Lately I've been walking with nothing to hold onto,
letting my arms hang from my shoulders like vines,
hoping that somebody will reach out and cling on,
even if only to use me,
to get to their true destination.

Mary’s Mother is from Georgia, her Father from Pennsylvania.
A steelers flag hangs on Mary’s front porch, and every Sunday night in the fall means eating chicken wings while adorned in black and gold.

Mary’s Father has an office.
Inside of it lay a few rusting guitars, but the walls of the room are what truly catch your eye.
The paint itself, a dull muted gray is immaterial when compared to the dozens of plaques that enhance it.
Each frame carries a different piece of Groundhog’s Day memorabilia, many house pictures of Punxsutawney Phil, one is a certificate declaring Mary’s Father an “official Groundhog ambassador”, another an autographed photo from a Groundhog handler.

Mary’s Father claims that Groundhog’s day is America’s second greatest holiday.

Mary’s parents were married at Gobbler's ****.
Punxsutawney Phil attended the wedding.
Mary and her little sister stayed home from school every Groundhog’s day in elementary school, and in middle school they attended but came to school in matching Groundhog hats.

Mary’s kitchen counter has a small black speaker.
Each Sunday morning, Mary’s Father blasts the Polka Party Radio Show hours into the afternoon.
The whole family knows all of the polka songs by heart.
Each Sunday morning they came together to listen to the “Waltz of The Angels”, a Polka special dedicated to various passed loved ones.
Even the turntable in Mary’s dining room only plays Pennsylvania Polka vinyls.

Mary’s incredibly familiar with Hershey Park.
She and her sister have brought home various souvenirs from Pennsylvania’s notorious “Chocolate Town”.

Mary’s family knows Gettysburg like the back of their hand.

I’ve known Mary for over a decade.
I never knew her mother was from Georgia.
“The Southerner’s Handbook” sits in Mary’s living room, the only true mark of Mary’s Mother’s life before she surrendered her maiden name.

I think it is a beautiful thing to give up your culture for somebody else.
I think it is a beautiful thing to sing Pennsylvania Dutch folk music with your Husband on late weekend nights because you know it makes your children happy.

nobody sees me
they don't, i swear
nobody sees me
and nobody cares

One day my fairy godmother asked me,

Do you want to be white?
Do you want to have fair skin and thin easily manipulative hair?
Do you want long legs, legs that look good in jean shorts and skirts?
Do you want the boys to call you pretty?
Do you want to fit in?
Do you want to live in a world where your most commonly asked question isn't "what are you"?
Do you want to go to a school where the administration doesn't think of you as a statistic they need to improve?

Of course, I said yes.
"Make me white" I said.

She said too bad.
Too bad, you're gonna be Hispanic.
You're going to have dark skin that makes your pale scars all the more apparent.
You're going to look different each time you walk into a classroom or onto the school bus.
You're going to hang out with your white friends and forgot you don't fit in, at least until you look into a mirror and you remember.

And remembering is going to haunt you.
You're going to avoid cameras and windows.
Avoid anything that reveals your daunting reflection.

You're not going to be white.
Fairy godmothers aren't real.
All you have is an hada madrina, and what can she do in a whitewashed world?

When I was younger,
Fridays meant putting my bag in our downstairs closet where I wouldn't see it again til Monday morning.

Now that I'm older,
Fridays mean keeping my bag right beside my bed so I will never forget my overwhelming tasks.

"Did you just work very hard for five days? Well of course you did."

"But please, do us a favor...and work some more."

I have a two-week breaking point.
For 14 days I go through the motions: emotionless.
For a fortnight of time, I am indifferent to all things.

Yet on that 15th day I snap, bringing my composure down as well.

On the 15th day, I resort back to a shell of dependency,
hunkering away in isolation with nobody to depend on.
I become a nail made for a wall, but with no wall to go into.
My sole purpose is hopeless and my ambitions crushed.

Some may say I have a two-week expiration date.

There were three floors in my house.
three floors all full of my gratitude.

The first floor.
it held my bedroom.
this floor was hours spent gazing from my window seat,
it was long warm showers in winter-
and making sure I blew out my candle before it could burn down my curtains.

My second floor.
it belongs to my mother.
her kitchen, her T.V, her view of our backyard.
she made her tea here, yelled at the news, and watched my brothers play outside.
her favorite living room carpet that has now become ashes.

Our third floor.
the safest.
after all, heat rises.
it was my father's basement,
my brother's bedroom,
it's where we watched movies, played boardgames, and shed monopoly's great tears.
now it's all that remains.

We weren't home when the fire happened.
When my candle caught hold of our memories.

Maybe I should have seen it coming.
I was the one who chose the crisp campfire scent.

Shall we
Shall we
Shall-ote?

Shall we
Shall we
Escape on mystery exits?

Shall we
Shall we
Drink banana slushees in the wake of our own highs?

Shall we
Shall we
Find meaningless strangers through meaningless music?

Shall we
Shall we
Roll the windows down and release our fears?

Shall we
Shall we
Shall-ote?

for yesterday, the day all you said was thanks.

for tomorrow, the day I'll pretend I wasn't crushed.

for next week, when I'll sew denim patches to try and hold my heart in after you ripped it out.

for next month, when I'll still be kept up at night due to the horror of the most anticlimatic rejection the world has ever seen.

for next spring, when it will have been a year and you will have forgotten.

for the future, when I'll remember all the pain

there's something about forced love.
maybe it's the way it smells, the way it bleeds.

maybe it's the way two people can walk side by side down the street, yet never even look at each other.

or maybe it's when they do look, but the effort and discipline put into it show that even eye-contact sometimes requires practice.

there's something about holding hands with a loved one.

but instead of comfort and a subtle embrace, all you find is sweaty palms and angst that show you never really loved them at all.

there's something about a fight.
one where you scream and glare and stomp.

but afterwards, instead of hoarding away in your room to cry, you feel fine.

those fights, are formalities.
they brainwash you into thinking you reside within a realistic relationship when truly you can't care enough to shed a tear.

there's something about car rides.
but only the ones which are silent.

silent not because you're feeling pensive, but because you lost your words dozens of car rides ago.

there's something about forced love.
and that something,

is that it's far too obvious and much too common for our own good.

There’s two little kids in white
Roaming up and down my road

Young angles of the night
With heaven as their future abode

Long blonde hair,
a veil made of tulle.

Soft bare feet,
the grin of a fool.

The boy holds a paper airplane
It holds his thoughts and dreams

It’s flying towards my window
And I won’t catch it by any means

I love to watch the rain drip,
Down the leaves like slides

I love to feel the water,
As the trees embrace the tides

The moon wakes the wet,
And the sun owns the rain

The wind howls its guilt,
As the clouds shake their pain

I sit softly in the grass,
A book in my hands

The ink slowly blurs,
Following the sky’s demands

I never finish my story,
For Mother Nature I respect

But the tree above just soaks me,
When the leaves above have wept

I sit below the bark,
the wood that formed my book

I let the leaves cry wonders,
for it’s their life my story took.

Have you ever walked out of a movie theatre and suddenly it was dark out?
Have you ever run your hands under cold water but they were so numb it felt hot?
Have you ever stared at the sun too long so you saw dots?
Have you ever woken up at 4 am and not gone back to sleep?
Have you ever ridden your bike down a road and felt like you were in a movie?
Have you ever thought of a person right as they texted you?
Have you ever truly had a prayer answered?
Have you ever taken a cold shower in the morning?
Have you ever ran your hand through your hair after getting it cut?
Have you ever put socks on and instantly gotten warmer?
Have you ever taken a nap and waken up thinking it was a whole new day?
Have you ever watched the same movie back to back multiple times?
Have you ever asked for a sign and then gotten it?
Have you ever gotten de ja vu from a book?
Have you ever been excited to open a letter you got in the mail?
Have you ever cleaned your room and felt better about your whole life?
Have you ever bought someone a gift and become obsessed with how perfect it is for them?
Have you ever hugged someone for so long you didn’t know when it was gonna end?

have you ever,
fallen in love with a feeling?

If you sit up tall,
I’ll fix my posture.

If I see you smile,
I’ll smile back.

Forever I will watch and steal from strangers,
The qualities I’m afraid I’ll always lack.

I’m sorry if you feel like I have copied,
Admiration is all I want to show.

I take from you the things I’ll always dream of,
The confidence I’m afraid I’ll never know.

build with me.
together we’ll put words on paper.

we’ll decorate the world with thoughts and creativity,

if you choose to be my architect.

I hate Sundays,
with all of my heart.

Especially nights,
for they tear me apart.

My reflection is empty,
it escapes from my soul.

It warns me that on Sundays,
I have no control.

The toll it takes,
lying in bed.

Knowing tomorrow,
my dreams will be dead.

I really hate Sundays,
but didn’t use to.

Maybe I wouldn’t,
If I could have you.

both indoor and outdoor alike, I feel tugged upon.

I feel cheated of my own journey,
because my navigation has been purloined and rendered helpless by the sakes of you.

I watch as you rip the leaves off of trees,
stealing their last chances of life and replacing their final breath with your cool breeze.

The piles of death raked neatly on my lawn are recklessly thrown about,
and any garbage littering surrounding streets is forced to flutter in your wake.

My clothes are ****** and heaved in the opposite direction of my heart.
No matter how purposefully I march my soul in one direction, your soul will always best me.

I am trying to go right but you instead draw me left.
My dark brown curls are turned into thin wispy locks in all that is your power.

I follow the new direction pathed by my wandering hair, the new direction pathed by you that pulls it.

She claims she loves you more,
She claims to decipher your whispers like no other

Only she sees your dreams and understands them for all they are.

She reaches into her sleep and finds your rolling tears crying out for you and your sleeping soul.

She watches the tears shape you and cover you in fear, a fear she claims that only she can understand.

Aimlessly I listen to her tell me all that you mean to her, yet at night when I lie awake I am the one swimming in your cave of cries.

I am the one who holds the light that will eventually let you find a crack and escape.

She listens but I aid you.
She may love you more but I love you bigger.

You call me a believer,
but you haven't heard my dream

You call me a believer,
because with pity you watch me scream

You tell me to speak my truth,
because I have "important" things to say

Funny, wasn't it you?
that ignored me yesterday

My life is systematic

It’s the gradual open and closing-
of eyelids

It’s slowly forcing all my muscles to become involuntary

My life is repetition

It’s a life without thoughts

It’s living everyday in a pattern of pain
Yet with a smile on my face

My sides open and unfold
Around each person that I meet

The lies that shape me, the truths I’m told
My greatest strengths create my defeat

If you smile I’ll smile back
Your sorrow will bring out my toughest tears

Though if intimated, I might just crack
Your nerves will swallow all of my fears

I have a side one, side two, side three
I’m a fortune teller my paper white

All sides shape my reality
But each fortune changes in different light

Each flap folded down holds a different me
Every side makes up one blank sheet

A girl that changes due to what you see
You’ll write on it one day, if we ever meet

My sides open and unfold,
Those changes are what set me free

The lies that shape me, the truths I’m told
Each person I know shows what I’ll be

If I wrote poems in my dreams,
then I'd write in black and white

If I wrote poems in my dreams,
then I'd convey messages through silence

If I wrote poems in my dreams.
then my writing would hold knowledge it doesn't when awake

If I wrote poems in my dreams,
then you'd see a side of me that even I don't know

It’s a fortune cookie religion,
Where we abide by our own truths.

We crack them open in the kitchen,
And spill out our papers of youth.

We count our lucky numbers,
As we count our own turns of fate.

It’s a crystal sugar alter now,
And this cookie is my soulmate.

I love the faded white paper,
As I adore the soft blue ink.

I allow the cookie to mold me,
What I love, what I hate, what I think.

I love it best when they hold true predictions,
Gazing into my life like a crystal ball.

I won’t succumb to only a simple quote now,
I’d rather be told when I will stand and when I’ll fall.

Not ever will I let the cookies fool me,
Or glide right through my past like it’s untrue.

Instead I’ll weave the cookies through my whole life,
I’ll let them choose me because through them I chose you.

When writing letters I'd use fountain pens because-
ink runs smoothly alongside my words.

When drawing a picture I'd use fountain pens because-
I feel transported into times of great art.

When telling my secrets I'd use fountain pens because-
I wear confidence best when I'm alone.

When crafting poems I'd use fountain pens because-
I feel proud as poets should.

When writing letters I'd use fountain pens because with them,
I write poorly.

And I want my loved ones to know I tried.

Frizzy hair and wide-eyed stares, and glares to stay the night.

Running streams and pretty things, and dreams to spark a fright.

I'm laying back down in the grass staring at the clouds,
Watching shapes swirl and swirl,
around and round and round.

In November, I settled into the holiday spirit.
I found my joy in coffee shops and bookstores.

In December, I steadied myself for the Christmas craze.
I spent my time at the mall shopping for gift wrap and mistletoe.

In January, I failed at keeping New Years resolutions.
I surrendered my hunger to restaurants rather than eating dinner in my own home each night.

In all of these places,
I looked for tables not by the front doors,
I hid in warm corners to read my books,
and I watched the snow fall from
closed windows
on second stories
where the blizzards
could never touch me.

However happy this time is supposed to be,
I still had to isolate myself to the indoors to stay away from all the twists and turns that the season brings.

And that harsh breeze you feel when walking by an open door in winter.

I wish I knew
How to feel
The way I felt
Before I knew
What I know now

Like most people, I see color.
I choose one to be my favorite.
I identify all objects through shade, tint and hue.

I witness darkness and lightness at their blurriest points.

I watch transparency succumb to these two worlds and let truth get lost in between.

In between worlds is where many find themselves.

Those who paint themselves gray, surrender to going unnoticed and convince themselves everyday that their scars will disappear if they stop looking.

These people are entitled to invisibility.
They wear it like a cloak or even a mask.
They adorn themselves in an attempt to stay hidden.

I too am lost between worlds.
Yet I don’t share a cloak of invisibility.
I wear intangibility as a piece of armor.

I am a soldier demanding my right to walk right through everything.
To feel nothing.
To go untouched but still seen.

I let others play the roles of bystanders watching me almost crash into conflict before passing through like a ghost.

I embody mystery and fate and death for my life is hiding somewhere in color.
I embody intangibility so I can glide through life and maybe access that color again.

My poem found me yesterday.

It chased me down a hill, and rolled past me like a tumbleweed in an old western ghost town.

It clothed me in words and betrothed me to my own metaphorical aspirations.

It ran me down a path to a dead end but then showed me a way out, the way into my thoughts.

It painted a dozen pictures and sculpted a million lies that would soon account for all my forgotten memories.

In the end the poem held up a white flag and told me it had surrendered, yet it wasn’t until this moment I realized I had been the one chasing the poem all along.

I found my poem yesterday.

Jason told me yesterday
Something
Something special

Something about Jason
Nobody else could tell me the same

Only Jason could

On January 13th I leave.  
I will get on a plane.
It will be my death march.

I will leave my town,
My school,
My friends,
My home,
But what I’m leaving the most of...
Is people I barely know.

The ones I stop and say hi to in the grocery store.

The ones who’s social media I comment on despite never making an effort to call.

The ones I check up on maybe once a year,
or at least once every few.

And it’s almost saddening. That these are the people society expects me to spend my last days with.

Two weeks left and I just cram my calendar with goodbye lunches for people who were never truly in my life.

They are dying to see me they say, but it’s funny because I’m not even sure we really know each other.

We’re not going to cry when we give our final hugs, because we have no tears for one another. No real connection.

But for some reason these are the people I am making plans with right now.

Oops, gotta go get my calendar.
The phone is ringing.

First, of course,
you must preheat the oven
probably somewhere around 330-350 because I can't remember the last time I was told otherwise.

After that, you must make sure you have all the ingredients.
Check your pantry, your cabinets, even the smaller white fridge many of us horde away in our family garage.

You'll need a pencil or a keyboard.
Maybe an old typewriter if you're trying to make a true romantic.
If you're lucky, all you will need is some imagination, not even paper.

If you do need paper, try and find some with lines.
A small piece of paper ripped out of some adorable Barnes and Noble notebook we all bought at one point or another.

On the paper, you'll tell a story.
It doesn't have to be good, but it must be true.
True not in a way that it actually happened, but true in a way that it flowed from you with honesty.

Once your story is finished you can crumple it up.
Put it in a bowl, probably a metal one made for mixing.

Then you can pour in some water, to justify your creative thirst.
Add some spices, these are your flavor, your thesaurus.

After this grab something. Anything. Something you like or something you hate. Chocolate chips, ketchup, pickles, sprinkles. These are your characters. Or if you write nonfiction, maybe they are you.

Then depending on your abundance or lack of ambition, you will mix it. Mix it a lot, or mix it a little. Add in some imagery, similes, or metaphors and let your readers try to decipher your writing. Or keep it simple, orderly and clear.

Then, grab some oven mitts. Pour your masterpiece into a pan -whichever you deem appropriate. And voila, wait for your writer to cook.

The cooking time is unique to each of you. Some of us take much longer than others. But that's okay, no matter how long it takes you to bake we will all need to cool off in the end.

And then of course,
once you're cool.

You start all over again.

Eyes drowsy
Mouth open
Dreams active

Mind stirring
Lips moving
Heart beating

Faster faster faster
A scream

It halts
Complete silence

What is scarier
Neither

It’s the words
Loose but meaningful
They escape an unconscious mind
The most conscious of souls

They get muffled and trapped between lips and a pillow
They get pushed and smashed until all of a sudden they escape
They travel the world in and out of dreams

Nobody will ever know
Only truth is the witness
Important wisdoms beheld by none
Aspirations and confessions you keep away from even yourself

Nighttime has no prisoners here
The golden sun a hot fiery ball of terror scaring away life’s true thoughts
In the dark and the quiet the much more peaceful stars set these thoughts free

Your bed is the key to their safety
Their haven is where nobody can see them
They have been let loose for now

You are more trapped now than ever
You’re words never spoken
You’re dreams never dreamt
You’re a sleeptalker

Dear Teacher,
I want to be a lawyer,
a doctor,
a detective,
a writer,
an engineer,
a straight-A student.

but

Dear Mother,
I want to be a stoner,
a drinker,
a rule breaker,
a shoe wearer,
an underager,
a party-goer.

but

Dear Friends,
I want to be a leader,
a martyr,
a gossiper,
a trend-setter,
an accepter,
a secret keeper.

but

Dear Boys,
I want to be a lover,
a lust,
a dream,
a flirt,
a conserver,
a relationship-haver.

but

What Do You Want Me To Be?

Somebody out there watches black and white films to satisfy a stereotype they wish to fulfill
They watch not because they enjoy the film, but just because it's in black and white

Don't you think,
a person alive in a time of only black and white films would perhaps

find it quite odd.

That people watch black and white films for fun when they could instead watch one in color.

Please don't press like on my poems if you don't like them

But please press like on my poems even if you don't like me

Please

Today I felt professional because I put my apostrophe after my S

A simple grammatical performance caused me to respect myself more

Never once before, have I allowed myself to carry my apostrophe at the end of my words

I felt this a performance reserved for the greats

Yet for some reason today I let myself put an apostrophe after my S

And for some reason, I felt professional

If you find my poems,
Then good for you.

I sure hope you like them.

If you don’t find my poems,
Then good for you too.

I don’t write poems either..
Just words sometimes.

It was a hot day, not one kid in the school was not wearing shorts and t-shirts.
As least that’s what I expected

It was a boring day, not one kid in the school wanted to sit in class any longer.
That’s why I got a hall pass

It was a quiet day, I walked through the halls to find a drink in the hot peace and stillness of our school.
That’s when I saw her

She was a pretty girl, short brown locks and braces surrounding her smile
She saw me too

She was a nice girl, a year younger than me but we were somewhat friends
I smiled at her

She was a different girl, she stood there in jeans and a long sleeve shirt unlike anyone else
I waved in her direction

The water was clear, rising out of it’s silver not to pristine fountain that all the kids used
She bent down for a drink

The water was calling me, I watched her take a sip and walked over to the fountain faster
I was dying of thirst

The water was clueless, the only other witness in what I was about to see and it could know nothing
I bent down for a drink

She bent up, her sleeve got caught, it rolled up, she stepped back, I saw them, long and perfect, red cuts that decorated her soft skin protecting her delicate frame, she looked at me, I looked back, awkward eye contact that no one could forget, we both looked down, her sleeve came down as well.

It was a hot, boring, quiet day for two pretty, nice, different girls who turned around from the clear, calling, clueless water fountain and headed back to class.

I never even got a drink

My whole life I explored through words,
The ones I’d seen written or the ones I’d had heard.
I thought there was nothing more to it than this,
Books left a mark on my soul like a sweet kiss

Then I met dead poets and sweaty toothed men
I met Forrest Gump and his old pal Jen
I was taught about humor by Mrs.Doubtfire
I forgot all about the life that I had lived prior,

Prior to fighting on spaceships and living in trees,
Prior to constantly debating between Marvel and DC
Prior to letting disney make me smile and fight back my tears
Prior to horror movies introducing me to new fears

I met a life where one picture show
Could take me to a place I’d never get to go
This life was a life only made for me
A life outside of my reality

I sang along to all the musicals and got up and danced
I covered my eyes in the shining and barely even glaced
I sobbed and I sobbed when jack dawson died
I imagined what it would be like to have Mcfly by my side

I wished and I hoped watching Monsters Inc.
And in finding nemo I never let myself think
I found that sci-fi and fantasy held whole different meanings
The the ones they had held in the books I was reading

Chapter by chapter or scene by scene, I finally discovered what adventure means
I hung posters on my walls and bought all the clothes,
From movies symbolizing my life’s highs and life’s lows.
I was a true fan but I didn’t hold a favorite
They were all close to my heart and I just needed to savor it

Savor this life outside of my own
One that I’m lucky was ever made known
Made known to me a true movie fan,
Someone who will cherish them as long as they can.

My lovely thesaurus that sits by my side,
I use it and abuse it and love it with pride
I am not ashamed I have nothing to hide,
My lovely thesaurus that sits by my side

A writer’s friend, an antagonists foe
The book that makes my characters suffer incredible woe
A tool that I use when my conflicts not steep
A tool that I use to make dialogue more deep

I replace mainly adjectives but sometime nouns or verbs
It helps spice up my story in a way a chef might use herbs
It gives me a way to avoid repeating what I have already spoken,
And it helps leave my readers uplifted or heartbroken

This lovely thesaurus that sits by my side
It improves the way my characters lived and how they died
I use it and abuse it and love it with pride

It makes me no less and only helps me inside
So I will not be ashamed, I have nothing to hide,
If I said I didn’t use it to write this then I would have lied
My book of adventures, fairytales and intense dragon rides
My lovely thesaurus that sits by my side

I'm writing this poem for Nathan
which is funny since I have nothing to say

not because I don't wanna talk to you
but just cause we already talk all-day

I'm writing this poem for Nathan
and hoping that he finds it kinda okay

I want him to enjoy it just a little
or maybe take out to read another day
        
                                                                         - M

A click rang through my ears as I locked the door.
A bang sounded off around me as I dropped the toilet seat.
All of my senses were blind, yet my taste was heightened.
I sat down and let my feet dangle in open space,
toes much too young to touch the ground.
The walls around me vibrated and a sugar plum anthem pounded in the room next door.
The door rattled with knocks,
dancers hurrying to use the bathroom in between rehearsals.
Bobby pins littered the floor, and a run in my tights that was once the end of the world was now deemed insignificant.

My arms grasped a happy yellow handle, my stomach rumbled with fear.
A forgotten lunch had forced my father to drop off the forbidden red box sitting in my lap.

I tore through the paper, pink nail polish flaking off of my fingers.
I reached inside and pulled out my delicious contraband.

My baby teeth broke through the sesame bun, as my small eyes swelled.
I forced myself to swallow the meat, my throat succumbing to salt from both the pickles and my tears.

Ketchup burned, dripping red with the pain from my soul.

I was the exemplary representation of a young ballerina. A girl struggling to find balance between two notions. The first that you must never starve yourself, and the second that you must never eat unhealthy

A splatter of ketchup fell onto my leg
Once I left that room everyone would know what it was

Everyone would know what I had done

At only seven years old I had already earned my scarlet letter

There used to be something romantic about living to see your funeral

Seeing who cares
Seeing who pretends to

This romance gets lost on you when it truly happens

When you’re a ghost walking through your past

Everyday, living a memory
Like you already left

My desk is smooth because my mind is rough
There is no clutter in my working surroundings because my thoughts are cluttered enough

My computer, on the other hand, wears its years
It's colors faded and adorned with age

enfeebled and matured, it sits
my power button lies encrusted in dust

each key wears a red poppy pin,
demonstrating dedication at the latest hours of the night
the meeting of fingers in the roughest hours of life

only two keys lay shiny
a simple colon and parenthesis

two keys known by many to frown
forced to live in eternal sadness

here my keys reflect their youth and their joy
only ever being forced to smile

these keys will forever keep my writing eternally gratified  
they're my endless supporters
patrons of my art
looking at me with glee every time I sit down to compose
the only ones in my life always happy to see me

they're the smiley face on my keyboard

Her name is dangerous but her face is a disguise
She's an enemy who fights with peace and rivals any previous jealousy

She's the exemplification of teenage relatability and she knows it

She's the movie you watch when your boyfriend breaks up with you,
You know she's bad yet you crave the cringe of all her qualities

She's enough to turn any girl into a *******

your tiny hand unravels and the ornament hits the ground with a crash
you cry as you miss the tree by a mile,
Mom hurries to clean up the glass.

An aunts arms imprison me, protecting my bare feet
skin unscathed by the problems of the world
It's baby's first Christmas again.

Years pass and now we're under the stars
you lay in a tent, shadow bunnies hopping all around you.

My face is invisible but my voice is loud and clear,
High pitched and delicate as I take Dad's camera and begin to narrate.
Old enough to tell my own stories now.

I try to cross the damp wooden log, mountain water flowing below me.
My voice goes silent and the screen goes dark with a sudden splash.

I walk down the stairs, you smile and Dad films.
His camera has now been replaced by a handheld mirror of technology.

My dress flows past my ankles, my date appears at the door
A new voice has entered our house and our lives.
Parent interrogation fills my prom night and my cheeks fill with color.

I laugh and I grab the remote, I find the luminescent arrow with a line adorned below it
I eject the CD but download the memories into my mind forever

Last night I took off my face
When we met, I didn’t even recognize her
The next morning I put it back on
And it was like everything I ever thought I knew was erased

I didn’t know who I was anymore
But I knew what people thought of the real me
I may never know what they think of my face
A face doesn’t provoke actions the way I did yesterday

I don’t know if we’re better with or without faces
I don’t know if it’s a preference
I don’t know if it’s something we decide for ourselves
I don’t know if someone out there has all the answers

I do know that without a face we’re just souls
And I also know that with a face we’re just people
But it takes a whole lot more than both of those things to make a Human Being