They sit on the countertop
Swinging legs and calling me pretty

Haunting the table at Staufs
chattering away

I know they linger in the ocean room
splashing water, willfully hypnotized by those tones

In the theater
whispering I love You

So I shoo them away
and search for some peace.
I need these spaces for a little longer.

and in these moments,
of feeling lost enough,
i find myself turning to the tones that narrate my adolescence,
the ones I know every small shade to.

the way the tongue dipped to form those kiwi sounds,
brings on peace like childhood nostalgia,
dripping in rich indigo and sparkling lavender.

i crawl inside of them,
rewatching the story a thousand times over,
feeling the anticipation of the tide's rise and fall,
deep down in my soul.

As whispers of aristocracy,
teenage anarchy,
broken lovers,
and reeling nights,

take me home to my heart,
and I feel known.

I'm not sure
if I ever did love you
But if I was given forever
as promised
I know I would have.

When we finally got there,
you said that you had never been.
You are wrong.

Because on one July 22,
we all sat in the harsh light,
excited about the coming week.

You had great colorful plans.
You made me laugh.
I wrote about you.
I didn't know anything then,
but I know now that was the first time you made me smile.

But now as we filter in,
alone and in the dark,
we sat on opposite sides of the couch.

I hardly made eye contact.
I wish I tried to read you.
All I know is that you sat motionlessly,
hands in your lap,
for once kept to yourself as I slowly peeled back my cuticles.

I just remember staring at your sweater,
I thought it was funny how much it looked like mine.

Two months ago I just wanted your arm around me.
Today I wish I didn't squeeze so hard.

I realized that for the first time,
I'm no longer craving your fingers dancing across my spine.
I'm no longer craving you.

Stillness rests in the air,
I'm not sure if it's good yet.

Because this house will forever be still
and restless.
Like the individual,
tossing and turning
In that kingsized bed,
meant for more than one.

Or the two faint voices,
whispering into the night,
writing worries
for their little monsters to eat,
because who is going to tell them no.

Even the grandiose silver portrait,
looming over the home,
seems sadder than ever,
as she makes eye contact with the dog,
who's gloom pairs quietly with the lighting

Or the little one curled on my chest,
with his last sentence before slumber:
"I really miss baba"
ringing in my ears.

You took what I had slowly chipped away,
and carved flourishes into what's left.

For the longest time,
I kept it to myself,
Thinking it was our little beauty.

Slowly, my mind is changing
for I have fallen in love with how it sits in my mouth,
Quietly whispering to myself in the dark.

The other day,
it fumbled out of my hands and into the arms of someone else,
And while I heard your voice as they turned it over,
I think it is most beautiful in the light.

Suddenly, I understand it all.
Yet the world is a mystery and I am lost in it.

Ages are a time and emotion.
13 is mid afternoon. Lagging and energetic.
15 is the morning sun. Rising groggy and regretful.

17? 17 is the night.
17 is the span between 11-1.
When you aren't wild yet but things are certainly different.
17 is the city lights and no seatbelt.
17 is the teenage cliché,
shadowed by the unknown of what is to come.

17 is crying in the hallways and stargazing on the lawn.
17 is having a bottle of ***** under the bed,
but being too scared to drink it.
17 is Ribs and loneliness,
As you watch the night slip away and the knowledge hits you that you now have to wait for morning.

17 is the unknown.
17 is taking risks.
Not because you are brave,
but because you don't have anything left to give.
17 is to be lost,
but to be okay with that.

17 is slowly coming down from the high of growing up,
Reflecting on all you have lived,
As you patiently wait for your life to begin.

The word
It means so many things.
And all mean something so strong.

It’s passive immaturity thrown in faces.
It’s stupid giggles and shaky whispers.
It’s high cheekbones and pretty hair.
It’s large numbers. With shifting and friction and bonding and breaks.
It’s caring and liking.
It’s something that I’ll never have.

But not because it’s not me,
Because I continue to deprive myself.
Because what was once self defense,
Has now become a brand.
And it’s too expensive to let go.

Reeling,
Legs burning,
Chapped face,
Overwhelmed,
Following the ebb and flow,
Swaying in the familiar dance.
Joy.

American romance,
Empty pools,
Teenage dreams,
The unknown.

Resting on top of the world,
Watching activity below,
Yet singularity in existence.

Shattering what’s to come,
Turning over past,
Shocked in present.
Happiness.

Familiar tracings,
Rough seats,
Cool breeze,
Triumphant warmth,
Security.

The textures,
Soft and rough,
Metrometric rise and fall,
Occasional shifts,
Constant peace,
Resting,
Fitting,
Pressure,
Patterns,
Depth.

Spurred by rain and impending eyes,
Rushing on,
Exhilaration.
Vibrant, brilliant, psychedelic chromatics.
Melting tones,
Air cutting,
Screaming,
Joy.

Monday was persistent energy and steady annoyance,
similar to the whine of an old motor.

Tuesday was venom dripping into sugar,
as biting words coated in carelessness stung in an unknown degree.

Wednesday was watching the cycle of the sky while paralyzed,
as my focus slips in and out of reality.

Thursday was inconsistent rain.
Violent, steady, refreshing, and cold.

Friday was heat burning behind my eyes,
mixed with paranoia and lethargy.

Have you made it yet?
Have you found what you are looking for?

You’re still lying.

I watch you in your yellow and your pigtails.
All you wanted was a Polaroid summer.

You got what you wanted,
people and all.

How did it turn out for you?
Positive? Better? Lovely?
At least that’s what you tell the world.

But I heard you talk about how tired you are.
I know the look of annoyance in your eyes.
I see that you don’t love him, that that passion is burning out.
And I feel your icy stare on us.
Knowing what’s going on that you can’t be a part of.

I watch the gears shift as you process what you have lost.
You compute how I have adapted.
And what all I have.

That sticky sweet is still there, except this time it isn’t malice.
It’s desperation.

Deep down I want the best for you.
I really do.
But I am ok now and you chose to walk always.
So I cannot use my carefully stored energy running after you.

I’m sorry that you don’t know happy,
Because I know that you are not.

I hope she makes you happy,
Because I see you.
Stressing to convince yourself that she is what you need.

I feel how hard you are pushing.
Trying to force everything to fit in the small holes in your heart.

What you don’t realize is that they are pinholes of starlight.
However, you see them as black holes.
But the thing about black holes is that they will never be filled.

I hear the tones in your laughter.
Sharp.
Hard.
Forced.

What used to be bubbly from your chest is now squealing from your nose,
Rising in pitch with every second.
The legato that was once your voice is now biting staccato.

I see your face changing.
The fire in your eyes is gone,
And it is replaced with tension in your jaw.
with a sticky, dripping smile.
It’s so sweet and artificial that I feel sick.

I become exhausted as I watch you strain,
Forcing yourself to believe that this is right.
I hear the strain as you lie.
The tone in your voice whines as your mouth struggles to shape unfamiliar words.

You try to drown out the warning bells with frills and complements.
But I know you.
And I know that you find peace in silence.
And I know that your face aches with the forced emotions.
And I know that your vocal chords are strained with someone else’s voice.
And I know that your mind hurts as you try to replace it with something else.
And I know that your heart hurts as it tears under the weight of it all.

Despite it all,
I love you.
I hope that she fulfills you,
Because I know that she hasn’t yet.

I pray that you are happy,
because I know that you are not.