"Ten things you understand
if you're this or that"
screams the title of another Internet list,
where people go to feel they're not alone,
scroll through a generalized view of our age group,
a world so relate-able you're no longer you,
you're a '90s kid' or a 'tomboyish girl';
we all want to be unique,
yet we buy into this stereotyping technique
to feel connected with people we'll never meet.
Is it strange that I want to define 'me'?
not a lengthy list on a computer screen,
not strangers who lump me into a category.
I'll tell me what I want to be.

We're sixteen again,
sneaking around at night,
pouring rain in the summertime,
quiet whispers in your teenage bed,
heavy breaths and covered mouths,
don't wake up the rents

And like I'm sixteen,
not turning twenty-two,
I don't know better than to break my addiction
and I come back again
to feel the poisoned fingers on my skin

my fear of romantic relationships encircles me and I question:

Do you like me?
Am I annoying you?
Did I say something wrong?

And I push away the good ones as easily by my insecurities as I drew them in by with my air of confidence.

my heart stays still to remember this is about use
emotionless nothing, yet our foreheads touch in that moment of sweet sweat and heavy breaths
I try to hold it in laying next to you in the bed but
running my fingers through the blonde hair on your head
makes me want to tell you everything again

spring has sprung.
little tree buds stretch their arms
from a long, dead winter,
opening up to lap up the sun.

the walk to school becomes
less of a chore and
more of an excuse to be outdoors.

the grass turns as green
as it was before,
thick dark blades peeking through
dry brown dirt.

the world lives again,
under a roof of bright blue sky,
canopies of pink flowers
with the summer in mind.

a joyous occasion.

don't act too much like yourself,
men might not like that.
don't approach him first,
you don't want to come off too strong.
wait patiently, but don't sit around,
have the power, but not too much of it,
don't be a pushover, but don't shout too loud.
don't text him first, don't pay for your own meal,
wait and wait some more, because if he likes you,
it's all on him.
we're powerless to make a change,
get labeled 'crazy' when we initiate things;
called a '*****' when we love to ****,
wearing no makeup makes us ugly
and wearing too much makes us *****.

what a beautiful way for society to reward us
for bearing their babies--if we want--
but wouldn't you? because women are
meant to be mothers, meant to stay at home,
meant to nourish and look pretty
while husbands are at work.

find a man who loves you,
but only if he admits it first...

“You don’t want to be with me. I’m damaged goods,” she says, a coy smile creeping across her face.  
“I don’t care,” he pulls her in with his hands around her waist. It’s the perfect height. He ignores the telltale signs of a liar and she tilts her chin up to meet his lips.
She hides her mischievous look behind a long sheet of black hair.
He barely notices the dragon’s heat rising from her chest.
She’s the green-eyed monster, getting poised to strike again.