Home is where five taught me life,
told me its tricks,
and showed me its hidden secrets.

The artist who showed me secret passageways,
who inspired me to capture memories,
to capture one at a time.

Focus on one thing at a time;
too many focal points is messy.
One thing at a time, you’ll make your
        masterpiece.

Capture the time in multiple shots,
you’ll find the winner.
Capture the moment in time.

The astronomer, the birder,
who taught me to take a step back,
and look to the sky from the ground.

Look for the patterns of far away suns,
listen for the melodies sung by small singers
        in the trees,
pay attention to the beauty of every pattern,
        every song.  None are the same.

So listen when the singers sing,
look up when the sky is dark,
and bask in the beauty that is all around us.

The historian who helped me remember the
        past,
and move on from it.
The historian who held me when no one else
        would.

Remember back to the day.
Feel it, remember it,
put it behind.

It won’t do anything for you now.
The past only shapes you.
Learn from it, grow from it.

The speaker who gave me new eyes,
more perspectives,
and respect for all.

We all come from different backgrounds,
different cultures,
even at home.  We’re all different.

Judgment for differences is foolish,
because we’re all different -
no one is the same.

The reader, the writer, who taught me
        individualism,
to be myself with no fear,
who gave me my dreams.

You can do whatever you set your mind to,
no one can tell you otherwise.
Do whatever makes you happy,

because you’re the only you in this world.
No one person is a waste, a no one, or a
        nothing;
we’re all somethings.  Sometimes it takes
        time to find

what we are, who we are,
but that’s the adventure of life,
and it never ends.

Soon I’ll be brought back to them:
the artist who taught me patience,
the astronomer, the birder, who taught me
        gratitude,
the historian who brought me back to bring
        me forward,
the speaker who spoke words of wisdom
        that taught me kindness,
and the reader, the writer, who showed me
        me.

I could tell her everything by reading her my poems' titles,
or, instead, I could read to her a few poems.

Then I could tell her how my mind races
but never places.

Then I could tell her what he did to me,
though she'd still be grossed out

because she's so innocent at heart.
I want to tell her,

but I'm afraid, because
I don't want to break her.

Though I know it's more for me than her,
I just don't want to scare her.

There are two places where I feel safe,
here, this very site,
and that room.

It's weird to say I feel safe in a room
such as that,
it's a classroom.

But it's the one of my hero,
so I guess it makes sense.
Right?

I don't know.
All I know is that when I'm in there,
like when I'm on here,
I want to spill everything.

I want to tell her of the
**** that wasn't ****,
but I know I shouldn't

because who wants to hear that?
And will I even have the guts
to use my vocal chords to say it?

Can I say it aloud?
I never even told her the real reason Kung Fu came to an end,
that ****** assault has been a common occurrence the past few years.

I can even see the awkwardness now.
She'd ask how it was but was not,
and I'd have to tell her how I let my innocence go, to an extent.
I said no ***,
but it went in,
his underwear being my savior.

I'll tell her how I'm leaving to the next tower,
because my roommate kicked me out,
even though she was the one who caused the problems.
I'll tell her that, no problem.

I'll tell her how my neighbors
are strangers who think they know me.
I'll tell her my excitement to leave all this.
I'll tell her that, no problem.

But how do I tell her of my assaulter?
I need to outwardly tell somebody,
and I need one of her hugs.
Maybe it'll slip out.

I want to tell her, though.
I want to tell a lot of people.
But do they want to hear it?
That's my question.

There are two places where I feel safe:
here,
and that classroom.

You told me over and over again,
even after you called it off after me,
you care for me deeply.

But tell me how that's so
if you tell me we'll talk tomorrow,
then have seven days pass

with only two messages
sent to you from me.
You read both.  I saw that.

Again,
Thanks for the text,
all of the ones you never sent.

Again,
Seriously, I did want to talk to you,
but now I don't know what I want.

You read these messages, I saw.
Twenty minutes later,
Read 7:27 PM

I send another,
four hours later,
Read 2:25 AM

Remember when you told me you cared?
And you had to convince me you were honest?
Good luck trying to do that again.

I won't let it happen.

Dear Minimalist,
Dear Belittler,
Dear Soulless Ginger,
Dear Stupid,
        because I know you hate being called that.
Dear ****,
Dear Liar,
Dear Sexist,
Dear Racist,
        you typical stereotyper.
Dear *******,
Dear *******,
Dear *******,
Dear ******-****,
Dear *******,
Dear *******,
Dear *******,

*******.

You think you're kicking me out,
but I'm leaving.

You smell like **** and baby powder,
I'm the one who's leaving.

On my own will,
bye, *****!

I remembered today a recent memory repressed.
I recall how my scared mind yelled when it happened,
It is technically in!
Oh my God, it's gone farther!

It's technically not considered ****,
it didn't go very far.
But I felt things I've never felt before,
and I've done a lot of things.

If his underwear weren't there,
it would have been ****.
But his underwear was there,
still I felt my privacy and lifestyle intruded,
and I still don't know what to call that day.

This was the day he left me.