On the train from Penn station going home to wherever home may be, there is always a lot to look at.  Fashionably dressed babies, probably better dressed than most of the women in their twenties or so, just getting by on their meager paid intern salary.  Then there are the established looking businessmen in their suits.  They take up two seats with their bags and coats that are more important than human lives, just to return home to open the solitary can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup by nine, hopefully.  Then there are the moms and their bratty six year olds, coming home exhausted from that lovely Broadway show, comparable to the cost of the textbooks the college students who commute pay for and never open.  
There isn’t usually much chatter, mostly excuse me’s and is this seat taken? so it was surprising to hear conversation coming from down the train car.  A girl, about 16 or 17 or so, was stumbling down the car.  She looked like she hadn’t eaten in a few days, a few months, her skin looking lack luster and her hair dull and stringy.  She kept asking for gum.  
That’s when one of those businessmen, if you could call him a man answered.  He looked out of place in his suit on the train.  He was handsome and young and the cooperate world had not yet aged him.  He looked about 23 or so and was connected probably by an uncle or cousin or something to get the job.  He offered the girl a stick of five gum, the kind that came in a black foil wrapper, and he offered her a seat as he closed the file folder filled to capacity.
Although they spoke in hushed tones, neighbors sitting close enough could make out clips of their conversation.  It was as if all of the passengers had come to a mutual agreement to eavesdrop because this rare background noise was just so out of place.  Everything about it was juxtaposed and wrong.  Her hair against the silk tie he wore, her ratty Bob Marley inspired bag just inches from his polished shoes.
“Oh you didn’t have to offer me a seat,” she said, her voice trailing off as she graciously sat next to him.
“It’s my pleasure,” he said politely, a vague accent coming thorough as if he were new to New York.
They sat in the silence of the car and then slowly she mustered up her nerve.  It was written across her face that she had something she needed to get out, it obviously didn’t matter to whom she would tell her details.
“I’m in trouble.” she half whispered to him half said to herself in disbelief.
   “I’m sorry, how do you mean?” the well-mannered businessman answered.  There was still a pleasant smirk on his face, not the condescending kind, the gentle kind.  He didn’t look offended by her stench or annoyed at her noisy aura.  
“I have an eating disorder.  I have for years now and I’m…” her voice trailed off again into an inaudible whisper.  
“Honey I couldn’t help but over hear you, you sound like you could use some guidance.” a woman sitting two seats over from her offered her a business card as she spoke.  She just barged in as if it was her job to protect the troubled youth even when she was off the clock, as if she had some sort of debt to repay.  “I work with a non-profit, we help girls like you…”
The sentence filled the car like an overwhelming perfume.  It has good intention but it is suffocating.  Girls like you hung in the air as she answered.
“Oh, no, no thanks.  This is my stop.”
The young emaciated girl tumbled off the train.  Into the cold grey asphalt of Jamaica Queens to God knows where.

I was seated at the kids table.  Again.  I guess reaching the ripe old age of seventeen has not qualified me to explore the vast mind boggling and stimulating conversations of the adult table.  That or more likely they don’t want me to hear the “curse words” that they would be surprised to know half my teachers use in class anyway and have worked their way into my own vocabulary.  I just don’t understand what would put me in a league with eleven year olds.  At what seemed like the three thousandth mention of a selfie and the obnoxious constant bleeping of their iPhones at Easter dinner, I had been snapped out of my angst filled stupor by my uncles squeaking folding chair.  
My mother glared at me as I looked around the room.  She noticed that my posture was slouched and my arms were folded across my chest.  Again.  Well what did she expect?
As she approached I saw she meant business but I would not let down my well-built walls of being beyond the ******* kids table.  “Rebecca smile for God’s sake.” Ummm no-no thank you?    
I looked her back in the eyes and asked her earnestly “Mom what am I doing here?  I have nothing thing in common with these—children.”  What I was really thinking was You would be slouching too if you were expected to eat chicken fingers while your cousin-only four years your senior might I add- was eating beautifully prepared lamb.  But of course, that would make me seem ungrateful.
“Just TRY, Aunt Lisa will be down with dessert any second now anyway!” she said as if that was some type of reward for dealing with the ******* of being seventeen and still viewed as similar to an eleven year old.  
I resumed my stupor until I heard the clicking of heels (shorter than mine might I mention, I think that should be some sort of factor when deciding seating) coming down the stairs.  I thought there would be something marvelous, something creamy or cakey or some kind of fruit filled something.  The excitement built as I fought against the cracking smile only dessert could bring to my lips.  
There were two boxes. Two tables.  One contained a beautiful cheese cake, topped with fresh fruit.  The other was hostess.  Chocolate cupcakes.  Needless to say I don’t think you have to ask which box was dropped down onto the eleven year old end of the table.  Not even thirty seconds later, the box of carcinogenic cupcakes had disappeared and all I was left with was the bitter resentment of a ***** napkin covered in chicken finger grease and empty wrappers of disappointment.
My mom then had the nerve to ask me to clean the dishes and utensils with remnants of cheese cake and stains from stirring their cappuccinos.  *Gee, seventeen.

It is comforting to know that I am not that far from the ocean.  That I can be compared to something so immense by just driving a few minutes.  That if I ever need a sea breeze in order to breathe, I can get one.  Being next to the immensity reminds me of just how small I am.  I am a metaphorical drop in the ocean, a literal blemish on the face of mankind.  I ooze salty tears that match the vapor coming off the waves as they break.  I break with them as my footprints wash away.  The sand is a blank and mistake-less canvas.  And even if a mistake is made, it is gone after just a moment, erased.  The erasure is what I wish for my memories and bitter thoughts.  It is what I have earned for my actions.  My passion for artwork and reading and writing and music are all but gone, erased.  But, like the ocean, even as the waves are drawn out, they always come back.  My loves are slowly returning to me just as the sea foam does to the shore.  I am like the ocean.  Someday, someone will recognize my immensity.

She was like a migrating butterfly
beautiful for a little while,
but gone before the summer ended.
She takes her bright, happy colors with her,
probably never to return.
But that’s ok
because forgetting her bright happy colors,
it’s like chasing the horizon line.
Absolutely impossible.

She was quiet like carpeted stairs
barely making a sound as people
trampled over her.
She was constantly walked on
forever supporting the weight of others.
Nobody questioned what type
of support was beneath her.
Little did they know,
her supports were rotting away.
She is in danger of breaking
under the heavy steps of the ones who trusted her.

I am the marks on a test
signifying mistakes and short comings.
But I am also strong
like a super hero's cape in the breeze.
I am sweet like candy cane stripes.
Innocent like the stitches on a worn baseball
barley holding it together.
But fear not, I am full of fire too
like red hots or red pepper in sunday sauce.
I am a bottle of fine wine
complex and warm
reserved for special occasions.
I am the whites of eyes
after late nights and tired tears that is.
I am stop lights and rail road crossings
Playing it safe.
Playing it by the rules.
Playing so no one gets hurt.
I am nothing dangerous
but bold yet full of mystery
like mars and thick layers of red lipstick.

Mason jars filled to their rims with iced tea and my tears
I've packed this picnic lunch for two but now only need enough for one
We sat on the cool gray rocks and looked out at the ocean
The way it reflected the suns light made the world seem at peace
But then your voice disturbed the silence and stillness in the air
And it filled my ears with the cruel phrase that escaped your lips
"I can't play this part anymore, I don't love you"
My heart broke like the waves lapping at the shore
The quiet stillness had forever been broken as your lips motioned still
And even though I knew you were talking, the words made not a single sound
For in my mind all that echoed was the proclamation of your non-feelings
My eyes stung with the brutality of your beautiful jaw moving up and down
They filled with water saltier than the ocean before us
And then the world crashed to a close as I became a used to be
Unloveable and just another part of your history