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--
but her
this “woman”
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.
but her?
i don’t recognize her.

ME: I’ve called you all here today to ask you something.
BROTHER 1: [looking sideways at the door]
BROTHER 2: Hmm.
MOM: [smiling widely in that way that says she knows]
DAD: [smiling widely in that way that says he doesn’t]
ME: To be frank, I don’t think you all like each other very much. Is that true?
MOM: [smile gets tighter, hand reaches towards phone]
DAD: No, it’s not. [scratching side of head nervously]
BROTHER 2: Hmm.
BROTHER 1: You all bore me.
ME: We know we do.
MOM: [typing furiously]
[silence punctuated by dog licking his leg]
ME: So, now what?
BROTHER 1: [rolling eyes slowly and obviously] What do you mean, now what?
ME: Well, I mean where do we go from here?
MOM: We don’t. We just stay here or nothing at all.
BROTHER 2: Hmm.
DAD: What else can we do? How do we know doing anything at all would be better?
ME: I am tired of writing poems in my head about us. We have to do something.
[silence punctuated by dog coughing]
BROTHER 1: ******* and your poems. Do you want to hang out?
MOM: I love you all but I can’t stand any of you.
BROTHER 2: Can we be done now?
ME: We’ll never be done.
ALL: We’ll never be done.
[dog sneezes]

i’m crocheting a little friend
a stingray
out of teal and white yarn i am spinning him
he is tighly woven and
thinly drawn

and his eyes are stitched of black yarn woven into sloppy crosses
i don’t know if i’ll keep my little friend once he is complete
he is something that should be given away
to someone who needs his soft company more than i
i could make a thousand stingrays once i understand the pattern
but in giving him away he would be
someone’s only stingray
and i think everyone should have
a soft tightly wound sea creature
at least once in their lives

smelling burnt toast after your kids insisted on “dippy eggs and toast in bed”.
2. two college-aged students coming out of a liquor store holding two tall red bottles, smiles purposely small so as not to create suspicion.
3. the red eyes of a young girl walking out to her dad’s car after her first sleepover, dark bags beneath them but a wide grin cutting across her face.
4. a pair of hands, a pair of hearts, no longer nervous to meet and grasping on the first try.
5. a medium black raspberry waffle cone with sprinkles smashed (not merely dropped) to the ground; a footprint is stamped in the middle of the massacre.
6. overheard between your boyfriend and his roommate: "yeah, sometimes she’s just too much, yanno? i have to get away every once in a while."
7. a couple in public; she tries to grab his hand, and he subtly pulls it back. she hugs her arms to herself.
8. a snapchat story of all your friends at your favorite restaurant while you lie in bed, clutching your phone.
9. being held by your mother and feeling her start to shake. two hot droplets hit your scalp. you’re holding her now.
10. a newlywed pair feeding each other the traditional bite of cake. she playfully tries to smear frosting on his cheek, and his eyes harden. her hand shrinks back.
11. a lost cat sign. there is a number to call. none of the strips are taken. the poster is ragged and wet.
12. you are at a funeral. the parents of the deceased are not there; the only attendant is a very old, very wrinkled woman. she does not stop crying the whole ceremony.
13. a girl walking across campus suddenly and without hesitation changes direction at the sight of tall boy headed her way. he doesn’t notice her.

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

and yeah

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

it’s… okay

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

comfortable way

home is comfort

home is safety

home is home

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.
or pie.

oh my darling angel you are the reason i’m still a person with skin
you are the reason i wake up in the morning and smile sometimes
with teeth sometimes without but smile nonetheless//you are the reason i eat
with such gusto because i know you would laugh at the way i wolf down pasta//you are
the reason for the hole in my chest in your absence i collapse like a dying star//you are the reason
i’m trying so hard to be better and//you are the reason i called my therapist’s office and said hi
yes could i please have a listening ear//you are the reason all my cuticles are picked ragged like
so many spiky sea animals warning you not to touch//you are the reason for my writing
the note you left me to write calling me “stinky” still sits on my shelf untouched//you are the reason i’m
insecure about my taste in alcohol//you are the reason i’m not insecure about my laugh anymore//you are the reason that my hair is soft and//you are the reason
i’m shaving my legs again//you are the reason i care about *** at all and//you are the reason it
scares me so ******* much
you are the reason for much of my life as it stands now proud and tall and shaking
like a fawn still wet from her mother’s womb