He probably deserves
to be accidentally thrown
into a garbage truck
some cold Monday morning,

but I don't think it's his fault.
I love him.
I don't know and probably won't
until we're ash.

❦

The leaves
They are falling
Gracefully dancing together
Not noticing
That their end is near
But can you blame them
For living in the moment
And holding each other dear

I promise,
I’m a good girl;
I stay away from
narcotics, alcohol, sin.

Traditional stuff you’d find
at parties:
bustling, joyous laughter,
celebrating their momentary acceptance.

Girls my age are supposed to
lose her individuality in the heat of the moment,
find herself as the collective energy of the crowd,
dance, fight, scream.

They fight off the night’s
darkness, silence, coldness,
for the party’s
brightness, sound, warmth.

I remain
alone,
allowing the night’s emptiness
to swallow me whole.

Surrounded by darkness,
I notice its layers—
the infinite depths of reality
threatening to tear us all apart.

Just as anyone else,
I’m not as good as I should be.
Despite the comfort I have in
barely keeping myself afloat,

I want
to feel
something
too.

I drink energy drinks at night.
Not so bad, right?
I thought the same
against my mother’s warning:

"Never drink those!"
Despite being able to recall
coloring within the lines of a coloring book
at a hospital:

seeing my dad be pushed in a wheelchair
out of the operation room.
His spirit was stolen,
and his heart would tick forever as a reminder.

Compared to the other girls, I
lose my individuality in the loneliness of the night,
find myself in the emotionality night wraps me in:
watch, listen, wait.

My heart struggles to keep up as I drink
more, more, more.
I smile, and finally my thoughts run as quickly as my peers—
beat, beat, beat.

I’m tired of being a girl,
of failing to live up to inhuman expectations,
or fitting in with those sweaty bodies.
I wish the glory of femininity didn’t end with girlhood.

Instead of playing with human sensuality,
I play with human mortality
in what I’d like to call
a college student’s version of Russian roulette.

An overwhelmed heart bursts
Not with a splash of blood
But with a trickle of tears

I’m trying to find my flowers,
I’ve lost them along the way,
skipping through my garden
on a bright and sunny day.
I didn’t mean to lose them,
I need to bring them back.
My poor garden is empty now,
no colours, only black.
Sometimes I skip too fast,
some people think I’m crazy.
Sometimes I hand them out,
all my roses and my daisies,
my tulips and my lilies;
sunflowers and bluebells.
I’m trying to spread some beauty
before I go through hell.
As fast as flowers grow
my sky will turn dark grey,
and then I’m left alone
on an unsuspecting day.
I have to pace myself,
I’m not a flower girl.
Sometimes my mind takes over
sending me in a whirl.
I want to share some beauty
but I’d like some colours too,
something left to show me
where all my flowers grew.

Did life come here on some cosmic speck?
A single cell inside a shooting star;
I wonder if we travelled far,
before we slid into the bubbling sprawl?
A place hospitable enough
for the stuff from which we're made
to grow and split and split and grow
before - ergo a beak, a stalk, a wink, a squawk,
a carnival of creeping creatures,
each one with its own distinctive features!
So when we pause to comtemplate,
the night sky's pinpricked winking lights,
is the flame that stirs inside
a homesickness for where we came?