The history books say we outgrew a "phase" of nomads.
We don't move,
or do we?
Do we move in our childhood?
Interrupting friendships and education.
Removed from a house built of brick, mortar, and memories.
Thrown into the populace of new locals.
They're kind, welcoming.
But they're not the people I know.
The school is strange and I have no friends to share my time with.
They say you're supposed to fit in after a couple weeks, right?
Or maybe it's a couple months.
Or years.
Or maybe it's until you become anorexic because you realize there must be something wrong with you, never them.
Always you.
That's when you fit in, right?

They say we're not nomads.
We're done with that phase.

A bite.
A painful, swollen,
itching to be noticed
lump, that,
once I delve beneath the surface of temptation,
I see it for what it is;
a burden.

My heart melted at the temperature of her words.
But it would not freeze together at the absence of her voice.
The orchestra of her vocals ceased for an instant,
the musicians halted their strings to leave room in the air so that her thoughts could be heard,
mulled over by the world,
and exalted as the word of god, for truly she is a goddess

I wanted to write a poem about flowers, so that's what I did.
It was short, expressed how I feel, and cut like glass.
I showed my father "Flowers" and he thought it was mediocre.
And I said, "No, "Mediocre" is the poem where I talk about dying,
and I'm trying to stay alive, so I wrote about flowers."

Flowers strangling soil plots with their roots, with their existence.
And to hurt something you love with your existence is a terrible feeling.

and just like the cracks in the pavement that allow a city to breathe, you are only more human whilst pieces of you may break away and it’s hardest to breathe when you’re sitting on your shower floor as if somehow the water will wash away this sadness, as if it’s temporary, this tattoo on your heart will not wash away with warm water or be scratched away with your uncut fingernails and by now i know this kind of thing never works out but i can try to rid of this hurt the way you’ve numbed yourself to feelings, creating them yourself because control is our only subconscious need (or is it to be loved?) i’ll never know the answer until i am desperately loved by someone with a soul as breathtaking as yours. these terrifying feelings have never felt more at home buried so deep inside of my chest and though it hurts, i am now starting to develop a tolerance to the lack of emotional homeostasis. if there is anything I have learned by now it is to take hold of the moment, save the tissues for messes you’ve made (not the clutter created by boys who do not know how to pick up after themselves), nobody is worth the tears and nobody can reassure you of your own worth. just how you think you have reached your worst laying in a puddle of your own vulnerability, when you are most divine in a state of this man-made susceptibility to pain and joy and every feeling you’ve ever experience most likely created in your own mind and they won’t leave until you consciously decide to leave it to the universe, she is your mother and knows best, no sooner & no later.