breathe.
the clock slowly ticks down to end my twenty first year.
breathe.
i think i was expecting something a little more dramatic. loud music, flashing lights. at the very least a few friends beside me and a strong drink in hand.
breathe.
but maybe i don't need so much excitement anyway; i've had two full decades of it and it's been enough for a lifetime.
breathe.
in fact, i spent most of those years hoping that would be my entire lifetime,
so many times thinking i would die before this day
so many times desperately wishing i would die before this day.
breathe.
so maybe tonight's spectacle will just be the first breath i take to begin the rest of my life.
maybe it will be the fact that i choose to breathe at all.

...

breathe.
i am still here.
breathe.
i know now that wanting to die doesn't mean you hate life. and loving life doesn't mean you have to be scared of dying.

breathe.
i must keep reminding myself again and again that i am loved despite the fact that i'm alone on the couch with nothing but a blanket for company.
breathe.
the smiles of my friends flash before me one by one, loosening the knot in my chest.
breathe.
i know the planet is beautiful, but god, it cannot compare to the sound of my friends laughing, as if their joy were weightless. carefully, i stitch pieces of it into a patchwork umbrella for the next rainy day.
breathe.
i have looked love in the face and i am slowly thawing.

breathe.
i see again every time i fell on my face, every time i pushed someone else down trying to get up, every clenched fist and tightened jaw.
breathe.
i have had to fight too hard to get here. but i guess that really means i learned how to take punches and maybe throw one back every so often.
breathe.
my knuckles are constantly bruised and my skin scars too easily. i am not allowed to forget the hell i've dug my way out of, and i am thankful. it makes the sun feel a little warmer every morning.

breathe.
lately i've been speaking a little too quickly, tripping over words like the world's clumsiest track runner. there is too much going on in my head to keep up with my mouth.
breathe.
and is my voice too loud because people are complaining about how i can't whisper, also everyone else needs to talk so should i just stop now...
breathe.
...no, this is still a hundred times better than when i never spoke at all.

breathe.
i am learning how to gently fall asleep in an empty bed
breathe.
more importantly, i am learning not to call the bed empty when i'm already in it.

breathe.
it seems i have reached the age when my grade school self thought i'd be an adult with everything figured out. she is yet another person i have disappointed.
breathe.
still, i am slowly realizing that no one else really knows what they're doing either. and that's okay.

it always saddened me how LA was the city of angels but no stars
and the only ones in vegas were around the heads of men with too much *****
even new york, home of countless celebrities, hid its constellations
because it seems the more light we try to produce, the more of it we lose

so i instead chose to fight and count against the night
while the heavens moved and i moved with it
wondering if i could outrun time
and stay in this canvas: pin-pricked, diamond-studded, backlit

but alas, dawn still threatens to swallow the sky
though i have only reached one hundred forty three so far
they said it was impossible, so i heard let's do it
come quickly and join me, for i am counting the stars

If you were a storybook character
I would write you as the princess of a kingdom
centuries and lightyears away from this dull planet
finally living (all) the fairytales you once tried to escape to

If you were a storybook character
I would write you as a shimmering mermaid
following the call of (the) ocean and slipping through hands like water
far, far away from those who try to keep you anchored to the surface

If you were a storybook character
I would write you as a woodland faerie
planting sunflowers in every inch of the (world’s) surface
and surrounded by a myriad creatures
from soft bunnies to beasts that only quiet at the sound of your voice

If you were a storybook character
I would write you as (a) warrior
with a bow curved like your smile and arrows as sharp as your wit
eyes blazing, hair flying, feet shaking the earth
as you (stage) a revolution against everyone who has ever tried to **** your spirit

If you were a storybook character
I would write about how you talk like you never need oxygen
how your face somehow shows everything (and) nothing at all
how you quietly notice little things that people overlook
how (you) strive to always do good to others but never to the point of losing yourself
how you love so brilliantly the universe can’t contain it
how you dream big and live boldly because we both know you (are) meant for much more than what they tell you to be

And I know you try so hard to be courageous and good and a hell of a woman
but I just want to tell you that you already are.
(In) all the ways that matter, you are.

Sometimes I wish I really could write you into an epic narrative
a heroine in (its) age-old battle between good and evil,
so the strength and loyalty and bravery I see in you can finally live under the (spotlight) where it belongs

But the one reason I can’t bear to let you become a legend
is that my selfish heart still thinks the greatest thing you do is call me your best friend

i have never known how to love halfway
split between the extremities of
gut-wrenching, soul-consuming, burn-the-world-down passion
and tired apathy
and i would either walk to the ends of the world for you
or not even to the end of the street

maybe that's why i hated goldilocks
for continually reminding me that i've never been 'just right' for anybody
a bowl of cold porridge, a chair three sizes too big
someone you settle for but never really want

maybe, you argue, i should learn to stretch myself more evenly
but i seem to have a problem of only seeing things in black and white
(more often than not, i land on black)

the problem is, i spend most of life in retreat
face hidden behind hair, hands pulled under sleeves, soundproof headphones
shuffling down sidewalks to a soundtrack of alternative music on full blast

but when i give my heart away,
it is not release
like gently unlocking a tabernacle to let the blood breathe
it is artpoetrywar
ribcage torn open, red hands, stains on the bathroom floor
clawing out the fire in my chest
just to hand them the universe on a burnt-out matchstick

i can count on one hand the people i love beyond a doubt
and it takes the same fingers to count how many of them deserve more than my ashy soul
still, my body aches for the other ghosts in my life i want to care more about
so i guess i'm finally learning what my math teacher meant when she said two halves make a hole