I love the way that
Library bookshelves quiet
The sound of the world

So that I can search
For my mind's satisfaction
Without the chaos

So that just maybe
My mind can quiet down, too
From its raging roar

Musical standmates share
A special type of bond
Not one of friendship or love
But of knowing where things belong

You learn how to adjust the stand
So that it's the perfect height
How to turn a chair, pick up a bow
So it goes well on concert night

You also learn how they speak
(My stand partner loves bad puns)
And how to reply back to them
(With all the memes under the sun)

Spring has many calling signs
Like flowers and birds and sun
Or getting home to find
Thirty cars at your neighbor's for fun

For every spring and summer
The family across the street
Plays mariachi louder than a speaker
With their entire extended family to greet

My best trick ever
Is hiding crazy mischief
As part of my mind

My second best trick
Was putting sprinkles in the
Peanut butter jar

So this, readers and friends
Is where it began
I don't know where it ends
But let's look back again

A fourteen year old is writing
In a hospital room
Far her right in bright lighting
Is great-grandma, who'll die soon

She has few memories of her
As she wonders about home
Nonni keeps asking mother
Not to leave the girls alone

Now we're back in the hospital
On some Pennsylvanian hill
Thirty five family members in total
Nonni's more than ill

Christmas day, and we're at a friend's house
When we hear that final call
A week later, I'm at a funeral, sounding like a mouse
For someone I nearly didn't know at all

Looking back, that was the start
Of most of my questions
On society, religion, art
What the rules really ment

I found a taste for the books
That mom didn't like
I expanded my looks
Gained interest in the night

I started growing apart
From those I once knew
With secrets in my heart
My friends were my closest few

I learned more about a family
That I once thought typical
And (mostly) solved my belifs
On the meaning of "it all"

I look back on the before
As though regarding a cat
It's cute innocence I adore
I find it hard to believe I was that

I still have that Christmas blanket
A snow leopard, her last gift
For a woman I saw maybe four or five times, it
Still has a nice warmth to it

So sometimes I dream of a mint hospital wall
And think back to the start of it all

I remember the first time
that I was called pretty.
I was eight years old.
I remember feeling
a bubble of insecurity
hover around me,
like an ant
under a microscope.
At eight years old,
I had experienced
my very first wave
of expectations of women
in a male dominated society.
I had no idea
that would be the first
of many by the time
I reached womanhood.
I was just a child.
I loved playing in the dirt,
and capturing bull frogs.
I was a girl
who played like a boy.
I never thought I was pretty,
not because I had
low self esteem,
but because
I was eight years old.
I was to young
to have pretty
wrapped up in my identity.
Fast forward
eight more years.
I am sixteen now.
I am no longer
playing in the dirt,
or capturing bull frogs.
I am painting my nails
bright pink,
and dying my hair
every two weeks.
I am trying to be pretty.
I am no longer
feeling the bubble of insecurity.
I am living in it
twenty four seven.
I am always concerned
with how I look,
how I act,
and what I say.
I am a girl
who is no longer a tomboy.
I am just a girl.
I no longer know
who I am,
because I am
not allowed
to be who I am.
I am expected
to sit quietly
in the corner,
straightening my hair,
perfecting my makeup,
so that a boy
who loves my body
can tell me he loves me,
and make me his wife.
Fast forward
4 more years.
I am twenty now.
I am numb
to the insecurity.
I am now expected
to live in a suburb,
raise three kids,
clean the house,
love my husband,
and my white picket fence.
I am just another girl
who is seen as pretty.
I am living a lifeless life.
I am at a crossroads
to either stay down
under the weight
of societies expectations,
or burn my picket fence
right down to the ground.
I am remembering
that tomboy I was
before I was called pretty.
I can either reconnect
with her fierceness,
or hide beyond a mask
of beige concealer.
I can either be a dove,
or I can be a phoenix.
I think
the choice is obvious.