not because I’m ace
although I am.

It’s because when I say no,
—and I’ve said no—
I mean no.

It’s because when I say
that you are my only friend on campus
I mean it.
My friend.

It means when I ghost you
for the entire summer
it’s because I’ve asked you time
and time again
to stop.

So stop.

Because I said no.
Because I meant no.
Because I mean no.

So no.

I will not answer your text.
I will not go to your house.
I will find someone else
who I can trust,
because it’s not,
and it will never
be you.

There are days in which it seems as if the whole world is falling down.
These are the days in which the ceiling crumples at my feet.
The days where everything I’ve ever known,
my very sense of being
is destroyed.

Who am I?
I thought I knew.
I have lived over seven-thousand days traveling on this earth.
Seven-thousand days as myself.
How didn’t I know?

My entire life,
one could say I was boy crazy.
Has that changed?
I have never been one to change childhood crushes every other week.
If I had a crush, it either lasted years,
or it never existed at all.

Just a wanting.
A wanting to feel.
A wanting to love.

But I can love.
I love my friends, my family.
I love the stories I read,
the characters I create,
the fabric of our reality.
I love being alive.
But I don’t love like that.
And I want to.

Now, I watch as the dust starts to settle.
I kick the white powder at my feet,
starting to regain my breath.

Focus, breathe.
You’re okay. I’m okay.
This is me. I am real.
This is me. I am real.

In the corner, by the rubble,
a slip of cardstock lies innocently.
Cardstock.
This is what my life has succumbed to.
A piece of paper with three humps and a tail.

I am okay.
I will learn to love myself.
I will learn to be proud.

Maybe one day this card will slip away,
the rubble will disappear,
and I will wonder what the fuss was all about.

But not today.
Today I will hold this card close.
I will slip a metal band around my fingertip.
I will do what I do best
and learn, and love, and feel.
Because that’s all we can ever do.
We can grow.
I want to grow.

Do you ever just
feel sad?

I feel like I’m in this
perpetual state of
waiting.

Like I’m early for an appointment
but I don’t know when it’s for
or what it is.

There is so much heartbreak
and death
and pain
in this world.

It feels like an endless spiral
and I don’t know when it’ll stop.

I just want it to stop.
To end.

For the misery,
and the clouds
and the sickness
and the hate
to go the **** away.

Why is there so much hate in this world?
How can there be a God if there’s never any light?
Because I don’t see a light.

But I’m looking.

That is where I find my solace.
That I’m looking.

I’m obsessed with fictional characters.
There’s just something about knowing nothing’s real,
and having the solace that any misfortune
goes away when you close the page,
and any joy you can take with you on your day.

On days like today, I need that.
I need to jump into a book,
to pretend like my world isn’t real,
like those that want to hurt the ones I love aren’t real,
that this hate, and injustice, and fear
is all just a figment of my imagination.

I shouldn’t beg for a fictional dictator to materialize into my world.
I shouldn’t believe that someone who was written to be evil
is better than those living.
But I do.

Because how can people be this evil.
How can there be this much hate?
How can people hurt others,
for what?
What do they gain by putting others down?
What do they gain by making the world a worse place?

…I don’t have an answer,
and I don’t think I want to know one.
All I know is that I’m going to keep fighting.
Today, and always,
until those I love, and those I will never get a chance to meet
have the same rights as everyone else.
Until the world is a place I want to live in.
Until the world is so perfect, it’s almost fictional.
Until I don’t want to leave.

Open eyes. Open window.
The birds chirp.
Someone, somewhere, cuts their grass.
A child plays. Laughter.

Open book.
Yesterday, one about love.
Today, a dystopian future where
people shroud in their house with fear.
Sound familiar?

Check my phone.
A text about linguistics.
How to pronounce an “R”
for a language I’ll never know.
Useful information for a different time.

Open the news.
100,000 dead.
Over 40 times as many from Pearl Harbor.
Over 33 times as many as 9/11.
Both horrible tragedies from before your time.
Both with more emotion connected in your brain.
I wonder if I’ve forgotten how to feel.

Another article.
Another man dead.
Another targeted for bird watching.
Another day I long for change.
To do: check your stigmas.
Don’t be like them.
Be human.
Be real.

Open book. Flip page.
Character reminds me of a simpler time.
High school. Friendship.
To do: text friends.
Maybe I’ll see them again someday.

Close book.
Tired of reading a troubled world
too similar to my own.

What else to do?
Take pictures?
This is not a time worth remembering.
Watch videos?
There isn’t another world to escape to.
Check news.
Tear gas. Moment of silence.
I can still feel. Wipe tear.

I’m done.
I’m done with the death.
I’m done with the destruction.
I’m sick of guns, and wars, and sickness, and isms.
I’m done hoping the world will change;
the world will be better.
Because it did, and it’s not.

Where will our world be in five years?
In ten?
Tomorrow?
Do I even want to know?
Because every time I take a step closer to believing
that we are good,
realty piles on top of me.
I see everything I have to privilege to ignore.
I see it all at once.

I love humans.
I love our differences; I love our flaws.
I love that we can talk to anyone in the world,
at a push of a button,
but I also hate it at the same time.
On days like today,
I don’t want to know what’s happening.
I want to stay in my bubble,
away from all the bad.

Open my book and pretend it’s all there is.
The darkness is just fiction.
Hope that one day, that will be true.

I miss you, and you’re not even real.
I miss your eyes, which soften at my glance.
I miss your sinister smile,
the fine lines that appear when
you tug the edges of your lips into a grin
that’s reserved only for me.

I miss your warm embrace,
your soft kiss,
and your **** witty remarks,
which are placed perfectly every time.

I love you, and you’re not even real.
I love you, and you’re not even mine.
I know you, and I want you to know me too,
but you can’t; because you’re words on a page.

You’re a figment of some else’s imagination
that’s planted in my brain and refused to let go.

But feel free to stay for as long as you like.
And if one day you magically become real,
I’ll be waiting right here,
ready for whatever life brings us,
Together.

Dear…. me.
No. You’re not me.
You don’t have my experiences
You don’t have my friends
We don’t see the world in the same way
And that’s the problem.

I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I broke my promises
I’m sorry I’ve made mistakes
And I’m sorry you think the way you do.

Good things?
You change.
You grow.
Yes, you’re not perfect,
But you never were.
And you never will be.
But you will try.
You are trying.
Me. I’m trying.

Sincerely, me.
To a better tomorrow.

I want to love you.
I want to snuggle
on the couch and
watch a Disney movie.
I want to forget about
school and my chores
and my anxiety and
pretend we’re the only
two creatures in the world.

But I can’t. Because I don’t.
And I can’t force myself to
love you, no matter how much
I try. You’re not my soulmate
and that’s okay. You deserve
to be able to find yours.
And I hope you do. Because
you’re amazing. And one day,
you will.

Who am I?
I’m Juliana.
I am what I obsess over.
I am who and what I love.
I am that book that I cannot stop reading.
I am those John Green quotes.
I am Hamilton, and Rent, and Dear Evan Hansen.
I am who I am with my friends,
and who they make me want to be.
I am those kids that I see whenever I close my eyes,
and they are my dream that needs to come true.
I’m a lover.
I’m a dreamer.
I’m an artist.
I’m a hypocrite.

I try to be a good person.
I try to imagine others with complexity.
I try to be enthusiastic about the miracle of human consciousness.
I try to belive that I will see those kids one day.
That they’ll get to call me Mom.
That I’ll get to read them my favorite books before bedtime
and see them grow up; and have kids and dreams of their own.

I try not to be someone who lets ADHD and Anxiety control my life.
But it does.
When I tell my Anxiety to shut the hell up,
it lets my ADHD go wild.
And when I calm myself down,
it just gives my Anxiety back the reins.

I say I image others with complexity,
but that just means putting them in more than one box and narrowing them further.
I read the same book over and over and over again
because I know I can’t create anything better.
So I don’t even try.
I wish I was someone who tried.

I know that if Colton magically came alive,
he’d shoot me.
We could never be the friends we are in my head.
He’d never show me the sides of himself I know he has,
because I’m me.
I’m not special.

What is love?
Why does it exist?
Is it just a thing that blinds us from our realities,
or is it reality itself?
Why am I on this earth,
moving around this galaxy,
floating in this universe?
Is it the only one out there?

Is there a version of me without her head in the clouds?
One who is happy.
One who doesn’t talk every second of the day,
but also doesn’t care if she does?
Is there a version of me who will get those angels?
Who will be the Mom I want to be,
who I know they deserve?
Or is this me.
The person in front of you,
the only me I will ever get.
The is both the best and worst version of myself,
doing everything wrong but yet trying her best to do it right.

I want to be happy.
I want to be proud of the people and the things that I love.
Whether they’re fictional or not.
I want to be me.
I want to say: this is me.
I want to be confident in who I am.
I want to not be a hypocrite.
So how am I doing so far?

Do you ever want to run away?
Like, find your person and run
To that deserted island,
Never to be seen again.

An island with an endless
Supply of food and water.
With every book and movie
In the world, just no way
To contact those you
Left behind.

Who is the person you’d pick?
What do you do when you
know that the person you’d
pick, has someone else in mind?

I know I am nobody’s favorite person.
Whether it’s because we’ve never met,
Or your mama’s your best friend,
Or you’ve known this person since kindergarten
Or he’s your boy and I’m your girl.

If I ran away to that deserted island,
what message would I leave behind?
Because even though I’m nobody’s
favorite person, they still love me,
right? Right?

If I left a note,
it would probably be song lyrics.
“I hope I made you smile
that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Why do I want to run away?
I want my hands to stop shaking.
I want the memories out of my head
whenever I close my eyes.
I want my mistakes not to matter anymore.
I want to forget the little things.

I hate anxiety.
I hate that it makes me think these things.
I hate that I’ve made mistakes.
I hate that I’ve hurt people I love
without the knowledge I was even doing it.

I just want to be happy
without feeling guilty for it.
I know the world isn't perfect,
but I want that to be okay.
I want to be able to say
“yes” instead of “yes, but.”

I want that deserted island
to come to me.

I do not like how our world is.
I don’t like there are people who
have to die for their child to live.
I don’t like that we forget to
view others with complexity.
I don’t like that we have to fight a
fight that started long before we
were born, and should have never
started in the first place.

I do not like how our world is.
And I do not like how it’s headed.
I am not a perfect person.
I’ve been ignorant.
I’ve made mistakes.
But I have always tried
to do the right thing.

This is not the right thing.
How am I supposed to put
one foot in front of the other,
when I’m walking into a trap?

I do not like how our world is.
I do not like how it’s headed,
And I don’t see the light at
the end of the tunnel.
I feel that the mountain
I'm under, is about to implode.

I don’t want this train to stop
before I even learn where it’s headed.
And I am so scared for my
journey to end.
But what’s scarier, is the journey
up ahead:
one I never signed on to,
and have no way to stop.

I want to be in love.
I want you to hold me close
while I learn everything about you.

I want to know what makes you happy,
and what’s your favorite book
to read on a snowy day.

I want to lay on the beach with you
even though I hate the sand,
just so the two things that make me
feel warm are in the same place.

I want to love you.
I want to fall utterly,
ridiculously in love with you.
And I want you to fall in love with me.

I want you to dance with me in the kitchen,
to all of our favorite songs.
I want you to love my annoying rants
even though you’ve heard it all
a million times before.

I want you to make me feel safe.
I want you to be my home.
I want to be in love with you.

And most of all,
I want for us to meet.

I have an anxiety disorder.
I know, I know.
We all do.

It’s 2019. We’re Gen Z.
We grew up eating Red 40,
and processed sugar’s our religion.

But I have an anxiety disorder.
And ADHD. And a bit of OCD
when it comes to schoolwork.
Or books. Or anything that
does not matter.
But my room? Hahaha,
what’s cleaning?

I have an anxiety disorder.
That phrase goes through
my head several times a day.

I feel the constant buzzing.
My dance teachers used to
tell me to radiate energy
out of my fingertips.
And I do.
My hands tremble constantly,
and I forget to breathe.

I used to be that kid that
always had an imaginary friend.
When I was little,
his name was DeeDee.
But when he went away,
and there were others.
Like characters in a story,
but I could see them. Talk to them.
Now the voices are just in my head.

I have an anxiety disorder.
I like to talk. A lot.
Sometimes I’ll say a sentence
and not get to the point
for an hour.
Ranting’s like a pastime to me.
I’ll just ramble on and on.
Then stop myself.
“So, how’s your life going?”
Two seconds of silence,
Then back to whatever
show, or movie, or teacher
was annoying the hell out of me
whenever this conversation started.

I promise I don’t do this because I
like to hear myself speak.
On the contrary, actually.
I hate it. I hate my voice. I hate my words.
But I can’t face the silence.
Because whatever I say out loud
is a million times better
then the voices in my head.

“Shut up.”
“They don’t care.”
“You forgot to do this.”
“Remember that one time
you said that thing
freshmen year.”

I have an anxiety disorder.
I have ADHD.
I’ll have OCD if I get worse.

And if I could flip a switch
and it would all go away,
I would
in a heartbeat.
Snap my fingers and move to
a deserted island without any
people to judge my every move.
But then I’d be left with the
thing I hate most.
Quiet.

Tick… tock…
Tick… tock…

Waiting.

The most dreadful
Of emotions.

Time is only
A construct,
Yet we submit
To it so.

Waiting.

Clocks.
They spin
And they spin
And they spin

Every so often,
Going a little crazy.
Sound familiar?

Waiting.

Without a distraction
I listen to the beat
Of my heart

The humming
Of a storm
On the rise.

Waiting.

My hands shake
Anxious for the
Event to start.
Waiting.

Tick… tock…
Tick…  tock…
Tic… ding!


It’s here!

I've been really, really anxious lately.
Like, there's this giant knot
In my chest.
And I just keep tugging
And tugging
But it won't loosen.

It keeps getting tighter
Like a noose.
I can barely breathe.
My heart is pounding louder
Then my thoughts.

I don't know if I
Just can't hear them,
Or if they're not there
At all.

My old dance company,
It no longer exists.
To put it short,
They finally got their new name.
Elements.

Maybe that's what I feel.
Elements.

There's fire.
In my heart.
Anger, I guess.
A lust for movement;
For joy.
Waiting to be filled.

But at the same time,
I'm full of ice.
Shivering.
Like a rat in a storm drain.
Is that all I am?

I miss the Earth.
Being outside.
When I was a little kid,
Now, I'm sorry, this is gross.
When I was a little kid,
And I'm talking like one or two.
I used to be that kid
That would lick ants off of rocks.

Like one time,
And we have it on film.
One time it got so bad that
I had to take an outdoor shower.
My mom hosed me down
right in front of the big tree
outside my apartment.

Now I can't even listen to
The rain,
Without gagging.
The stench.
That terrible stench.
Worms are worse
then rotting corpses.
I can handle week-old roadkill
With the windows open.
But a summer storm
Will nauseate me.

I miss when I was a little kid,
And water made me happy.
I miss being happy.

Elements.
It's bittersweet.
Not like dark chocolate strawberries sweet.
Like, the world is crumbling at my feet,
but at least I have you sweet.
Like, you make the sourest moments
Into the brightest ray of sunshine.

There is nothing I love more than you.
There is no one I love more than you.
I had no idea that I would miss
dancing so much.
That I would miss
You so much.

I am trying to make friends.
I am.
I am trying to find a family.
But what's the point?
You. You are my family.
I feel like ****,
Thinking that I could ever replace you.

But what else can I do?
I can't go back.
I told myself I could.
I told you I could.
I told you I would.
But I lied.

I can't predict the future.
When I promised you,
My love, when I lied to you,
I thought nothing would change.

But you changed your name.
You moved away.
And I did too.
And now I don't have the courage
to face you again.
I said goodbye.
And maybe that was a mistake,
But it's too late for me to change my mind.
I can't turn back the clock.
Just like you can't turn back yours.

Without you,
I am so lonely.
I am so ******* lonely.

I miss your hugs.
And the smile they'd bring to me.
If I could wrap up those emotions,
And sell them by the bottle,
I'd be able to buy a plane ticket
And fly to you.
Just to get another hug in person.

If I could just get one text back.
A single text.
It would mean the world.

And you,
If you could stay off that phone
For one minute.
And talk to me instead of him,
Show me any ounce,
Of that empty, empty word.
Maybe I could try to find
Its meaning again.

I feel like a rectangular peg,
Shoving myself into a circular hole,
And I've tried to file myself down.
I've tried to fit.
But I am never going
To be a circle.

I've looked for things to replace you.
Other groups I can
shove my attention into.
They all just tighten the knots.
Each one grabs a piece of string,
Tugging every single direction,
Each wanting me to snap.

Maybe the world is just too
Dark for me to ever get
A good picture.

Maybe I haven't lived in one
Dark enough to turn it into light.

Maybe I'll never be good
Enough for poetry.
Just like I was never
good enough for you.
My picture wasn't good
Enough in the air,
So I tried taking one myself.
And I tried again.
And again.
And again.

They all seemed so nice.
But I don't even know their names.
I could never reach out to them.
Get to know them as I've known you.

I have never felt so alone
In my life.
In a room filled with people,
How could I be the only one there?
In an empty room,
How can so many eyes
Be staring at me?
Just waiting
For me to make another mistake.
To **** up.
Again,
And again,
And again.

For I'm just a child,
Starving for attention.
And I've never even heard of this game.

I go to sleep every night,
Hoping, praying,
To wake up.
In my own bed.
My dog at my feet.

I want to go back to the studio.
I want to hug you all,
One by one.
Promise that I will never
Fall asleep again.
I want to wake up from this nightmare.

I want her to make us a beautiful dance.
I want to see her smile.
A coffee in hand,
Light radiating out of
Every atom in her body.

I want to forget again,
And be scared shitless
Of disappointing you.
I want to put all the hate
I have for myself onto you.
I want you to hate me,
So that I don't have to.

I want to go back to that
Purple dressing room.
With the masks on the walls.
When that room still had a sense of calm.
I want to sit down on the white bench,
And look at you atop the window.
I want to see your smile.

I miss tapping.
Being loud.
Making noise.
I want to make sound,
Without that sound
Being annoying.

Because after every
Word I say,
I want to claw out my
Vocal cords,
And never return.
I want to be silent again.

I want to see your face,
When I finally felt free.
I wish I could go back.
I wish I could say yes.
I wish I hadn't said goodbye.

I want to pull into that
Parking space.
Overlooking the pond.
I want to go back to that day,
Where I sat on a donkey.
And you on the branch.
And we laughed.
And we played.
Like little kids.

I miss the cheeseburgers
We ate at Culver's.
I miss exploring the theatre.
Hiding behind the door,
That we could never look inside,
And trying not to fall
Down that platform
Near the stairs.
Because we didn't shy
Away from fun
Just to avoid getting hurt.
I wish I could let myself get hurt.

I want to fight with my sister.
To prove to her that dance is more
A sport than soccer ever could be,
I want to sit in her room,
And pretend to care about whatever's
On the television,
Just so I can see her face.
And hear her voice.
And feel her presence.

I want to watch television
With Dad.
I want us to talk
About something other than science.
I want to go on a walk.
Look at the stars.
I wish you would have
taken me camping.
Because I was wrong.
I did want to go.
I do want to go.

I miss seeing all of you
At the benches
Before school started.
I miss my locker,
And how you would write me notes.
I miss you grabbing my phone every time
I looked away,
And filling up my storage
With useless videos
That I cannot stop watching.

I miss loving the people I'm with.
I miss happiness.
And it hurts.
Because I knew things would change,
I did.
But I didn't know
That nothing would be the same.
I just want something to be the same.

Static.
Wind blowing.
Lines passing
and passing
and passing.

Freedom.

He turns on the radio.
David Allen Coe.
The perfect country song.
The new country is ****
he says.

We get him a Taylor Swift
album for his birthday.
He laughs, but I love it.
She's fun, she's happy.

And then it starts.
First with Taylor.
Then the Jonas Brothers,
And One Direction.

And then, it's my turn.
Troye Sivan, R5,
James Arthur.

The radio is no longer
Filled with comfort.
Cardi B, Sia,
Endless DJs,
and names yet to
Be heard from again.

Some, yes,
I come to like eventually,
But most,
Foreign noise in a
formally safe atmosphere.

No longer is the wind
messing up my hair.
Now the windows
are barricaded,
Refusing to let the
melody be silenced.

But every so often.
I will go back into that safe place,
Into a different chair,
The windows down,
Music so loud that
I can't even hear him singing,
And I will sing along too,
To the perfect country song.

Point them; flex them;
Point them; flex them;
Put them in your
Lap, lap, lap.

She was my mentor
My first teacher
My friend.

Fifteen years
I knew her.
Or did I?

First tap,
then jazz,
ballet was short.
Then I met her again
in modern.

This was the last time
she would be my friend.
Gradually,
she would become my enemy.

I would see her now and again
each time, getting more and more
fire up and down my veins.

Until one day,
the last day,
that was it.

A simple hello
sent tears rushing
down my face.

Never has a simple
greeting been more empty.
Never have your words stung so deep.
Never will they again.

Thirty.
Thirty dead.
Forty-two injured.
In forty-eight hours.
Two hundred and fifty mass shootings in eight months.
Thousands dead.

Are you kidding?
Is this really what we are?
It's not the time to talk about gun laws?
SHOW ME A BETTER ******* TIME!
People are dying at elementary schools, at bars, at Walmart!

I tried to be sensible.
I tried to see both sides.
But I can't anymore.

These aren't just numbers.
These are people.
These are lives.
These are stories.
These are husbands and wives, children, parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, friends.
One death does not only impact one person.
In fact, the dead has the least amount of pain.
That one dead impacts hundreds of lives.
A lifetime of sadness.
I feel for the victims, I do.
But I ache for the families.
For the friends.
For the community.
I ache for the shooter, for his family.

He did awful things.
Unspeakable crimes.
There is nothing worse than taking a life.
But he is gone too.
His family lost someone too. Someone they loved.
Someone they cared about.
Their lives are forever changed, as well.

We need to change these idiotic laws.
We are the only respected nation with mass shootings in the double digits.
Hell, we have TRIPLE digits!
Gun ownership is NOT a right.
Gun ownership should not be a right.
I have said this more times than I can count.
IS YOUR RIGHT TO A GUN MORE ******* IMPORT THAN MY RIGHT, OR ANYONE ELSES RIGHT, TO LIVE?
Dear Mr. Gun Lover, sir, if you have a right, a truly inalienable right, than so do these shooters.
Please don't let the number become two hundred and fifty one.
It is on you. It is on all of us.

My home.
Destroyed.
Fifteen years.

I left.
On my own terms;
at peace.
But I thought I could always come back.
That it would always be
my home.

And now it's gone.
One by one, the pieces trickle.
The people. The place.
What's next?
The memories?
I don't want them lost.
I don't want them tainted.
My jacket. Oh, god, my jacket.
Soaked in tears, sweat, love.

It's branded with your name.
With our name.
And now that name is gone.
And the one in its place is filled with sorrow.
You are no longer there.
It is no longer home.

Fifteen years.
I'm sorry.
I promised you I would come back.
I promised you but a week ago.
But oh, what a week will bring.
Friend, my dear, sweet friend,
I cannot come back.
This is no longer my home.
It is just a place,
Located just outside of my heart.

I like to believe that all people
Are good.
Are kind.
Are human.

But days like today
it's hard to believe.

It's hard to distrust yourself.
To want to believe so badly
that what you know is the truth.

That people are inherently good.
That people are inherently kind.
That people believe that other people
are human.
Are in the same boat.

But yet,
we belittle.
We mock.
We hate.

And why?
Why would someone need to do harm?
Want to do harm?
Why would someone
want to belittle?
Want to mock?
Want to hate?

Why don't others want good?
Want kindness?
Want love?

We learn the golden rule when we are little.
Treat others how you want to be treated.
Is this how you want to be treated?
This is not right.
This is wrong.
Hate is wrong.
You are wrong.

Does that mean that I am correct?
Absolutely not.
One thing I have learned,
one thing I hate to admit,
is that people are never an extreme.
People are never truly, utterly evil,
but they aren't inherently good either.
I am not inherently good.

There is hate in this world,
but there is also love.
And on days like today,
where the hate is surrounding us,
that is what I am going to cling to.
The good.
The kind.
The human.

Because at the end of the day,
we all have one thing in common.
We're human.

Friends.
If you don't stay close,
you'll lose them.

I don't want to lose them.
They're brand new.
It's only been five years.
It can't be time, right?
It can't be time.

I've spent so long wanting
a big group of friends.
When I was little,
I had a giant group,
an imaginary group.
They always left at the end of playtime.

You, you don't leave.
I think of you when we're away.
I text you, I see you.
You're real.
Stay real.
Please, stay real.

I want to hangout,
I want to be friends.
Yes, school is over.
Yes, I am going away.

I will no longer get to ask what
we're doing in third period,
or what was that last step in the choreography.
But we can still eat ice cream.
We can still laugh, smile, and love.

We can still be friends.
The distance can't ruin that.
Or can it?

Fifteen.
For fifteen years you were my home.
For fifteen years you kept me from the rain.
You were there when my parents were late at work.
You were there when I needed a place to love.
You were there when I needed a place to call home.

You were my friends.
You were my family.
You taught me how to love.
You taught me happiness.
You taught me that I could call you home.
And you were the one who slammed the door in my face.

Over.
And over.
And over again.

You said you wanted this to be a place of inclusiveness,
and you were the one who made me feel alone.
Alone.

So often was I there when you cried.
So often did you say you were proud of me.
So often did you call me a friend.
But that's not what you showed me.

From you I learned pain. From you I felt alone.
And you said no one was ever alone.
For fifteen years I called you my home.
But you never were.

And now I say goodbye.
Now I leave.
You gave me a rose, but I left with thorns.

And I thank you for that.
I thank you for the love.
I thank you for the friends.
I thank you for the family.
But just because you gave me my family;
does not mean you were mine.

You changed, and not for the better.
I sit here in this jacket.
Your name stitched across the top.
My real family in my pocket.

Thank you for the memories, but
I will not forget.
I will never forget how I felt when I left.
Alone.

God, Yahweh, Allah
The beliefs are almost always the same;
it's just that the histories are different.
At heart, you want the same things.

Everybody wants to believe in a higher power.
Everybody wants to belong to something
bigger than themselves.
Everybody wants there to be
a force of good on earth.

Religions have much,
much more in common
then they like to admit.

They want to be able
to prove their belief
and their belonging.
They want to touch the enormity.

Race is purely a social construction.
No matter our religion or gender or race
or geographic background,
it's only our inability to realize
that we all have about 98 percent
in common with each other.

It's only in the finer points
that it gets complicated
and contentious.

We like to focus on
the 2 percent that's different,
and most of the conflict
in the world comes from that.

Thursday, June 23rd.
Last day.
The end.
Two simple words filled with so much emotion.
Joy? Anger? Loss?
Can loss be good?
Is an end a comma, or a period?

I often think back
to that letter
I received.

About what would have
happened if I
had read

it instead of letting
my friends choose
our course.

I am sorry
for saying
goodbye

when I really
meant hello
I was young

I wasn't ready
but neither
were you.

As long as the blue ocean
Expands the horizon,
Engulfs ships, and
Lets fish roam amongst
The swirling tides,
I will always love you.

And as long as the sun
Shines from up above,
Sprinkling joy into
Our lives like the
Sunflower petals
do your hair,
I will always love you.

As long as the red fire
Rages from down below
And the white serenity
Gives a blissful calm
From up ahead,
I will always love you.

As long as the green
From the treetops
Sways in the wind,
And as long as the
Children can play
In the glorious grass,
I will always love you.

As long as the gray
Mountains soar up above,
Waiting to be climbed,
I will always love you.

As long as the scent of
Lavender, purple and sweet,
Fills the air,
In a mist of magnificence,
I will always love you.

As long as the night,
Silent and mysterious,
Lets us rest, and leave
Our worries behind,
If only just for tonight,
I will always love you.

And as long as the
Autumn leaves fall,
Year after year,
Fluttering down
Like a gentle storm,
I will always love you.
Forever, and ever,
I will.

I may be crying
but please do not ask
if I am okay

for I will only burst
like a dam
flooding a town

please do not ask
if I am okay
because you already
know the answer

"Guns don't **** people, people **** people."
If guns don't **** people, then why have over 39,773 people fallen at the hands of a gun?
Over 39,773 bullets have hit our skin, penetrated our insides, for them to never come out with us still breathing.
If guns aren't the problem, and people are, then shouldn't we ban everything people **** with?
Let's ban cars, hammers, knives, water, air, fire, and food.
**** it, let's cut off our own two hands while we're at it.
But here's the problem: I sound ridiculous.
We need cars to travel.
Hammers to build.
Knives to cook.
Water to drink.
Air to breath.
Fire to heat.
Food to eat.
And guns to...
Wait.
We need cars, knives, and food. They have a purpose, a reason.
But guns?
A gun's purpose is to ****.
To do harm.
We don't drive guns, cook with guns, or use guns for fuel.
We use, always have used, and always will use guns for one and only one purpose:
To ****.
To do harm.
To hurt.
So, I don't care if it's the gun or the person doing the killing.
What matters is that someone dies. What matters is that over 39,773 people have died.
39,773 lives lost, never to be seen or heard from again.
What matters is that even one life gone, is a life inexcusably lost. Forever.

To Write.
Verb.
To watch ink stain the yellowed pages.
To create stories,
Narratives,
Other lives.
Other worlds
In which my imagination can flow.
In which my characters can come alive.
In which my creations thrive.
In which my voice, my stories,
Can be seen.
Can be heard.
Can be enjoyed.
Where my art
My purpose
Is.
Where all my anger, my ranting, my pain
Flows onto the page
And just disappears
No longer a problem
No longer a part of me.
The words are
Where my existence lies.
Where Lucas, and Fey, and Katrina, and Stevie, and Jonah and Fei, and Cassie and Savannah, and Lola, and Sarah, and Sidera can
Talk.
Move.
Act.
Dance.
Love.
Where people are capable of happiness, kindness, and joy.
Where nothing bad happens
That can't be solved
In a hundred pages or less.
Were books are created.
Poems come to life.
My anger is turned into
Nothing.
But strokes on a page.
Where I can write.
Be free.
Where the world around me dissipates.
For an hour.
A minute.
A day.
I am nothing
But strokes
On a keyboard.
Words.
On a page.
My fingers and mind racing
Which can go faster?
A race against time.
Who can say more?
Not caring about spelling, or grammar
That can wait.
My voice, mood, words
That is the priority.
The story
Is all that matters.
The story...
A noise.
A click.
A sound.
My train of thought.
My unconscious.
Gone.
A bird.
A dog.
A voice.
Destroyed.
No. Focus.
Turn the page
Keep.
Writing.
Anger. Love. Joy.
A wrath turned into stanzas.
Love is but a chapter.
Joy is but a song.
Who am I?
Who do I want to be?
A writer.
I am a writer
A better writer.
An author.
A poet.
Someone who can turn words into phrases into stories.
Someone who can make a reader's eyes cling to the page.
Their memories, my character's memories
Flowing, colliding, crashing together
Like a powerful stream.
They are like I am
An unconscious being.
The world dissipating to only the story.
Only the words.
The characters
I want to make my characters grow.
I want to make people feel something.
I want to be good. No. Great.
But I'm not great.
I can't stop.
I can't find a conclusion.
My characters, my friends. I want them to live forever. I want their stories to go on. Forever.
I don't want them to grow. I don't want them to leave me.
But they have to. For them to truly live
I have to
Let
Them
Go.
I need to learn how to let them.
They can't be
A Perpetual Existence.
Perpetual Existence.
The day to day phrases.
I remember when I first said that.
I was texting a friend.
I knew it would become a title someday.
We found it.
Time. Thyme.
What would happen if thyme stopped?
It was a ridiculous idea.
But it worked.
It never happened.
The characters were never brought to life.
Still in our heads.
An idea.
That's it.
That's all they'll ever be.
Trapped in thyme.
But it's the little phrases.
The little gems.
That stick with you.
My favorite book, a book with a plethora of gems, is called Everyday.
It is profound. There's a section that talks about how we're all the same. Christians, Jews, Muslims. We all believe in the same religion. It's all one god. We just see him differently. We just see different sides of the story.
Every conversation.
Every line of dialogue is a gem.
A little work of art.
I want that to be my legacy.
Legacy.
No. I didn't write Hamilton.
I am not Shakespeare.
I will not go down as a genius or the founder of a genre.
I will not be a famous poet.
A writer for the New York Times.
Winner of the Nobel Prize.
I don't want to.
I want to be known for me.
My conversations.
Everyday dialogue.
What I said to my friends, my family.
The gems.
My dad once told me that I was one of the best writers he knew.
I'm a writer. A dreamer. A speaker.
To Write.
Is to be me.

lauren has
a cup of coffee
and a smile
on her face

even when exhausted
the smile
never fades

she dances
coffee in hand
through life
and in studio

willing to love all
who comes her way

I wasn't born here, yet here I am.
I don't come from turf green fields
My knees aren't stained from endless amounts of grass
I don't like to run, I don't like to yell
I don't like to kick spheres into boxes made of net.
Yet here I am.
I am with you, my mother, my father, my sister's coach
Her best friend, their family, wives, husbands, daughters, and sons.
I am not from here.
I am from tap shoes, ballet buns, pas de bourrées.
I am from time steps, chassés, and chaînés turns.
I am from music, motion, and love.
I wasn't born here, yet here I am.