I hate when people tell me
"These are the most important years of your life"
Don't tell me that
I'll throw away these years of adolescence like the trash they are
And show no remorse in killing the person I once was
Because I will flourish as the person I will be
Do not call me baby
call me old
I will not hide my wrinkles
They are the scars of the life I've lived
I will not dye my hair
Its gray will tell the story of what I've done
Let my joints creak with arthritis as I tell you
That adolescence was the worst five years I ever lived through

I know things will change
     religion class will end
& four advil and 6 hours later my headache will go away
I will get the fire back in my veins
write again
feel full again
I will start taking credit for my poems
Everything will fade back into background noise
    & I will sleep again
My prayers will stop sounding rehearsed
& my lists won't only consist of
                       "Get out of bed"
I'll talk to my dad
   and angry tears will stop burning paths down my cheeks
I will read again
           and rest with the lights of
Stop flinching so much
             and it will be okay
                                         Again

Pull yourself together
           Stop scratching at your wrists
Please just get some sleep
                          I know you want to die
But know's not the time
               Decide in the morning, you're too tired now
      stop crying
                  stop crying
                         Stop crying
Deep breaths and count to ten
    "One
          Two
     Oh God, I'm going to die
               Three
                     Four
Oh God, I can't do this
Oh God, I want to die
                          Five
                              Six
         It's all over in the morning
                                   Seven
                                         Eight
           Oh God, what if I can't die
                                               Nine
                                                     Ten
                         I need to sleep."

I am up at 3:00 in the morning writing too many essays
I saved them until the last minute because I don’t know how to write anymore
It’s been too long
Too long since I scratched words into the wall by my bed until my fingers bled
Now I spend my time laying in bed, trying to get up
                        But I just can’t do it any more
                 Why can’t I do what I love any more
I don’t know how to describe what makes my heart so heavy
I don’t remember when I last saw the world in beautiful colors
                           It isn’t beautiful anymore
                                        It’s gray
The only time I see the colors is when they rush towards me like unstoppable waves
And for a few months I am unstoppable
                                    I am a god
    Until
              I
                  fall
                     The world is shocking colors of gray
                     Punctuated by overwhelming oceans of colors
And I am drowning
                                                          and
  ­                                   It isn’t beautiful anymore

Dear Sir or Madam,
Why should you let me come to your college? It’s not because I have money, I don’t I don’t I don’t and I doubt I ever will, but I’ll work hard.
I’ll drink beer and never liquor
And I’ll study, or I’ll try to study
And dear sir or madam
Please let me come to your college
I don’t have any money, but I’ve got promise
Or at least that’s what they told me before they started sticking their hands out and asking for compensation for my education
Please let me come to your college because even though I’ll never be able to pay back the debt of raising me to my parents I’ll come closer with a college degree
Let me come to your college
Even for one day
So maybe I can see the world beyond money or privilege
And maybe if I get a degree
Maybe if I get a degree
I’ll make enough money to pay off my student debts before I’m in my fifties
And I may be the product of a broken education system
But I’m not broken
And if you let me come to your college
I’ll study all night
And go to classes all day until I fracture my psyche
Please, sir or madam,
Let me come to your college
I’ll do anything for a degree

If the pen is mightier than the sword
then computers are guns
and the keys are bullets
but just because you own a gun
doesn't mean you have to shoot someone
so shoot me if I'm wrong
              But I don't think you should
mar your speech with hate
          and I think your mother would be disgraced if she read what you wrote
and do you even know what '******' means?
                     It's a bundle of sticks you throw onto a fire
so I guess it's just another way of you telling me that
                I'm going to burn
I get it
       God's sending me to Hell
but He's the one who inspired his prophet to write:
"But the greatest of these is Love"
while his Son hung out with prostitutes
               and thieves
and drank wine with His twelve groupies
      So if you really want to be like your Savior
Stop judging and instead love

If you don’t know the answer
it’s C
If you don’t care if cheating is immoral anymore
it’s normal
If some days the idea of shoving a pencil into your flesh
is tempting
                 It’s high school

Welcome to the flawed world
of unhealthy habits and competition
a parade of bent and folded bodies
we show off
graphite scratched skin
Future leaders stand like statues covered in graffiti
among ripped canvases and unfinished art projects
Waiting to be beautiful

Friend groups made up of alternatively
muddy and magnificent water colors
of scars and secrets they hide from their parents,
drawn on their skin,
settled in the cracks of broken frames
hiding wolverines under shattered glass and splintered wood

It’s not beautiful to be broken,
but outside of here, it’s beautiful to be alive
and be what you are
so turn scars into lightning bolts
and let stories drip down your chin in vibrant colors
you can’t see

Our best traits
are tattooed on our backbones
hidden under layers of weather-worn skin and clothes
        maybe we can't see them,
but they keep us standing up

So maybe it is all a competition
or a lie
or maybe we’re not real at all
But maybe that’s okay
Because neither is any of this

I want to **** myself God
               No, I didn't mean that
I meant **** your plans for me
          I have my own
And why did you make me a writer
    I thought you would know
the pen is mightier than the sword
and with it I will cause more damage
than the cross did to your son
And this ink is the blood of my soul
and with it I will cleanse my sin
better than Jesus ever did
These words are my religion and I live by their creed:
Keep Writing

My nails are yellowing
And my skin is sagging
At 16 I already look like I’m dying
I’m only 16, why do I look like I’m dying
I’d tell you it’s not fair
But I’m the one who built my life to be like this
Like a supernova
A dead star that no one on earth can see for years
Sometimes centuries
I’ve built my life so I won’t be recognized until years later
But I’m not dying for the recognition.
Like Van Gogh
I’m dying because the no matter the meaning I create
I can’t feel it anymore
He would eat yellow paint to feel sunshine on the inside
And I’ll swallow fire to feel something warm
I’m tired
I’m tired of people pretending any of this is beautiful
What I’m feeling is the furthest thing from beautiful
I’m tired of it raining while the sun’s out
I’m tired of people asking me how am and not waiting around for the answer
So I’m telling you right now
I haven’t been good in awhile
Thanks for asking.

I am alone
          surrounded and composed entirely of stardust
          and fragments of broken dreams-
it is exactly how I planned it to be
                         neat
                         but not in a rigid way with implied discomfort
                         just in a way where it is obvious I tried my best
The walls- finally stripped of needlepoint prayers
                 and instead layered with every word that has ever danced from my mouth
                   the smooth ones and the ones that taste like acid
                                   nothing is forgotten or laid aside
My body-
              a temple to myself
              desecrated in the most holy way
a sacrifice of skin
                     decorations of valor in a war against myself
     it is quiet
                  every thread I have ever plucked from the seams rips through the air as I come apart
                                                   again
             spilling tar and galaxies across everything
              I have ever known- a mess
I am alone
             but not in the way I am supposed to be

Everything's better
with smiles and dreams
hopes and feelings
        Pleasant things
but if something moans
sobs
or cries
we send it to a place where it can die
Everything's better
all sealed up and happy
closed off to the world
acting so sappy
but if something bleeds
dies
or speaks
we close up those holes and plug up those leaks
Everything's better
quiet and clean
washed up with soap until it gleams
but if something is *****
old
or worn
we shake our heads in an effort to scorn
Everything's better soft and warm
bundled up tight, yes that's the norm
but if something is tough
cold
or hard
we throw it away, our hearts we do guard
Everything's better pretend and fake
putting on smiles, "Life's a piece of cake!"
but if something is real
true
or sad
we pretend it's not there
and it makes me so mad

In my family mental illness isn’t a question of
“Will I or won’t I?”
It’s a question of
“When and how badly?’
Because in my family mental illness isn’t a question
It’s a promise
It’s a promise that you hope someone will break
And you realize that life after 20 isn’t a guarantee
Because it’s a question of
“Will I bury my parents or will my parents bury me?”
Because if the mental illness doesn’t **** you
It’ll be the cancer
Or the diabetes
Or maybe the heart disease
But in my family making it to 80 is something
Only two people have seen
And you learn to stop asking questions
And in my family
You learn to laugh while you can
And to smile in the rain
To drink while it’s legal
And to die at inconvenient times
Like before weddings
And graduations
And birthdays
And you learn to stop asking whose coming
And stop sending out invitations
And just hope someone is alive to see you
Dying

I've got
                   fight
       tattooed not on my bicep
                           but in my lungs
            so I never forget that it's just
one breath at a time

Girl in blue
ribbons in hair
excitement fills
the springtime air
winter's gone
Daddy's here
and she knows
there's nothing to fear

Girl in red
full of dread
her boyfriend kisses her lips
but she wants to feel her best friend's hips

Girl in yellow
married the fellow
her father most liked
still she wishes
for the bridesmaid's kisses

Girl in black
lays in her final rest
betrothed to a husband
but longed for a wife

People tell me I'm a gifted writer,
But I think it’s more of a curse
Because Mary chose to have Jesus out of wedlock
But God just ****** the pen in my hand and said:
“Here, write”
And it’s a curse from Him to know so many words
But have a voice to soft to speak them
And Jesus chose to resist sin
But I was born with it
My birth marks show where Eve held the apple too close to my skin
These birthmarks show where I was burned by original sin

Rain falls like silence
            Crushingly gentle and then
So suffocating

If we're being honest
            I'd tell you that I wish we were still together
and that
            some days
                    I watch the world
     twist and burn
                    and fall on me
     breaking into a million pieces
                                   breaking me with it
and that it doesn't scare me anymore
                         also I can't spell
           Once, I forgot how to sleep
                                              and didn't remember for 10 days
and one day I forgot to eat
                         and didn't remember for three days
                                     but didn't care
                        Some days
I can't stand being in my own skin
                                          some days I try to rip it off
              I flap my hands
              and bite my nails
And I'm afraid not to pray
              One time,
                                 I cried for 12 hours
One time,
                      I passed out from a panic attack
(Okay more than one time)
                                   Some days
I feel like there are bugs
                                     under my skin
I WANT TO SCREAM
                         but we're not being honest today
                                                                         so when I'm asked
I'll say I'm doing okay

Honey was my favourite word
because it was so many things
it was a noun
an adjective
It was your lover
is she on your lips
on your tongue?
Honey flowed through mouths
or into them
it was nourishment
and God promised the Israelites honey in paradise
so it was my favourite word
and God gave me words as my honey
so I took it and made paradise
where honey flowed through streams as
words flew from my mouth
and my daddy called me
honey
so I stuck my words to pages
and passed out my paradise like religious pamphlets
because writing was my religion and I wanted to spread it
like honey on toast
so the world could taste the nourishment of words
and be satisfied

I miss writing
I miss the way it felt to hear keyboard keys clacking
and the way it felt to hear my heart
emptying
I miss being able to get out of bed
being able to go out with my friends
depression has a way of turning a person
into a shell and taking
everything away
the ink in my blood
dried to nothing
perpetual numbness
where once was thought, emotion,
something
at least I think there used to be

I've forgotten how to feel
and think
     and be
but I still think I'm doing better
than last week

I want to tell you a story
but I haven’t learned the words
I know it’s out there somewhere
and I know inside me it burns

I don’t know if I have a secret
but I have an idea for one
I’ll make it up and say it to you
so you can load your gun

I have a lot of excuses
but never none for you
I want a reason why
I let myself see this through

I don’t have any thoughts
I’ve thought up on my own
I just let other people tell them to me
Until they’re engraved in my bones

I wish I had a story
one to make you stay
but I know in my heart you’re not real
but I think I’ll meet you one day

Jesus is a liberal
This is a fact that can easily be proven,
If you look at God’s Son in the scripture,
You may reach the same conclusion
Could you believe
That the God who created us
Created abortion
Maybe he found his children’s cries too hard to bear
So He came up with a solution that was only fair
“Take your children
Give them to me
I’ll give you both a better life, you’ll see
Don’t listen to those people outside
Their shouting is a sin
Please don’t cry, just come in.”
This same God
Fights for gay marriage
And cries when He hears His children being disparaged
He created love above all things
For some He created an Adam
For others an Eve
He did not decided this on gender or ***
But on who would love His child the best
And on welfare benefits
Jesus is number one
Giving to the poor and those who have none
Getting drunk on communion wine,
Jesus always would've voted
You see Jesus’ ministry was entirely devoted
To serving those who no one else would serve
Making sure everyone receives even if they don't deserve
So when you look at the evidence it’s quite clear that
Jesus was a democrat

I finished you in class today
           I cried when I read your last word
Your author so cruelly ended two dreams
    both yours and mine
"Calm down", they said to me
           "It was only a book."
Only a book? I wish it were true
so neither of us would have felt the pain
         of the back cover
                                  closing
and even as I lament my sorrows now to you
      I must also say farewell
to our hours of laughs and tears,
    and while it ended as I feared:
with you gone and me still here
            I must leave
                                  for there are more books to start
and more still
                                                           ­                                                                 *to finish

Food trucks make me nervous
Trying new things makes me nervous
looking people in the eyes makes me nervous
eating in front of people makes me nervous
noises at night make me nervous
the dark
the silence
being alone
being in crowded spaces
open landscapes
tight constraints
freedom
dogs barking
cats hissing
one on one conversations
large group situations
getting help
the thought of staying like this
dying
staying alive
Me
I make myself nervous
but I can't help it

When I was fifteen I listened to a religion teacher say
“Maybe” there should be a queer holocaust
and I pretended it didn’t hurt me,
the same way I pretended when she said
trans people mutilate their bodies by becoming who they are
when she misgendered Leelah Alcorn
when she called asexuals freaks of nature
when the other queer kid got sent to therapy
for having the audacity to even try to start a GSA
and suggesting that maybe everyone deserves to feel safe here
and my friends
think I’m overreacting
“It’s not a big deal!”
“Get over it!”
“Stop trying to be so special,
you should be expecting it at a Catholic school,
this is just what religion is like”
Is it?
Head down
Head down
Voices down,
you can get expelled for disagreeing with the archdiocese
Whisper in the hallway
about all the girls with pregnancy scares
who believed that
love
was the best contraceptive
Is that what Jose Gomez is teaching us?
No it doesn’t hurt
to watch my friends cry
about boys who yell “******”
down high school hallways
No it doesn’t hurt
when my friend asked me
“what would your kids even call you?”
No it doesn’t hurt
to be like this
Or at least
I can pretend it doesn’t

It wasn't about love
It was connection
At that point I could count every freckle on his body
Mark every spot I had kissed
I had made up a story of every scar
Turning the childhood bike accident
Into Hercules
The old burn
Into Achilles
If I close my eyes I can still see every muscle and tendon in his stomach
Move up and down with gentle breaths
I can still hear his pulse
And feel ours beating together as one
For a few minutes two were one
And when it was over
I could still remember
57 freckles
The two on his stomach rising as my ear rested on his chest
So I didn't wait
He wasn't my first
But if I still close my eyes
I can remember them all in sync
The rushing pulses like the rushing ocean
Freckles plentiful like the stars
Remember stories of scars filling pages and pages of memory
And for that moment we are all connected as one

Forgive me Father for I have sinned,
It’s been 15 years since my last confession, so you might want to clear your schedule
It’s going to take a while.
What’s my penance,
A few “Hail Mary” s?
That’s fine
I’ve got it memorized, forward and back.
Want me to say it in Latin?
I can do that.
How many “Our Father” s
Do I have to say
For being gay?
I’ll say them
I know that one, too.
Tell me father
If I slit my wrists to form a cross
Will I get to heaven?
Don’t test me Father,
I’ll do it.
What’s my penance father?
Tell me how to pray
God, forgive the sin of my existence
What’s my penance father?
I don't want to be gay.

I scrape away layers of my skin on my legs
with tweezers, often
until blood is drawn,
trying to yank off the imperfections
I feel,
blistered and pocked with red scabs
I will later
pull off,
a physical manifestation of what I want to do inside
littered with imperfect
feelings, thoughts,
digging and shredding into perfectly smooth and pristine
layers of emotions and ideas
ripping up what is good into an incoherent mess
trying to reach the dark spots underneath,
I can’t see them, but I know they’re there
lurking and waiting to come out to the surface
the agitation rises
if I can’t get something out,-
I need to get something out,
smalls whimpers of pain,
hardly noticeable,
until finally a deep exhale
it’s over.
Legs riddled with bleeding holes,
aching but content,
until tomorrow.

I have the privilege
           Of forgetting my heritage
Because seventy years ago my grandfather rejected his home country
     For mine
And a people so focused on not being a minority
              That I am no longer considered one
I can move into privileged neighborhoods
       Because sixty years ago my grandparents tore a few pages out of their books
I will be hired because fifty years ago my father was born
                             A parchment colored page
And forty years ago my grandfather refused to teach his son his native language to his son
         So he could be privileged enough to forget his heritage
And thirty years later meet a white women
                   Twenty years, marry her
                       Seventeen a son
                          Fifteen a daughter
the color of a blank page
               But I will not tear out my pages
Nor will I let them stay empty
      I may have risen above my grandfather's homeland
                       But I will be sure never to forget it

Promise you’ll come home when you leave
Promise you’ll always achieve your dreams
Promise you’ll smile in the rain
Promise you’ll never forget me
Promise you’ll always call home when you’re gone
Promise you’ll think of me
Promise you’ll tell your new friends you have a sister
Promise you’ll still laugh at our jokes when we’re apart
Promise you’ll still be my brother when you come to visit
Promise you’ll never change.

Every color besides blue or pink
is not purple
so stop trying to color me that way
as though I am a midpoint
on an unchanging line
a spot that only slides
forward and back
not a fluid point
constantly moving
up and down
A changing person
with many thoughts
capable of more than
either,
or,
and inbetween
Everything and nothing
all at once
I am more than boxes
definitions
M or F
neither
not both
I am not a shade of purple
on a line
between pink or blue
I am every color on the spectrum
and some still not listed
I am not yours to define
I am mine

Why would you ask me if I'm okay
Don't I look like I'm okay
And stop calling me Jacqueline
I’m not Jacqueline anymore
No, I was never Jacqueline,
But I didn’t realize that when I was younger
And who do I ask about my gender
Don’t tell me God
I have spent so long praying
There are depressions in the floorboards from where my knees collided with faith
But I don’t think I have faith anymore
God doesn’t answer my prayers anymore
Why doesn’t god answer my prayers?
I know for a fact God answers my friends’ prayers
why doesn’t He answer mine
I think it’s because He doesn’t love his queer children
I think God needs to go to a PFLAG meeting
Or at least one needs to be held in a church so He can hear the words of acceptance echoing throughout his house
Mom told me they didn’t know if I was a boy or a girl until I was born
But I still don’t know
Let’s do an ultrasound on the part of my brain that decided not to feel like a girl
I must have decided
But I don’t remember doing it
I told my friend I didn’t feel like a girl,
She laughed and said, “I know, you feel like a woman.”
I told my friend I didn’t feel like a girl, and she said, “Not so loud, I don’t want my parents to hear.”
And she was right, because at some point “gender” became a dirtier word than ***
Because even though her parents won’t admit it, they wouldn’t kick her out if she was having ***, as long as it wasn’t with someone of the same ***
And I’m in a same *** relationship with God
Because in religion class they told me He was genderless
But we still call God “He”
People still call me she
But I’ve never told them different
They said we’re all created in God’s image,
But I think I’m not
Because God doesn’t make mistakes.
No, I’m not okay
And stop calling me Jacqueline.

“Write about ***” I whisper to myself
“No. No, that’s disgusting” I respond with vigor
“Write about love.” I suggest in the condescending tone adults often take with me
But I do not want to write about love,
I have never been in love
I have never felt anything like love
I hate writing about love
I hate the pronouns
I always want to write about hers
About the smell of perfume on her dress
And the way her hair curls and twists like the plotline of an Oscar Wilde novel
I always want to write about she’s
And the way she never makes fun of my silence
And the way she laughs
And the way she cheats off of me in geometry,
Even though we both know my answers are always wrong
She’s like a triangle
A cute
But if I were a shape
I’d be obtuse
Because when  we walk to together in the hallway I always get the urge to grab her hand
But I never have
And  I want to tell her to take off her makeup because she’s just so perfect
And you know she cried last week and I didn't know what to say
I never know what to say around her
But she never minds, she can have a conversation with me and I never have to say anything
And some days it takes all my restraint
Not to write about her
And I want to write about how I love her
I want to write about the way I love her
But hatred always hits me in the gut
And pain in the face
And shame cripples my fingers
So that I can never write she
And when he comes out of my pen
I rip the pages of my failed poem out of my notebook
And cry
Because I can’t stand writing lies

Cigarette smoke caresses your figure
           a silhouette of ash
I wonder if anyone knows what you really look like
          Swear words gloss your chapped lips
                     ****
It sounds heavy from you
           almost as thick as your *****, brown hair
Your lipstick is red like the blood you've spilled
                  You said it wasn't ******
He deserved to die
           Came close to where you were standing
                                                                Touched your shoulder and called you
"Baby"
                                  punctured his stomach
                                                 cut off his ****
                                                         and called him a
"*******"
                         used his blood to paint a warning
"to any others"
  

                   Cigarette smoke caresses your figure
               No one really knows what you look like

Left right left
       keep in line
Fight for our cause
       leave your brothers behind
Blood is just water
        food-colored red
Don't be weak
         unless you're dead

I knew I shouldn’t drink
Not in the teenager
‘I should be
                  responsible’
            way,
because honestly
           I didn’t care about that
                                     About not disappointing my parents
because they can tell me what they want
             but everyone drinks
                    and no one waits until they’re twenty-one
and I know they weren’t exceptions
              I knew I shouldn’t drink
in the
              “everyone in my family is an alcoholic
and I will be too
                         it’s a hereditary disease
once I start
                                                 I won’t stop”
sense and in the
                    “emotional drinking is a bad sign
                             and binge drinking still counts as alcoholism
(at least I’m pretty sure it does)”
sense
          but still
I drank
          when I was
angry
sad
at parties
bored
            because what else was I going to do?
                                                   History repeats itself
              and I am no exception
So the first time I had drunk
                I was ***
I mean…. you get it
                   who cares really
I don’t really remember it
                        I remember blacking out halfway through
and waking up somewhere else
                   but I don’t remember ever saying
                                      "no”
          or “stop”
                       or anything like that
I just remember it all being hazy
                                     and if I went to another party
I wouldn’t even recognize him
                     but I don’t go to parties anymore and I know
                                                            ­                                  I shouldn’t drink

Dear Sophie,
I should apologize.
for the way the sun shone in your eyes the day we met
It wasn’t love
Not at first,
not at last.
I should apologize
for the way I held your hand
so tenderly
like you were the one afraid of the world,
I should apologize for the kisses
for the car windows
for lying to your mom
I’m sorry.
For all the times I told you I was busy
I wasn’t.
You should have fallen in love with someone else
I deserved better
You should have fallen in love with someone else
You deserved better
You deserved better than a voicemail
than generated replies
than robotic tones
and transparent lies
Dear Sophie,
I should apologize
for the way the sun shone in your eyes the day we met
because I fell in love with it,
without realizing there were days
It wouldn’t shine.

My dad always told me that if you see the birds flying east
it means a storm's coming
But I never saw the birds flying east in your heart
I was too busy looking at the sunshine in your eyes
Until one day when all I could see was rain
And I would've told you some cliche about how a rainbow was going to shine through
But you pulled the trigger and your eyes filled with dark storm clouds
And some days I forget how warm it was in your arms
or I want to reach out and stroke your face
But I remember you're cold now
And sometimes I catch the birds flying east in my heart
But I send them to the place where you were
So they can rest in the sunshine you left behind
Some days, I see the storm clouds on my horizon,
But I keep walking,
I'm not afraid of a little rain.

All your laws are doing
                are justifying the murders
         you already called justified
So if I try to punch first
       don't call it 'cisphobia'
               call it Survival

(1) I wonder if I’ll die at 32
16 seems so much like a midlife crisis
I don’t wonder too much about
other things
If I’ll ever have a husband
If I’ll ever have kids
the politics of the pronouns
for my future spouse became
too complicated, at least for me

(2)    I’m tired even though I slept last night
I’ve been sleeping a lot lately
I don’t have much else to do
As morbid as it sounds it just feels like I’m stuck
waiting until it’s my turn to die
    
(3) I should be taking notes in class
         talking to my friends
  I should make eye-contact when I talk
and stop scratching my hands
I have to admit,
I have a certain affinity for scars
                           permanent regret
I shouldn’t have selective hearing
                                I haven’t listened to an entire conversation in
too long
        scanning instead for terms of my interest
         slurs
         are a particularly ear-pricking noise
lesbian, gay, transgender,
                   suicide

(4) I never thought my name
             would be such a hard question
    one that made me pause
“Do they know?”
they must
they don’t
neither do I
I want to sputter out to my brother
exactly what I am
but I don’t know what that is
I want to stop breaking down in my room over forms
M
or
F
morf I read
morph my mind corrects me, wishing I could do what I read

(5) My finger taps a desk and I watch the line in my hand
up
down
up
down
and I try to convince myself that I am real
                ten minutes
that’s the time left in this class period
              two fives
I say to myself, trying to shorten the time
           I used to be better at this

(6) I look at the rings on my fingers
             Do they belong?
would I have to take them off if everyone knew?

(7) My grandparents were twenty years apart
            I don’t shy away from age gaps
I try to justify it in my head
              that everyone is made for each other
that out there someone else longs for me, too
But my mind corrects me
on all the inconsistency in the world
                       there could very well be no one for me

(8) I don’t know what I feel
                   but part of it is alone
and another part is angry
                                 and angsty
                                 and sad
but they’re not puzzle pieces that fit together
          
(9)            I try to tell myself
       “I am myself”
but some days I don’t think even that is true
               I used to be better at this

(10) the veins in my arms carry blood through my body
                  so I remind myself
“today you are alive”
                              and I bide my time
                              and I wait

A Baby-Boomer walks so freely through the town
he pays no mind to those suffering around
“Why don’t poor people just get jobs,”
he asks himself,
“And stop bellyaching?
And women need to shut their mouths and stop complaining
the wage gap is a fallacy
they invented to work less.
trust me I am a man who would understand the oppressed,
a man who has always been gainfully employed,
in fact if you ask me I am simply annoyed
that others dare to call me privileged
just because I can afford more than they do
(well that and the fact that because of my face
I can be sure that I will not be chased
by the police unrightfully
or a strange man most frighteningly).”
He walks alone in the darks of night
and yet his bones do not creak with fright
for he knows the world respects his white skin,
his wife, and the money he keeps only for him.
On his wall hangs a college degree
he got from a school in 1983
“I don’t understand why the millennials are such whiners
pull yourself up by your bootstraps while you’re still minors,
yes we ruined the economy, but it’s not that hard
if you just stop focussing on being so avant-garde
and get a job, who do you think you are?
Just kids trying their best to be what they are?
Disgusting excuse,
sell your soul to businesses,
it’s what Reagan would do.”
As he puts his money to bed at night
in the house he bought when the market was still alright
he wonders why kids these days
seem so tired and hungry for praise.

The Ballet Dancer spins in air
light as a cloud
she moves her body
and does a plie
the ballet dancer
moves like fluid
her feet taunt the devil
her arms stretch towards the heavens
the ballet dancer
stirs envy in others
with her beauty and poise
she is no stranger to mistakes
but her performance gives the illusion of perfection
she has fallen
but never stays down
The ballet dancer bows
her time is up
but she will never stop

Her skin has yet to get used to the burn
so she tries her best to pretend it doesn’t hurt
She stopped asking
                about her husband
         long ago
and the screams of agony still haunt her
She whispers alone at night
            “I love him, I love hime, I love him”
but she knows it isn’t true
she remembers the circumstances of their union
and tells herself that lying is a sin
so maybe she’ll feel his touch again
and maybe he’ll even leave scars from the burn
something to remember him by
but he’ll be gone before she’ll see him
She can’t even remember what he looks like
but she tells herself she can
               “I love him, I love him, I love him”
but she can only love a man

Your heartbeat sounds like music
           have I ever told you? Everyone has a different one
Your lungs are an orchestra
   and I wish I could give you more than whispers
but all I have are the secrets I told you
                    I wish you had someone to hold you
            but I've never been good with the
                  physical aspect of it all
I wish I wasn't colorblind so that
                   I could write you about all the colors I think surround you
           and maybe if I wasn't so nearsighted
                    I could tell you about the future in the distance
I'm just about as short as my short-comings
but I think we need that balance
                                      of the sun and the moon
but I don't know
                   how people like us
                                            live like this