i can't draw
i don't know how to
only sometimes
i get a flash
of fake inspiration
from my own
swelled head

at least i can draw a square
but wait,
the lines aren't straight

then i realize
no one can draw a square
not without a ruler
at least

the sky was blue
birds that looked like
strokes of black ink
painted their way through the air,
the golden sun glinting off of their inky brushstroke wings
proud and defiant
like a person who knows their mind

i laid on the deck, face-up
camera in hand
trying to capture
these fleeting beings of freedom
only for the paint to drip too fast
ending up blurred in the lens,
but those golden glints,
snapped and stored away forever

I hate you.
Sometimes you’re funny, in a stupid way.
Most of the time? You’re not.
Please die in a hole.
You don’t want to? Ok.
You can die in a box instead.
Drink candle wax.
Eat superglue.
Please go away.

(Just so I don’t get in trouble I actually don’t want dumb person to die, I just don’t like them lol)

i do not know what to say
i am not so sure
of myself or my words anymore.
that bravado i had once before
has melted away, the youthful naivety
gone with the erosion of time.

maybe i see the world more realistically now;
whether that is a good thing or not
is to be determined.

i like green
but sometimes it seems
too fake to me
to be truly
real

i don't even know
what the hell
a sonnet is
or how it's
formatted

but i like green
and i like march
so i'm gonna defy all the rules
and write a shamrock sonnet

ha

no one can waste my time.
if they waste my time, i'll waste it back even harder.
no one can bully me.
if they bully me, i'll bully them harder.
the world isn't fair sometimes.
but if it isn't fair to me, i'll take it down myself.

i don't need help, unless i do.
in which i will be my own help.
if there's a wall between my goal and i,
i'll kick it down.
sometimes i might actually need help.
but i won't like to admit it.

want to dethrone me?
i dare you to try.
you won't even get close.
by the time you're applying to your first job,
i'll be the CEO of the company.
by the time you get a promotion,
i'll be a self-made billionaire,
born from immigrants into an unfamiliar country,
started with nothing and then worked my way to the top,
faster than you did, even though
you had a head start and you had privilege
and you had all the cards.

(i took them from you in a dazzling play. now stop whining about nothing and get to work.)

because after the day is done,
i will always be faster than you.
and i'll do it twice as good, in half the time.

i am not excited to see him
i am not excited to see him
i am not excited to see him
i am not excited to see him
i am not excited to see him
i am not excited to see him

i thought it was amazing
because it had a ton of pages
and made me think about what i would be in hogwarts
that’s just the children’s book wormhole
make it long to satisfy parents
and give the kids a chance to put themself
in a neat, organized house or category
so they can feel special.
now, that i’m less naive,
i can certifiably say
that that series was
trash on fire.
(plus, no one can be sorted
into a category that clean-cut.
we all have rough edges.)

victory is so nice
i should win more often

i like a cat
that isn't mine
his green eyes
haunt my dreams
like glowing
emerald orbs

his whiskers would
touch my skin
with feather-light
force

and i would pat his head
feeling the vibrations
of his heavenly
purr

a slight joy permeates me
when the numbers on the scale dip below 100
when i feel my kneecaps clink together in bed

a smile whispers across my face
when i peer at the silhouette of my fingers
less blood and flesh and more the papery hands of dried up trees
against the burning blue sky of winter

envy chokes me like midnight smoke
weaving its way through strands of dead vines
every time i see the long, thin legs of supermodels
or of that one sweet girl with light brown hair
and a honeyed smile i knew from a three-week escapade

i tell myself and others i feel healthier,
that my hip bones protruding from my skin is desirable,
that i am loved and wanted just the way i am.

rather, my love is like a snake wrapped around its own master
squeezing affirmations and dissuasive persuasions from
the boy who is my home,
a finite connection in this world of infinite possibility.

i ask myself if the world would be a better place without me
every time i'm reminded of the expiration date
of my most coveted possession,
of the love that is the only thing i truly own for myself
in this godforsaken earth.

who am i to tell if it will all work out?

who knows anything anymore?
who cares?
i called it a saga, drama, crazy week
three confessions at the same time
who knew?
who cared?
who liked me enough to say it?
what am i even doing now?

the blank pages
call to me
waiting for the deluge
of lines of night
scrawled in cramped script
across their pristine beauty

but they can't hold
the carnage of crimson
in my brain
the fury and tears
that make up my heart
so i just write one
word

one
word

one world

one possibility

one hope

'if.'

i have not written for months
and yet, it seems like they all passed
in an inhale and exhale of breath.

the guy i was definitely not excited to see? gone back home.
the "perfect" one, the one i definitely overthought? dumped me over text and moved on.
the new one...
well.

breaking my rules
and making a four word song
when usually i take my brain
and mash it into one place

don't wake me up from my dreams
where it's a place where i didn't ruin us
a place where you still think i'm normal
and a place where you believe in me
and maybe you'd want me there too??

don't wake me up from my guileless guilt
the place i know so well
still warm from a daydreaming sleep
forming around my body, pressed into shape
a place where i can think about the way
you pushed me away

wake me up when it's bright blue outside
cold and biting, clouds filled with mirth at my pride
at the things i've done and the places i've gone
woah. what do i do anymore

it's damaged, really, the way that i see
a person in front of me, eyes flashing like
broken highway signs littering the road
but is that flashing a good thing?
i take it that the answer is no

we - plural
you - singular and plural
i - singular
they - singular and plural
she - singular
he - singular
it - singular

conjugation
nosotros estamos - we are
yo estoy - i am
tu estas - you are
el/ella esta - she/he is
ellos estan - they are

the weeds have colonized the front garden, tearing
the souls out of once flowering plants, feeding
their hungry children with the roots of the bushes
and trees

he wanted to take us away
she wanted to take us away
so i compromised
and left before they could do anything
you can't finish a puzzle with one piece missing
so i ran

yearbooks are expensive
(most of the time)

oh hi there
you people are slightly insane
but i bet you the world
i am more insane than you

maybe i'm that one thing
that has two poles in one soul
maybe i'm just really weird
maybe i just have manic episodes
in my words
maybe i'm just nothing at all

oh hi there
now bye now

i love fire and ice
and i just want to burn the world before
knowing that there are people there
but I’ll just build everything better again
after setting it on fire
and freezing it in between the cracks

i'm not religious
but i wish to a something
up there in the sky

it sounds like the bass
it feel so new
yet so familiar
like running shoes molded
to one's feet

the water that ran down those pipes,
the pipes that are now dry,
it hasn't been there for a while.

there's an empty space above my head.
honestly,
thank you.

the shivers are gone.
thank you so much,
for leaving.

the bass with the water flows down through soiled
pipes next to the piano. i wonder
if maybe the person above me could just
SHUT UP

i like similes
but metaphors are better
'like' and 'as'
are overrated
but i can't really
do anything about it

lowercase letters are quite
interesting. but when will someone
make lowercase
numbers?

fabric is fragile
but we wear it everyday
i use it to cover up my flaws
mask my mistakes
swamp my sins

but someday i want
to just rip this
disguise away
so i can just be who
i want to be
without stupid
people judging
my stupid
face

he's quiet sometimes
but the silence he gives
is so extremely loud
the laughs he gives, they're
a gift only to the faces on the screen
he sees

but he doesn't see us anymore
the people who gave him his face
the people who hold out hope
he doesn't see his blood anymore
because we are his blood,
are we?

maybe he doesn't want to see his blood
because he's squeamish. maybe he doesn't
want to see his blood because he's afraid. maybe
he doesn't want to see his blood because we're
so unequivocally wrong and young and dumb
or old and too wise and clueless
maybe he just doesn't know
at all.

i certainly don't.

i wish i had a deck
on my house
i wish my house
was on the edge of
liquid turquoise
glass

i wish i could open my eyes
to the world
of morning water
every morning

i wish for
so much

would you bleed for me?
i'd take a machete and go to town if you needed me to
my violence is to vanquish my misguided foes,
your unwanted persecution, and my religious salvation.

i'd drip honey in my eyes if it meant our expiration
never came. if it meant that "forever" would be longer than twelve
more months. if it meant that you could be honest without being nice
and needed not to bear the weight of my wasteful tears.

i would bruise my knuckles to the point of no return,
leave my battered, emaciated body to the crows,
dissolve back to where i came from before i was born
to preserve our sanctity.
i'd kneel on grains of rice in the pews of a musty church,
praying and begging that you would come for me soon.

you are the only place i belong in this world

a new idea for fingers too slow for the mind
wishing for automatically typed text
just for the sake of being fast, being realized,
being alone

made-up words
bringing me joy when i press
the italics sign, writing my own stories
and building my own kingdoms
with the power of my keyboard

i don't need hammers
i don't need stone
i don't need a team of builders
i just need my pen
which is sharper than any sword

a zheshi is a girl
in this made-up language of mine
filling the rarefaction
of my motivation

my heart hurts
i see the skyscrapers and then the empty roads
glistening in the falling light, a wondrous gold
painting and paining my soul

why can't i be free like that? why can't i
run along the road like those lucky characters
who have parents overseas and perfectly shaped knees
and the eyes of an artist's hands that shaped and colored
them just so?

i want to be free. i want to go outside. i want to be like them. i want to fall in love and get my heart broken and then shake it off and and run through an empty park at sunset without worrying about my parents and go to school and live and laugh and just breathe

when will i do that?
maybe in high school? or college? or the distant lands of the future beyond?

i hope i can do that.

i will show you Insanity
by her face
and by the curve of her lips
as her laugh echoes
through empty highways
and canyons

why should i be
begging my mind
for a single dream to see you again

a single dream to find the color of your eyes
a single dream to figure out
the length and weight in which
i should draw the lines of your fingers
a single dream to decide
which one i should choose
and which one i should let go of

as above, so below
below ran me over,
ground me into dust
above patted my wounds
when i needed healing
neither of them know
which one i wanted to choose
and which one i wanted to let go of

but it's decided. i've chosen my path
all i have to do is to muster the courage
to walk it

the teacher who always bought us pizza beckons with smiling eyes,
in her hands is a green basket pockmarked with little rubber *****.
"stress ball?" she offers. instinctually, i almost turn away
until for some reason my hand finds its way into the basket and
my eyes find the most appealing color.
out rises a hot pink ball with a smiling face from the menagerie of mass-produced toys into my hands. and then tears well up and my throat closes and i look up at her and i say the first thing on my mind which is that i've been applying to college and that the ball means a lot to me.
it means more than she could possibly know. did she realize that i had been overwhelmed since that morning? that the tugging in my chest had led to the past two of my restless nights?
the pink smiling face, which we'd dubbed "happy harold," rests in my backpack. with my keys and lip balm and gum.
teenage girlhood in a pocket.
a sign that reminded me that it would all be okay.