I wouldn't say
I hate myself,
so why do I hate
what I see in the mirror?

Childhood is full of
the tugging of hair
and licking sherbet so sharp that your
eyes water.
School is making daisy chains in the sunshine,
splashing through puddles in the rain,
socks that fall down
and hair that sticks up,
the clasping of sticky hands
and the shoving of bodies in ant farm corridors.
Friendships are forged in the form of
whispers,
hands cupped round ears
and tentative
"Will you be my best friend?"s.
These friendships
strengthen like super glue
or dissolve like sugar in tea,
fragile as a moth trapped in a jar.
Some friendships are more than
a breath of words in an ear,
some are a shout from
a mountain top.
Some friendships don't need to be deterred
by the length of a daisy chain
or how many sweets you've shared.
Some friendships don't need the deep roots that are
plotted and planted as kids,
because some friendships scatter off trees in the wind
all of a sudden
and bloom in the aftermath of tears,
tears cried over boys and cupped in collar bones.
Some friendships grow and blossom in the
sunshine of smiles,
giggles on lazy Sunday afternoons,
stifled laughter in sticky situations.
Some friendships are
sealed
by the soil of memories
more real than classrooms
and plastic chairs.
Some friendships are more than scrunched up notes
thrown across tables
and promises made with crossed hearts.
The best friendships are the ones formed as
adults
that make you feel
that young again.

If a picture speaks a thousand words,
then I've just written a novel.
I hope it has a happy ending.

I feel
strange
like sunlight is trying to escape
through every crack in my body.
I don't know if this is happiness
but it sure isn't
sad.

There's the sort of fear
that
paralyses
your body,
and
the sort of fear
that eats at you
from the inside out,
until your smile wavers
and the truth starts to show.
There's the sort of worry
that
plays on your mind,
and the sort of worry
that
ruins your mind,
turns it rotten
and blinds your eyes,
so there's no colour left in your isis
and all you see is black.
There's the sort of hope
that seems
like a light at the end of the tunnel
and
the sort of hope
that is essential
and is the last bit of rope
for you to grip on to
before the darkness eats you whole.
There's a type of
pleading
that means
"Give me the last cookie",
and there's the sort of
pleading
that means
I'm begging.
Please,
please,
please.