a torn heart,
ripped eagerly, unwittingly,
by gentlest fingers on pretty strings,
a sweet voice
with cracks like the sidewalks
that take me home.
tears streaming,
i find that i am home,
here,
among the notes that tug at heartstrings— no,
not tug, wrench.
a closed fist over my soul,
i couldn’t escape
if i wanted to.
jailed in this floral prison,
there is nothing i want more
than to listen
as you take me
apart.

He found himself Untethered.
Unchained,
with every beat of waxy wing,
rising.
Sweet, tawny feathers
tickled his ribs pleasantly
with every arch
of his back, every tension
of his bare shoulders.

Warnings left unheeded,
unhinged cries leap from his lips
as he flips about
in the warm, salty air.
The undulating waves
far below,
look soft;
the rise and fall like breaths
of a sleeping babe.

A swarm of bees took his heart
in their sweet, trembling hands,
whispering congratulations.
He shook, blood burning with
each breath of bright air,
fresh.
His hair whipped by gentle breeze,
inviting sun
seeping into translucent, purplish skin.

Rivulets of hot sweat rolled
in the riverbeds between his muscles,
dripping from eyelashes and
elbows and jawline;
corners.
He spins up and up,
higher, up,
and down.
Down?

Arms flapping, flailing now,
trailing feathers and rivets
and loosening screws
like falling snow;
a storm above the sea.
Wax-coated eyelashes
laden with honey tears,
sticky, wind whooshing
through panicking fingers.

Scrabbling hands desperately clutching
chunks of melted wing,
scarred wood bearing the marks
of his father’s chisel,
unimportant now.  
His bony, haughty face twists in writhing
emotion.
He falls head over heels over head
over heels.

Split sea,
winded,
bones crunch as body impacts,
shoulders, back, thighs, toes.
Pale limbs bend in odd ways,
distinctly Not how his inventor
put him together, so carefully.
He tastes salt, metal,
blood and brine mixing in his mouth.

No space in there to thank his father too.

To be honest,
I think it’s untrue that thunder is meant to frighten,
to warn of a coming storm.
I think it’s nature’s call to throw open windows,
to for once enjoy something with open arms,
faces open to the sky, eyes closed and lashes laden with drops.
I also think we make way too many shutters
with tightly
stacked
wooden slats,
nailed to all walls to cover every window
of opportunity;
because we want to shelter our poor, supposedly fragile,
mercifully warm bodies from the elements,
from cold rain, cooling wind, colder snow.
Chill out.
Parents frantically shield their children in a noble,
albeit misguided, crusade to prevent their “little Timmy”
from experiencing anything at all.
Chill out, you, sit in the rain for a minute,
let the rolling thunder lull you
to…  
a slightly less high-strung existence, at least.
Where I come from, the worst bees can do is
sting you, you let it hurt for a little and then
it’s all okay, no (real) harm no foul,
and in the end you got to sit outside
and do your homework in the sunshine.
My mother always said not to eat the cookie dough,
that raw eggs would give you salmonella.
My sister used to sneak me bites anyways,
with a wink, because
“I haven’t got salmonella yet, and I always eat the dough!”
It was a risk worth taking.
I don’t consider myself one of those people
who would call others “snowflakes” for being
a bit more hesitant in the world,
for telling their kids not to eat the cookie dough,
for wanting a better, safer existence for the next generation,
but dear god do I think
we all should be allowed to climb trees,
scrape knees,
and live a little.
but enough about me—
Did your parents let you live?
You’re in charge now, have you ever let yourself live?
Do you want to go outside and spin
in dizzy circles
in the rain with me?

i’ve lost it
I’m not sure what it is
but whatever it was
it must have been good
because without it
i’m lost.

i’ve been mopping
myself up off the floor,
a hard tile floor,
where I get stuck in the cracks
and my bones crack with the labor
of it all,
of mopping myself off the floor.

i’m a wet pile of something,
a wet pile of flesh and blood
and hopes and dreams lost,
mopped up by a skeleton,
the crippling fear of everything,
but even she’s exhausted
she can’t do it anymore.

i swear to god
i swear i hate him,
wherever he is,
if he exists,
i'll **** his name and
walk backwards into hell.

i cry at any song that’s
even remotely
“pretty in a sad way,”
as my roommate says.
i cry whenever anyone
raises their voice around me,
it doesn’t even have to be
at me.
i cry when people
cry around me,
even when it’s not my problem,
or worse, when it is.
i break,
break down at minor inconveniences,
but who’s to call me fragile
except myself?
(because if anyone else did,
i'd probably cry)

a fall from heaven,
but I’m falling for you.
if our love is a sin, why then,
i’ll make sure all of hell
bows for me as
i descend.
god should be thankful
i will never have face him,
for he’d have to beg
my forgiveness instead.
we are still angels,
my dear, despite what
he may say.
my fall from grace
(or to yours)
may have been less than graceful,
head over heels over
head over heels for you,
but i know I’ll have a pair of open
arms to catch me when
i land.

and when those arms finally
embrace me,
i swear i feel wings
holding me as well.

once there was a man.
he wandered twisting caverns
without a thought,
swaying as he walked.

he came upon a button
on the rotting ground
and stooped low to pick it up,
holding it between careless fingers.

then there was a man with a button.
his ambling gait aimless
among crumbling walls of dirt,
and ceilings of the same.

he came upon a needle,
rusted but neatly threaded,
squatting to look and struggling
to grab it between nonexistent nails.

then there was a man with a button
and a neatly threaded needle,
turning endless corners
with a hand brushing along every wall.

he came upon a soft, dark shirt
and bent to pick it up,
noticing that, upon inspection,
it was missing a button.

then there was a man with a button and
a neatly threaded needle, wearing a dark shirt.
his eyes scanned the rotting ground,
holding the needle and button in a tense hand.

he came upon a pair of linen pants,
midnight black and tailored well.
he stepped into them, tucked in his shirt,
and continued on his meandering way.

then there was a man with a button
and a neatly threaded needle in one hand,
wearing a dark shirt tucked into tailored pants
stumbling through dank tunnels.

he came upon a pair of shined onyx shoes
and put them on without pomp,
leaning against the crumbling walls
to lift each foot into a shoe.

then there was a man with a button
and a neatly threaded needle in one hand,
wearing a dark shirt tucked into tailored pants,
dragging shined shoes through never-ending passages.

he came upon a suit jacket,
noticing that the pockets bulged with a pair of gloves
as he knelt to don it. he slipped the
gloves onto shaking hands.

once there was a man dressed for a funeral,
a man who was under the impression that
he had no occasion to attend in such attire,
a man who continued to wander infinite caverns.

he came upon a chamber
with sobered steps and saw a fitting sight.
A casket lay in the center of the room,
surrounded by wilted roses on the rotting floor.

then there was a man dressed for a funeral
who looked to his left and beheld
a veiled woman in spectacular mourning dress,
whose cold hands reached to hold his own.

her delicate fingers came upon the button
and neatly threaded needle. she surveyed
his garb and found the spot where his shirt
was missing a closure.

then there was a man dressed for a funeral
who, legs shaking, allowed a veiled woman
to expertly sew the button back onto his shirt.
a voice came from behind the veil:

"pay your respects."

his legs seemed to move without his say
to the center of the room.
he watched as his arms, no longer his own,
lifted the ebony lid to reveal

a beautiful cream silk lining,
bright against the Stygian casket,
gently cradling a man dressed for a funeral
with a mismatched button sewn to his shirt.

there’s something about rain
that makes me want to
run outside with someone
and kiss them until the world
stops spinning.
to dance under the weeping
clouds, incandescently happy
in their embrace.
to feel soft grass under bare feet
and warm skin under wet clothes.
to love in the rain.
to laugh in the tearstained face
of the cruel storm.

there’s something about rain
that makes me wish
i had a love to spite it.

space has never been so tempting,
yet so frustrating.
the stars are alluring,
so far from the chaos,
pollution, and bloodshed
of this cursed world.
the cosmos deliver their invitation:
they have a warm welcome waiting,
a hearth to curl up next to,
so to speak.

yet stand 6 feet away from anyone,
it feels like galaxies between.
a sweet embrace has been
foreign for months,
now something to die for,
quite possibly.

is resting far above the worries
of the earth worth leaving
the rosy cheek of humanity?

now i watch as the world
melts. the houses drip
from all their corners,
the sidewalks shine like sweat.
i hear a collective sigh of relief
now that the sun is bright and
the storm has stopped.
it’s not like it wouldn’t have,
but until it did, the world
held its breath.
the trees were stiff,
uncomfortable, weighed down
with snow, while people were
glued to their windows.
but now the world melts
with the snow. it sighs and
shrugs off its coat, shakes
its dripping wet hair, and
gives a triumphant smile
to the sky.

the golf course near my house
is that manicured kind of pretty
that makes me want to sneak in at night
and scatter wildflower seeds in the wind
to create a little bit of chaotic beauty.
the houses on the street in front are identical in everything but color,
down to even the bushes,
spaced each exactly a foot apart.
the lawns are trimmed to perfection and back again,
no room for natural biodiversity in sight.
no dandelions to pick and make any wishes,
no soft moss for bare feet to enjoy,
no flowers for the bees to pollinate.
the whole neighborhood
is that manicured kind of pretty,
where everything has to be palatable to the organized,
never too much of anything at all.

"the stars are so pretty tonight,"
so pretty
i want to drown in them.

i want to be swept up in the current
of a swirling sky,
i want to die up there.
a peaceful death,
a death among the stars,
among the angels before i fall.

i want to see heaven,
just once, then i'll let
the riptide take me and
throw me down with the rain,
with all the falling stars
she rejects every day.

I want to feel each wave
crash
above my head;
i want to drown in stardust,
let the sky fill my lungs,
let it **** me.

I'll take some heaven
down with me.

you blew up her phone
every night for years
telling her how you would hurt yourself.
you had her in tears,
but she would respond each time,
despite her fears
that she would say all the wrong things.
everything was so fragile, she was scared
to type each word, to hit send.
A twelve year old, so unprepared
to become a self harm and suicide hotline,
despite how much she cared.
after that she would never seek help from her friends,
as she knew how hard it was to listen,
so she bottled her feelings and hoped the pain would end.

I hate myself.
There. I said it.
Nothing feels better though.
Admitting it is weird.
People are gonna answer
and use that tone:
"no you shouldn't!"

well too bad,
it's not your choice.
****, i wish it was mine.

I’m in love with a ghost,
Its fluttering distracts me
As I run into walls trying to follow,
bruising my body.
It tortures me at night,
Drowning me in disappearing dreams:
Running from death,
Attacked by demons,
Unable to save them from fire.
But then
She’s there.
I smell flowers.
The perfume of old memories
surrounds me.
then I’m falling,
Terrified,
Falling,
I wake up.
Still falling,
I’m scared to escape,
So instead I stay, falling
In love with a ghost.

I’m galaxies away from anyone,
even on the busiest of streets.
I revel in the comfort of the stars,
they sleep behind my eyes;
The cold of the darkness
it creeps into my heart;
The dull ache of the void, the empty space,
it seeps through my being.

I may die among the stars,
alone for ever and eternity,
but it’s a fate better than feeling lonely
in a room full of people.

I hate that time
passes.
Even if right now isn’t perfect,
it wouldn’t get worse
if time didn’t run away
so fast.
I’m breathless from chasing it,
I’m sore,
everything hurts.
one day I’ll
collapse,
and maybe then time will finally
stop.

in the dark,
scared I’m not alone,
desperately wishing I wasn’t.

alone with my demons,
so not really alone,
just lonely

the demons in my head
take my mind to hell with them.
they burn my dreams,
freeze my heart,
and torture my soul.
my thoughts wander with ghosts;
their lost expressions comfort me now.
they are empty,
but so am i.
i am empty but not alone.

yes,
"i've got everything."
i know i do,
but the darkness doesn't discriminate
like you want it to.
it chases me despite my privilege,
despite my "perfect education,"
my "perfect family,"
my "perfect life,"
despite your protesting.
you cannot stop the darkness,
no matter how hard you try.
you cannot stop the darkness,
and neither can I.

i will never be enough for you.
not white enough,
not latina enough for you.
not straight enough,
not gay enough for you.

but i will be biracial enough,
bisexual enough for me.

i hate the way my name
fits in other people's mouths,
like it's sour;
they stutter and pronounce it wrong.
i like it when it sounds sweet,
sugary and pretty,
like peaches and cream,
like the way you would say 'darling'
to a love.
is that so hard?

I'm not sure whether you are clueless
or just deceitful
in your "hope."
You will leave us your ruined planet
and tell us you have
"hope" in us;
that you believe
we can fix your mistakes
somehow.
Like a child pasting paper cutouts
on an important project
and then scribbling on it;
that is how useful your
"hope" is.
You treat us as children
while acting like them yourselves.
Your immature "hope"
curses us.
Your tantrums
doom us to a ruined planet,
wrapped up in a pretty little bow,
signed "with hope."
Useless.
We do not want your "hope"
or your belittling stares
or your childish attitudes
or your arguments
or your optimism.
We want your action
your help,
your votes.
Lend us your strength,
not your stupid faith in us,
because by the time
we are 18
it will be too late.
We do not want your ruined planet,
we want you to act
like the adults you call yourselves.
We do not want your "hope."
We want your help.

we do so much to pretend
we are okay,
even just for a passing moment.
we cry until we can't anymore,
wash our faces, and continue
with fake smiles badly pasted
to our faces.
we press our souls to one another's,
letting them break us,
and pretend we're surprised.
the scars remain,
so we cover them up with makeup
and pretend they don't throb
when others touch them.
we plant flowers on graves,
and send "thoughts and prayers"
in the wake of complete devastation
as though that'll make everything
better.
it won't, but perhaps
it will make the ruins beautiful;

appearances are all that matter anyways.

Black roses grow
where you once stood in my heart.
Their thorns rip me apart,
cover me in dripping, glistening blood,
but they're
more beautiful than you.

They hurt me with full intention to,
not like your ignorance.
They may **** me
but I don't care,
You beat me down this far,
now I'm way past getting up,
so I'd like to die selfishly,
more beautiful than you.

we paint a perfect picture,
a beautiful portrait of us
surrounded by flowers,
when our love's put on paper,
in a pretty little frame
hung on the wall,
like a kid's art
on the fridge door.

we're paint with our hands,
it gets messy and everywhere.
we yell and we scream,
hearts shatter and color splatters
across the room.
everything is covered in acrylics,
watercolors, oil paints.
some stains will wash out, others won't.

we paint delicate little details
afterwards,
as though a wrong brushstroke
could ruin the beauty,
ignoring the fact
that we may already have.
it's stiff and it feels wrong,
but that's the price of 'perfect'.

we paint with passion,
practically kissing the paper,
leaving the imprint of our lips,
our love, right there.
signing our names
in the bottom right corner,
as though we were really artists
making real art.

drip
     drop
drip
     drop
that's the sound of rain drops
pounding on the roof,
on the walls, on the windows.
they're knocking,
as if politely asking to come in.
drip
     drop
drip
     drop
that's the sound of tears
hitting my pillow gently.
except,
they didn't ask to leave,
politely or no.
drip
     drop
drip
     drop
the rain keeps falling,
seeping into the cracks
of my heart.
the salty tears escape me
like painfully beautiful flowers
that cannot stop growing.
drip
     drop
drip
     drop
that's the sound of sorrow,
both the sky's pain and mine
watering the flowers.
i can't stop them from growing,
so the rain and i,
we take care of them together.

I want love,
I want support and kindness and peaches
and all the sugar that comes with love.
I want to know someone’s out there
who’s got my back,
who can push me up and let me pull them up.
I want a person who can tell me
that everything will be okay
without me ever doubting them.
I want the comfort of love;
the fluttery, butterflies-in-your-stomach
feeling you get,
like when you’re laying in bed
having just up next to someone,
someone gorgeous, someone lovely.
I want love,
but I’m scared.
I’m scared to love because
what if i fall too far,
what if I drag everyone down with me?
I don’t want to be stuck somewhere
with no place to go
and no one to talk to
but the monsters in my head;
they’re not very good company.
They hand me flowers,
with a sticky-sweet note,
then startle me and pretend
that it was my fault the vase slipped
out of my hands
and shattered all over the ground.
They make me walk
on the pieces of broken glass
just for fun.
They remind me that I’m not worthy of love,
that I should just accept that and move on.
I’d rather be alone
if the other option was to have them by my side.
I’m scared to love
In case everyone leaves me
and I’m stuck,
****** and broken hearted,
with the monsters.

It's strange:
We don't talk anymore,
but I know you like no one else does.
I miss the feeling of leaning my head
in the crook of your neck,
your head laying on mine.

We never hang out anymore
but ****, we used to.
I miss seeing that I'm a little too short
for my arms to fit around your neck,
but you bend down just enough for me.

We haven't caught up in a while,
but I see you around enough
to know that miss you like hell.
I miss the feeling of your arms
around my waist,
your hands placed
gently above my hips.

I miss the feeling of my body
fitting perfectly in yours,
I miss laughing with you
about the most random things,
I miss actually knowing you,
talking with you,
I miss you.

I don’t know why
I love peaches like I do,
perhaps because they're sweet
and remind me of you.
Maybe because they’re messy
and their juice gets my hands sticky,
so I don’t forget the lingering taste.
It could be because the smell
brings me back to past summers
spent with friends just peaceful,
eating peaches and spilling tea.
Peach tea, I guess.
I don’t know why
I love peaches so readily,
Perhaps because they're tender,
and bruise just as easily as me.

The sunset girls with warm smiles and sweet laughter. With ice cream, diamond earrings, diaries, romance movies under fluffy blankets, strawberry shortcake, lemonade made slightly too sour with a pink paper straw and perfect ice cubes.

The midnight girls with a wild side and messy hair. With perfect eyeliner, surprising laughs, black sketchbooks, late night ramen runs, stolen oversized sweatshirts, black cherries, fluffy socks under polished black combat boots tied in a neat little bow.

The sunrise girls with addicting voices and perfect high ponytails. With slogan t shirts, velvet scrunchies, red lip gloss, chocolate covered bananas, paintbrushes and easels, early morning hikes, coffee with creamer, foam, and probably too much sugar.

The sunshine girls with bright grins and  kind eyes. With light blushes, sweatpants, rainbow sprinkles, nails painted, flower tattoos, peaches and cream, messy bangs, sketchbooks probably covered in stickers and crop tops just short enough to tease, paired with cute bralettes.

We’re spilling secrets
like a glass of orange juice
that’s been knocked over by a careless hand,
now spreading on the table.
We’re talking
like old friends catching up
after years of not seeing each other,
but we don’t know each other.
We’re clinging to each other  
Like we’re close,
though we’re just starved of affection,
craving attention.
We’re lost in each other,
Like shooting stars wandering the universe,
not knowing where to go next,
but knowing there’s so many places to see.
We just met,
strangers that happened to connect
with a spark,
and now we’re each other’s everything.

I fell for you like rain,
fell hard and fast.
It was constant
like raindrops hitting a roof;
I fell again and again.
I couldn't stop,
but the flowers would never
fall up to the clouds,
so I was left like rain,
stuck in a beautiful
but one-sided love.
I fell for you like thunder,
loud and hard to miss.
It startled even me,
but clouds would never react
to the noise,
so I was left like thunder,
shaking and bruised,
ignored or tuned out with music
by those scared of the noise.
You fell for her like lightning,
it was bright and quick.
Over barely after it started,
but for a moment I saw
the way your laughter in love
was so dazzling.
It was almost blinding,
but not quite,
instead it lit up my life
for a split second
before leaving me in an
even darker night.

Black roses grow
where you once stood in my heart.
Their thorns rip me apart,
cover me in dripping, glistening blood,
but they're
more beautiful than you.

They hurt me with full intention to,
not like your ignorance.
They may **** me
but I don't care.
You beat me down this far already,
and now I'm way past getting up,
so I'd like to die selfishly,
more beautiful than you.

Untitled

and then a blank space.
It's stressful,
but I write anyways
because I like the feeling
of falling
into a poem,
letting it wrap me up
and take me
to stars, or
to dreams, or
to love, or just
home.
I love sitting
in the dark
with just moonlight
and the bright, white
light of the screen
to keep me company
as I pour
my feelings out
to people
I don't even know,
because somehow,
it's easier showing
my demons to
strangers, as
I don't really care
what they think of me.
after they read
my heart;
they can just
drop it where they are
and leave,
not feeling particularly
obligated to stay.

Staying up too late to read,
sneaking books and candy into class,
the sound of golden laughter ringing
with innocence and pure happiness.
I miss that.
Shopping for christmas dresses,
ending up with smiles and excitement  
more often than with dresses,
because the one had to be perfect.
I miss that.
Climbing trees and getting reprimanded,
laughing and doing it again the next day
because it was exhilarating and fun and awesome,
no matter what the teachers said.
I miss that.
Going on skiing trips,
grinning with excitement,
armed with confidence, hot chocolate,
and marshmallows, of course.
I miss that.
Sitting in a window seat,
writing poems at three AM
because the stars were inspiring and comforting
and felt like home.
I miss that
Road trips blasting music,
stopping at gas stations in the middle of nowhere
to buy gummy bears and chocolate,
riding with the windows open.
I miss that.
Taking naps in the grass,
the sun shining, and waking up warm and happy,
making flower crowns to procrastinate
going back inside again.
I miss that.
Ordering chai lattes
at cute caffés because they were delicious,
albeit overpriced, sitting by the windows
and smiling at strangers through the foggy glass.
I miss that.
Exploring cities, stores, and museums,
just kids curious about the world,
ducking into shops and a tea place,
discovering that bubble tea is amazing.
I miss that.
Smiling and laughing and loving,
none of it fake of forced,
just genuine happiness overflowing,
adding to the beauties of the world.
I miss that.
I miss being happy.

i've talked you all off ledges,
balancing on my own,
but honestly,
i don't care.
i rather like the feeling of uncertainty,
the butterflies that can
quite literally fly me off the edge.
i rather like the sweetness of the wind,
the cool air,
head in the clouds.
i rather like the view of the stars,
beautiful constellations
distracting me from my thoughts.
i rather like that my legs can swing
back and forth and back again
almost like a kid again.
i rather like seeing the city from above,
people milling about aimlessly,
a little adrenaline to spice up the view.
i rather like being on the ledge
nowhere to go but down,
sure, it's a little cramped,
but it's okay, I suppose.

It rains diamonds somewhere,
I know it does.
Jagged edges cut my face,
dig into my cheeks.
The tears create scars,
cloudy lines
burning,
hidden with covers of laughter.
So precious,
yet they leave behind
a searing pain.
Dripping off
the ends of my eyelashes,
leaving traces
on the backs of my hands,
the tip of my nose,
blurring my vision.
Scratching off what's left
of my blush,
my happiness.

she’s sitting on a cloud,
laughing,
windswept hair caught
in shiny lipgloss.
the cold air,
fresh and sweet,
makes her smile,
and pull her coat tighter
around her.
she swings her legs,
glad her faded purple converse
fit well.
looking down,
amazed by the city
below her,
far, far,
below.
tiny people
walk on tiny sidewalks
oblivious
to her presence.
skyscrapers
keeping her company
in the misty,
violet night.
she grins,
her hair flying about,
feet swinging
happily,
laughter making her giddy,
in awe of the buildings
in the mist below.

I'm lost,
and that's fine by me.
I'm following a faint song
that keeps me focused,
fighting,
but not alive for long.
I'm blinded by tears,
stumbling through
a forest of sadness.
I'm tripping over roots
of way larger trees
partially obscured by mist,
the rest obscured
by stress, anger, rain.
I'm stuck in a teacup
pacing the tiny area,
drowning
in some sort of drama
all the time,
every time.
I'm stuck wandering a forest,
in a teacup,
lost in a tiny cup,
walking in circles,
tripping,
skinning my knees,
scraping my elbows on the bark,
blood dripping,
tears dripping,
leaves in my hair.

I’ve got flowers
of all types in my pocket,
stars hung up
in the sky,
a dress
made out of sweetness,
honey, ice-cream, and pie.
I’ve got plans
for some tattoos,
a tiny blue flower,
stolen right from the clouds,
peaches and cream,
and a strawberry,
picked from the sunset,
delicate, pretty, almost a dream.
I’ve got a lifetime left
of laughter,
of tears,
and hearts shattered,
swept up, stored away,
memories clouded by sunshine
and London fog lattes,
talking with friends
in a timeless, gorgeous café.

Red roses laugh
at the dawn broken day,
an anniversary of sorts.
Marking a moment when
clouds stopped looking
so sweet, so kind.
The night
was so angry,
stabbing with each
whine of wind.
Stars that fell
from sparking eyes
that night
pinned up to the sky
a reminder
of what was taken.

nothing like going back
to the golden days
when getting up 20 minutes earlier
was a fun thing
to put on a bit of mascara
and lipgloss;
the blush was natural.
now 20 minutes of sleep
seems like a treasure,
worth everything
and never to be given up.
back when laughter was sunflower yellow,
music was neon blue,
and friends were a sweet purple,
their smiles like lavender
addicting and easy to find.
nothing like going back
to the golden days
when choosing the font for a paper
was an hour long experience;
the funnest part of writing anything.
now no writing matters
to anyone
unless it's 12pt font,
Times New Roman,
double spaced,
and with a heading in the top left corner.
back when school was light,
homework was a breeze,
and the only thunderstorms
were those that involved
coffee shops, window seats,
and copious amounts of hot chocolate.
nothing like going back
to the golden days
filled with warmth
and honey
and a whole lot of butterflies.

A yellow flower
embedded in rose red frizzy hair,
laughing with a light blush.
A hazy grey morning,
muting the usually bright lawn,
just enjoying the cool mist.
Light blue walls,
partnered with old wooden bookshelves,
resting on leather couches.
Silver fairy lights
strung up to make the pristine room
look less like a hospital.
Too hot days, a burning orange,
accompanied by gas station runs
for sparkling lemonade.
Rainy days, dark grey clouds,
confused looks, and grins from those
who welcome storms.
Sweets hidden in desk drawers,
sweet moments hidden in plain sight,
simply savoring the moment.

It got cold.
It used to be so warm, so bright.
But it got colder, darker,
dragging me into a world of frozen hearts
and calculated smarts.

I left to find my sunshine again.
To find the brightness,
the laughter
and the freckles
of happiness that spotted my face
like all the stars in space.

But the cold followed.
a tendril didn't melt over the golden,
overwhelmingly hot summer.
I can do nothing more than hope
that I will learn to like the cold, that I will cope.

"but rain is depressing"

the usual reaction
to my weird joy
when it rains.

you know what?
rain is depressing.
but that's why
i like it so much.
it's in pain,
it's relatable,
it's
sad.

It's falling
with little control.
d
   r
     o
        p.
It's gone,
absorbed
into grass,
or accepted into
a little stream
down a cheek
or on a road
making its way
to a gutter.

It's loud
and distracting.
constant interruptions
to look
up and meet
the rain,
or out the window
in a futile attempt
to see where
the thunder
comes from.
a tumult of thoughts
mixing with cries
of the wind.

Soaking clothes
and freezing hair,
though nothing colder
than the emptiness
inside.
a void filled
only with drops.
rain or tears.
it doesn't matter.
even then,
it's not stable.
just rain
and sadness
in an abyss.

You're my sunset,
I know you're leaving me in darkness soon,
retreating behind a cover of night,
with just stars
to remember you by.
Yet you're so beautiful that I forget
to appreciate
the time I have with you.

So you left too fast
but I never really had you anyways.