Hey Mommy?

When I type bat instead of cat, do the letters get mad at me?

Is it a vacation, a retirement to the land far away,
full of words I’ll never get to know,
or did I send them away to crumble into pixels?

Is that forgotten apology chopped up
into little pieces in the back of the computer,
a plastic box under the harddrive
that Daddy gets to clean out
when he refills the printer ink?

I want to read the book filled with all the lost letters,
the one where my fourth-grade book report
comes after the job application you were never qualified for,
but just before the neighbor’s college essay,
deleted so his own Mommy could help him.

Hey Mommy?

Can I ever check on them?

I hope they turn into a book about superpowers.

I’d be sad if these keys turned into nothing more
than a scrapped poem or a forgotten apology.

Hey Mommy?

I miss the forgotten letters.

Do you think they ever miss me?

X Paper two—peer edits
X Chem homework
X Read paper 1, 2—for annotated bib  
X Bio notes
    Read book—your favorite, snuggle up and drift away
X Bio Exam
X Bio reading 1, 2, 3
X Chem notes
    Read Book—the one on your shelf for ages
X Chem reading 1, 2, 3, 4
X Write paper one—second draft
X Bio homework
    Write book—this has been your dream since you were a kid
X Write paper three—first draft
X Write poem—last thing before bedtime

I want to be anywhere but here.

I want to walk the streets of Paris.
Pitter patter of heels clicking the pavement,
moonlight glowing on your skin,
bread waking us up in aroma cloud
just as the sun begins its rise.

I want to go on an adventure.
Let’s race to see who can get across
the bridge the fastest.
Teach me how to skip stones.
Will you give me a kiss
for each leap the little rock takes?
Pull me out of the water when I fall,
I want to walk across that log with you,
I want to go splashing in the puddles.

I want a quiet afternoon.
It could be dark and rainy,
we whisper the seconds in between the storm,
or the sun could shine,
brighter than you say my smile does.
I want to nestle into your body,
the blankets covering us both.
I’m melting into the pages,
another world a vivid dream inside my mind.
You read over my shoulder, making a mental note
to recreate the date on page ninety-four.

I want to be spontaneous.
Wake me up on a Tuesday, and tell me
we’re going for a photoshoot.
I’ll put my feet up on the dash,
Taylor Swift blasting from your speakers.
You can’t sing, nor can I,
but I’ll still laugh when you trip over the words,
no matter how loud and proud you yell them.

I’ll tell you how to pose,
chin up, no down,
a little to the left, there.
There.
Perfect.
We’re perfect.
Snap.
My favorite day now captured forever.
I brought the camera, but you have your phone.
Will you take pictures of me when I’m not looking?
Do I look beautiful?

Tell me about your dreams.
Tell me about your favorite fact,
the one that you learned in the third grade,
and is obvious now,
but completely blew your mind.
Did your friend teach it to you?
Who was the first person you had a crush on,
tell me about the time that they talked to you.
Did you know I used to want to change my name?
Did you know I’ve always wished we’d meet?
Did you know I long to fall in love?
Did you know I’m terrified that I’ll never get the chance?
Did you know I live in the present, mostly to escape the future?

I want to be anywhere but here.

Winter comes and goes,
white fleece coating games of tag,
petals of all colors shriveling
into an anxious fret,
buried in the soil
just as those before them,
only to grow and flourish in the spring,
a new game of tag emerging,
a new friend found,
included like family from day one.

A family may be tied
with the thinnest of knots,
a frail reminder that blood
is nothing more than a liquid,
draining as the dust settles,
going extinct as the calendar renews.

Or, in the sweetest of holy dreams,
a family may be sautered with stardust,
existing into infinity,
something even distance
couldn’t dare to separate.

That is what we are.
A living slumber,
a mother too young
to understand heartbreak,
eyes closed for so long
she may never wake.

You are my children,
brighter than the colors on a rainbow,
the trail leading to the gold
of your brother’s hair,
the trophy you’ll never win,
the ring he’ll never give you.

Because he doesn’t exist,
my angel, and like the heavens,
you shall always remain a mystery.

A mystery I will continue to solve,
but a mystery I will never close.

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.

A marbled masterpiece,
a wanderer exploring ice
which floats among the stars.

Oh to smile
at the twinkling lights of a city,
a little village town.

To feel the wind
brushing my hair
like a man his favorite companion,

the boat cutting through water
like a knife scraping a slice
of fresh Italian bread.

No, today I didn’t watch the sunset,
no flamingo clouds
with starburst hues.

But today was filled
with my favorite trilogy:
art, wisdom, and love.

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.

a reuleaux triangle attached to the ball
the curved aluminum clunk on the heel
with one stomp, i give my power to you

silencing my screams, you yell for me
with every brush and scuff, you sing a song
of an endless symphony

yet, when naked, you move like an animal
a quick pounce, your point sharp,
taking flight, soaring
like a bird turning
from snake to angel back
to a wildebeest hitting the marley-floor
with nothing but a soft patter
your energy escaping back
into the earth ready
for your next adventure

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.

I don’t know what I’m more terrified of:
Losing you or us never getting to meet.

Is it possible that after a hundred little memories,
the distracted handholds, and good morning kisses,
one day I won’t want to see your smile anymore?

Will the way I lose you be easy or hard?
Will I just walk away, a single tear swiped
from my cheek, the phantom feel of your fingers
flicking it away for me, or will it be a storm,
monstrous, will I recognize myself when we’re over?

Will it be my choice, or will fate pry us apart,
two pieces of plywood that should be glued,
not nailed. Is our loss a sacrifice
the world has to take to move on?

Or even worse, what if I never even learn your name.
I don’t want to be just two ships passing in the night.
I don’t want to touch your hand as you give me my coffee,
unaware that this hand belongs with mine.
I don’t want to meet your eyes in class,
pulling mine away without a second thought.

It’s one thing to be the person that was,
and another to be the people that never were.

Love the ocean more
than a dark bar
on a Friday night.

For there are plenty
of fish in the sea,
yet nobody is here for you.

Love the ocean more
than a summer night’s air,
for only one
can leave you breathless.

Love the ocean more
then the stars,
because one’s a mystery,
without ever
having to leave home.

Love the ocean,
because it’s telling you
you’re human.

i am a flower, the dream someone longs for knowing, cotton candy clouds pink as the fairy’s magic kiss. the hand which curls over your cheek just as the moon crescents the sun, an eclipse of love, the darkness around which the world turns.

i am a dancer, my dress a costume, the silk covering my insecurities, turning like a top when i prance and skip through the jungle. the leopards love me. they chase the sun, frolicking in the dew-drawn leaves, the monkeys cheering as they watch the race.

i am stardust. my hair is fire, concealed only by my bun, i am careful not to burn you.

this is my reality, my safest seclusion, as to hurt you, i could never. this black hole is a solitude.

it’s just as blue fades to black, the white ripple of tide can lead to the kingdom of peace.
my belief fades in and out, ****** deeper into the black hole that is the ocean. swarming with life,
not a care for what i’ve missed out on. a school of fish, a single tidbit to be plucked out and dissected,
resisting the urge to throw my entire bucket into the fire.

i’ve never been one for seafood. i don’t even care for a taste. nevertheless, i long for the stars.

i’m told that he loves me. i’m told that he is the beacon of light, the glow of an anglerfish
in the darkness of the bone-chilling waters. i tried to swim away, i escaped, yet,
as strong as gravity has on a galaxy, have i been caught in a net, reluctantly pulled back to shore?
did i wash up willingly?

i’ve been told that there is a hallway full of sand; a trail to the stairway to the stars.
there is but a single question: do i wish to be among them?

I am bamboozled.
The instructions are
a monotonous contradiction.

For every tale
I read of traitorous bloodlust,
of holy hypocrisy,
my motivation to finish
this ****** bibliography
escapes my body,
flailing itself into
the constellations.

I am left nothing more
then a gelatinous sack,
a sorrowful student
resembling some
squashed cranberries.

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.

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.

I didn’t mean to say goodbye to you.
What I said, I thought would be a hello.
What I did, I hoped would make me see you more often.
When I dreamed, I always dreamt of you.

But it’s been an entire day, my love.
A day without one of your gorgeous hellos.
A day without your dance, a day without your hugs.

Today, I have been surrounded by love.
Today I am safe, I am happy,
but I don’t get to share it with you.
Today, was a goodbye.
And I’m sorry.
But I promise I’ll see you again soon.
Because I need you. I love you. I’m yours.

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 am sorry
for saying
goodbye

when I really
meant hello
I was young

I wasn't ready
but neither
were you.

walking
down the narrow path
the leaves
rustling in the wind
my hair
tied back into a messy bun
a smile
plastered across my face
as i
look at the world around me
spring
it has come

The waves part
at the speed of light,
all of Heaven gathered together
into a black hole,
disappearing,
ceasing to exist.

This was an experiment, you see.
A multi millennia project,
the greatest, the only,
team-building exercise of all time.

It led up to this, humanity,
but it wasn’t pass-fail.
Every little win, every
act of kindness, every
giggle coming from a small
child’s lips gave us a point.
Every bit of despair
subtracted one.

What was our grade?
All the wars we fought,
collecting coins like glitter
to fill our picture frame of hate,
did we ever once think that when
He came down, when Jesus returned,
it would not be in a simple robe,
the uniform of the stars, but in a
crisp, clean lab coat,
our savor, the STEM major.

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 am from books; yellowed pages and black ink.
I am from shoes; leather and worn.
I am from dancing; Tap, jazz, and modern.
I am from Disney; DCOM's and the Disney Channel.
I am from television; Riverdale and Pretty Little Liars.
I am from Freeform and the CW.
I am from Bones and The Pretender.
I am from Pokino, and Forensic Files, and pasta.
I am from Ireland, Italy, and Germany.
I am from Belgium, France, and Grease.
I am from my bed in the morning.
I am from Science and Anthropology.
I am from painting and graphic design.
I am from Twizzlers, and Kit-Kats, and Oreos.
I am from apples and peanut butter.
I am from Okemos and Syracuse.
I am from ADHD and anxiety.
I am from happiness and the sense of calm.
I am from blue.
I am me.

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.

You’re just a person.

You’re chill, and calm, bending down
to put a band aid on our scraped knee.
Telling us you know it hurts, but the jelly
will **** the bacteria. We ask
“what is bacteria?” You tell us.

It’s simple, yet complex.
Millions of little societies on our skin,
in our hair, on the pavement.

You teach us
through our tears
the world’s beauty.

But then, you’re just a person.

You can be a firecracker, yelling expletives
as you stub your toe, at the mess in the living
room, at how we messed up an already
imperfect world.

You can be so excited to do the thing
that you never explain to us
what that thing is.

You want to do it all,
and you want to do it all
right now.

And I realize, you’re just a person.

You have hard days. You forget to drink water.
You love the feeling of printed pages underneath
your fingertips.

You have to hold back tears letting go
of those who’ve wronged you.

But you laugh. And you care.

And you’re a person.

You’re no different from the stranger at the house
three doors down. You’re no more worthy
of telling your stories then they are.

You’re just a person.

I tell myself that one day, maybe I should
knock next door, ask if I can come inside,
and see what they have for a story.

Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
They're looking a little bit dull.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Have all been complaining they're tarnished and worn,
How did it go?
How did it go?

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

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!

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.

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.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
As I would for you.
As we are one. As we are unity.

As we enjoy the same fruit.
As we enjoy spinning,
As we enjoy twirling,
Our eyes blind to the direction of the world.
Our eyes blind to the walls,
The ceiling.
The floors.
Every step.
Every turn.
Not afraid of where we'll end up, or what the world thinks of us.
Alas, we are blind, our eyelids dropped.
As we cannot see the world, the world cannot see us.

We enjoy closing the page, we enjoy the story.
And as the words may be over, the way we perceive them still exists.
Swelling,
Inside us like a growing storm.
Trembling.
Waiting.
For the time to pop out, to flood our thoughts and perceptions, Trickling down our ideas,
like dew on a pure and calm morning.

We enjoy the pigment staining the canvas for the last time,
Until the next.
Until the next time our creativity burts out of us,
Until the next time we have something to say.
Until the next time our brush subtly scraps across the cloth,
Not making a sound.
Until the next time the colored gel glides across,
Transforming into whatever we perceive it as.
Until the next time a smile is plastered across,
Until the next time a masterpiece is completed.

We enjoy stepping onto the grass, the day having been done,
Our toils having been endured.
Our house just ahead,
Our home.
The place we feel safest.
The place we belong.
The place we read.
The place we write.
The place we cook.
The place we sing.
The place we dance.

The place the rooms combine to make our home, just as
We combine to make one. Just as we combine to make unity.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

A laugh.
An expression of joy, comfort, serenity.
A tool to say:
I see you.
I appreciate you.
Unless;
I don't.
Unless;
I mock you.
Unless;
To show hate.
To show that I,
Am better.
Than you.
Than a creator.
An artist.
Someone I should appreciate.
Someone I should respect.
Someone who gave me their heart.
Their movement.
Their joy.
And I laughed,
And I scoffed,
And I spat in your face.
And to think;
A twix could solve this
Rift between us.
I devoured your feelings.
Your meaning in this world.
Your poetry, your song.
What about this can nuget not fix?
A crunchy bar,
Filled with caramel,
And a golden copper shell.
A treat for your troubles.
An apology;
For a sin,
About to be repeated.
You gave me your heart.
Your song.
Your memories.
And I scoffed at them.
But I had the right.
And a twix bar,
Was my apology.
Before I did it again.
A laugh.

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.