last time we tried to change the world too fast to try to change the world too fast we tried to change the world too fast last time we tried to change the world too fast to change the world this time the change we try will last
to the ground
who is she?
i’m not saying that in a cute, quirky, self-confident way either, like
genuinely, who is she?
i don’t remember when i morphed from a
bony, pimply, bowlegged teen into a
soft, dimpled, hunchbacked “adult”.
there are still remnants of her--
my forehead still bears the marks of farms of blackheads
and my collarbones are still visible when i allow them to be--
looking back at me is still as foreign as blood pudding.
i still feel the same, relatively, as i did when i was 5 years younger.
i still tend to wear clothes that are comfortable over flattering.
i still feel my stomach tied into itself at the thought of making a doctor’s appointment on my own.
i still feel like me.
i don’t recognize her.
taken from the prompt by little infinite poetry (the 30-day guide). i was instructed to look at my reflection. definitely a work in progress but i did like how it turned out :)
most days, when the sun is high and the sky is clear and the wind is slow,
i like to leave my window open for my cats, long-haired and elegant beings as they are.
they tend to visit for longer if the window is ajar, allowing sunlight to peek in and wind to sneak its tendrils in,
and there is little wonder why that is.
their eyes linger on birds the most, and i know that if they had their way they would be velvety hunters like their ancestors were
but my parents are birdwatchers (and i am sensitive) so they must be content with simply watching from my screened window,
dreaming of the fierce predators they could be, if only.
yeah, the strawberries probably weren’t fresh enough for this.
and yeah, the crust was a little tougher than i meant it to be because i just. kept. kneading it.
can you blame me? i needed it to be uniform. smooth.
and yeah, maybe i used too much flour in the dough. Maybe it was a little too dry and crackly for your taste and maybe mine too.
but you ate it, right?
you ate it even though it was sour and dry and tough.
you ate it even though you would have done it differently.
you ate it even though i know you don’t even like strawberries.
the crackly sound of his voice through my overheating phone is immensely comforting after a week of eye bags and fake extroversion
eating with him on the phone makes my sour strawberries so much sweeter and the pineapple less biting
i love yous traded between bites of subpar greasy pizza and above average vegetable soup
even 313 miles away his voice still wraps around me like a well-loved blanket
keeping me warm and comforted and safe
and sitting alone in a dining hall with dozens of people surrounding me i feel comforted knowing
that he was sitting alone in his room with the tv blasting the smash tourneys he loves so much
and yeah, maybe i talk about him too much
maybe he’s all i really write about
but when you find something that makes you feel like you caught a rainbow in your hands
it’s a little difficult to not shout it from your 9th floor dorm room at 10pm on a friday
sitting there with seven people who know me best surrounding me
eating cucumbers with salt and strawberry cheesecake ice cream
little bursts of laughter ringing out at updates at our lives
impromptu staring contests breaking out with one of the strangest and funniest men i’ve ever known
“how’s the fam”s and “i missed you guys”s cropping up every once in a while
it’s more than okay
it’s another home
i’ve always thought that home was supposed to be just one place, one location or person in which your soul blossoms like sunflowers in the summertime. i don’t think that now. your home can be with your cat with the upside down heart on his face, and with your mom whose hands smell like cool lotion and kindness, and your dad who sings paul mccartney too loud, and with your brothers who share tiktoks with you and laugh at your terrible jokes. your home can be with your friend with purple dyed hair, or your friend with red dyed hair, or your friend with the mustache, or your other friend with the mustache, or your roommate who gives too much, or your friend who wears big jewelery, or your friend with the round glasses and big smile. your home can be with your curly-haired soulmate hundreds of miles away. your home can be with a girl you met online who you overshare with every day. your home is expansive and all-encompassing and everything that makes you feel safe and warm and fuzzy and all the cheesy stupid things rom-coms are supposed to make you feel but not in a romantic way just in a
home is comfort
home is safety
home is home
experimenting with form and prose poetry!
— The End —