Somewhere along the line, I decided
that losing hours of rest was better
then lying in silence and thinking of you.
So I lie here drifting in and out of consciousness,
as spinning images confuse my tired eye,
and gunshots are punctuated by familiar laughter.

Yet even in the pauses,
your essence comes creeping in.

I once said your voice was ramen and computer keys,
and I've decided that it's fitting,
as it punctuates in your rushed excitement,
and drips with words of inspiration.

And tonight, as I spill out my heart to you
over the binary code as my eyes slowly wilt,
I long for the day when we can do it in whispers across a dark room.

Or back in the bright night,
with the energy of sharing secret writings still flowing in our veins,
Or shared excitement over the one,
whose voice was rich like black coffee,
Or the day we shared chicken nuggets and a headline,
and I decided that I liked you.

Thank you for your words,
dragonfly girl,
for they bring my heart to peace,
and I feel known.

She's high fashion on a budget,
capturing the world from her own angles.
Watercolor stains on anything she touches,
but vibrancy is not for her.

Her voice is the texture of heavy-duty paper,
and something about her seems littered in floral,
But she is too industrial for that to make sense,
as the city breaths her in and out.

“Velocity is squared in centrifugal force”
You yelled, as you grabbed my knee,
Your goofy face begging me to laugh.

I have these little vases I keep trying to mount on my wall.
Most I've convinced to stay, but one remains stubborn. '
Maybe it's the humidity,
or maybe it's a sign to lay off on the decorating for now.

Maybe it inspired me, or maybe pushed me to my limits,
as I push my own stubborn heels in,
because for the first time this year, I see a chance to get what I want,
and I owe it to myself.

But now my friends think I hate them,
or maybe they hate me
I think on the third weekend of plans falling through.

Maybe we aren't supposed to be here,
I wonder fearfully,
because I know that even if I'm not supposed to be,
I simply must.

So I will continue to restick my lights
every night to lite my home
In search of some stability.

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 tired of
dewy rosie golden me
for she was pretty
but she is not the same
as when those shades were the change she needed

As I look
towards my future
I see all of the order
expectations
assumed color
and I know I will not be with my own.

I hope that I can find a place,
before it eats me alive.

Sweaty palms
Long distance calls
Looming nervous presence

Bouncing mania
Preemptive dreams
Persuasion

Inadequacy
Salty tounges
Squealing

Subtle disproval
Financial discorse
Flamboyant pandering

Off-balance pulls
Compromised callings
Charismatic turmoil

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Lately
I've had so many more
hours in my day
but they are worthless.
They are just a reminder
of how quiet I am
when left alone in my world.

I wish I had the ability
To speak words that haunt you
In the way that yours
hang in the front of my mind.

May stands alone in itself
Existing to spit in time’s face,
Exposing its lies of even passage,
Foreshadowing the season to come,
As linear progression is lost in self-realization

The first a whirlwind of night
With prom dresses discarded,
Replaced by a third of the material,
In the passenger seat of my best friend’s car,
For nights of blacklight and nostalgia

The rest of the month was spent in Colorado Daylight
Buying trinkets of my forgotten family roots,
Letting a man stain my hand,
As we traded stories about art and light,
sipping spiced drinks I still miss

June was nonexistent
As it is just filled with violet blurs
Of “congradulationsIbetyourmomishappy”s
As winter feelings
Crept into summer stability

In July the pastel smeared into sickening saturation
As fears were fostered under the sparkle of fireworks
Tears spilled in broad daylight
Scabs were destroyed by loud voices and darting eyes
And regrown in passenger seats, forcing longheld confessions

By August little was left but the natural light
Hidden Canadian coves were experienced with an empty mind
Glittering plots climaxed in quiet nights
Sunsets illuminated a reset button
Letting go of this endless summer afternoon

Everything about you was melting sticky sweet.

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.

Past the symphonic build,
My eyes are glazed back to dark evenings,
Texting I love you in the dark,
Looking towards the future,
End of an era.

And as they built today,
As I pass the crest of the hill,
And am met with the speckled cotton candy sky
I bite down on the ginger in my mouth,
Letting the sticky warm burn,
spread across my tongue and down my spine,
As I reflect on the worst feelings I felt,
And the best year of my life.

And as the swell dies down,
I feel a drop in my heart,
And I recognize the end of an era.
Goodbye and goodnight.

Who would have thought
That as my childhood came to a close,
My only concerns,
Would be subtle jealousy for a steady observer,
And planning for a hypothetical conversation four years down the road.

The rest is just sunlight melting my honey hair.

I'm well acquainted with the danger of repressing feelings,
So I've learned how to process by spilling my colors onto a page.

However I am desperate to just move on,
and last time I wrote like this everything came to fruition.

Yet my fingers are itching and I can't kick whispers out of my head.

I spilled neon orange paint
all over my favorite black jeans
while mixing your dumb color.
(because I'm dramatic like that)

I couldn't help but think,
there's an analogy somewhere in there,
and in how preoccupied I am getting it out before it sets,
even though I  know the damage is already done.


But instead of wasting my time on understanding it,
I just covered it with black and called it a day.
Knowing I'm still going to paint in these pants again.