I remember everything— each space on the calendar crossed out in permanent marker but never forgotten.

I remember every before and after, every minute that has passed by my irises with the impatience of speeding cars on the interstate. I keep my hands permanently cupped so that memories cannot slip through the cracks in my fingers, tea spilling from my grandmother's cracked porcelain. Every heartbeat that has silently taken refuge under the rug, every breath I spent wondering what it would be like if I peeked out and saw the soles of the feet that have replaced the metronome of my steps.

I am building a life out of the sound of my own laughter echoing down walls painted by the artist of morning light. My heart is a kaleidoscope house with mirrors I peer into and find older versions of myself, silhouettes of smaller dreamers with eyes that could ignite the world with the gentle flutter of a blink.

I am dressed up as Tinkerbell for my first birthday, fairy green and sparkling. Pictures are taken, kisses on pink cheeks and soft feet. Growing up is not an option. Blink. I am 5 years old and missing my front teeth, crying lava on the bus ride to school as my mother’s familiar face shrinks through the frosted window. No matter how hard I squint, she is still just a dot on the sidewalk waiting for me to come home. Blink. I am eight years old and playing with Barbie dolls on my bedroom carpet, crayons scattered all over my bed and my imagination sprinting across the baby pink walls faster than I can keep up with it. Blink. Thirteen hurts a lot more than scraping knees on uneven sidewalks. My own tears begin to taste like the beginnings of a broken heart. Blink. Blink. Blink.

I am sixteen and in love. The kind that holds my breath hostage in its arms, the kind that knows my name like the lyric of a song memorized in past lives. My hopes remain suspended twenty thousand feet in the air, fearless and spontaneous. There are flowers growing wildly in the way that I love him, in the way I see myself waiting for a thousand years to have this forever. The taste of happiness has finally made its way into my morning coffee.

And as much as they wanted me to live in Neverland forever, I have finally found the door to where my heart lives. Every moment is a volume. Every day is a masterpiece hung intentionally on the wall for the world to see, for my own hungry eyes to catch a glimpse of now.

Blink. It is time.

"where the sun smoothes the dust-dry earth"  

the summer is not poetic,  
what is there in the gold
of the sun to write about?
just the heat and the stones
washed flat.  
the signs say you can't swim.
everything has stopped.  
there is no music in the air,
the mornings shrill and hum,
the afternoons drowse with beer.
is the ocean going to wake for me?
will it dance like a flower?  
along the dust black roads
the tarmac starts to sweat.  
torn open the thundering roads,
there is no poetry in them either.  
everywhere there are green leaves
and little drops of peace in the shade.

There used be this radio station
....Until I a w a k e
That played all the songs I really liked
. .....We just ......hope that you
                                                 ma  de it.
But it never came in quite right
We hope that
you're celeb
ratin
g.
But I still used to listen everyday
With peo.   ple you mis...shhhhh/ s.
To the static.
And bur..... li
ke a beaco
n,
Because somehow it was still satisfying
Guidi
ng........... our s
.............hip
And when it would rain,  
aroun
               d this helli
                                sh shoal.
I guess it cut out the interference.
I'm happy to admit that maybe I am a little depressed,
And maybe thats why...
I feel you when it rains
*Cause I'm missing you to death.

My mother told me that you can't cure depression,
that taking pills wouldn't fix me and taking six instead of the one the doctor prescribed definitely wasn't going to speed up the process. But then I met a boy who tasted better than Sertraline. He made it easier to get out of bed. He kissed me like I was alive, like I wasn't empty, like maybe there was something left inside me. He made my bones ache less when he touched me. He made it okay. When my world was crashing down around me, he picked up all the pieces. When I stopped breathing and tried to tear open my veins to find the last bits of happiness left in my veins, he was there to lace me back together. But he left and I haven't washed my hair in three weeks.

My mother was right.

.

It has been found that given enough time
failure will find this destined loser
lurking in gallery tints
and water color fault lines

semi gloss replaced by flat

Painting abstract nothings
on a canvas made of words
Broken brushes stain the existing
balance with a voice that collects the remnants

speaking tarnished silver when silence should be golden

Pop art wastelands of dotted balloons
float above the ground where his face falls,
shamed and hidden, in plain sight
with eyes holding quarters of bygone years

melting clocks keep time with his idiocy

Impressionists laugh at his existence
in muted tone chuckles and turpentine snickers
Stretched on easels of dislodged glances
with splattered smocks tied in double knots

one size fits all

This palette of mixed memories
resting on mainstream notions, waits
for the end is sure to come
finding him alone with an empty imagination

and nothing but drop cloth dreams

tick all applicable
please use blue or black blood
when exercising choice
in the type of role applied for

Liberation                [✓]
Vindication             [✓]
Resignation             [✓]
Transformation      [✓]

do you recognise yourself
as belonging to a Demographic
Of Brotherhood.
Of Commonality
to other hurting spirits

Hope without creases                   [   ]
Hope, in spite of bruising            [✓]
Train without brakes                    [   ]
A tunnel bricked at each end      [   ]
Forest fire as result of
volatile conditions
and negligent spark                     [✓]

do you accept that the data you provide
not only reveals everything you would
sacrifice and be sacrificed for
it
      also
               counts
                            for
                                   n· o· t· h· i· n· g

The girl of your dreams
is an insomniac
and you are losing
your voice
trying to sing
her to sleep.

I'm six years old. I'm six years old and my favourite colour is green because it's the colour of my eyes and I think my eyes are the prettiest things I have ever seen.

I'm eight years old. I'm eight years old and I had a nightmare so bad I felt like my eyes were deceiving me. My favourite colour is now the same pale blue as my Mum's floral bedsheets because they make me feel safe.

I'm ten years old now. I'm ten years old and I'm a big girl because I'm allowed to walk to school with my friend instead of my Mum. We walk past fields of buttercups and other pretty flowers but my new favourite colour is the peach of the rose in my front garden.

I'm twelve years old. I'm twelve years old and I can't stand the colour green anymore because the meaner people in my school decided my self worth was less important than their jokes. I don't have a favourite colour anymore, but if you ask I'll say it's purple.

I'm fourteen years old. I'm fourteen which means I've been a teenager for a year and I still can't stand the colour green. My Mum let me dye my hair for the first time and now it is red and red is my favourite colour, but if you asked I would still tell you it's purple.

I'm sixteen now. I'm sixteen and I think I know everything, I met a boy that I like for the first time, my Mum doesn't know, but I think he makes the colour green a bit easier to look at because he told me he loves my eyes and that they are the most beautiful things he has ever seen. He gave me a pair of rose tinted glasses and I'm not quite sure why, but for now my favourite colour is the deep brown of his eyes but if anyone asks, my favourite colour is still purple.

I'm eighteen now. I'm eighteen and I can finally drink without it being illegal, and I have started drinking to forget everything except the colour of my Mum's pale blue floral bedsheets, the peach of the rose in my front garden, the bright red of my hair and the green of my eyes but most of all I'm drinking to forget the purple of the bruises that litter my skin, the purple that I always insisted was my favourite colour for reasons unknown to me.

I should be twenty years old now, and my favourite colour should be the orange of the sunset, the pink of the sunrise or maybe even the yellow of the buttercups in the fields I used to walk past on my way to school, but I did not make it to twenty years old. My favourite colour was never purple and I never asked for my skin to be constantly tainted that way, but you made sure I never healed and now my Mum is laying purple flowers on my grave and she's wishing she fought more to get my favourite colour to be green again like when I was six years old and in love with myself and the world around me, because if I still loved the innocent green then maybe I wouldn't be suffering my greatest nightmare as a child with the only comfort being tucked up in the seemingly endless sea of brown. I always tricked myself and everyone else into thinking things were perfect with rose tinted glasses but the lenses shattered and the last flower you laid on my grave was the peach coloured rose from my front garden, and now the petals have wilted and all of the colour has been drained from me but this new world has more hues than I could have ever dreamed of.