I bought some chapstick.

You said to get the kind you use,
So it’ll remind me of you.

In the parking lot,
I unwrapped the tube and spread it on my lips,
Indulging in what felt like you.
The moisture repaired my cracked skin.
A fresh start for my xerosis.

Honey flavored!

I didn’t think twice.

When you called me two days later,
My body froze with your news.
I knew you’d dump me.

Not so sweet after all.

And now I have this ******* chapstick,
Honey flavored, mind you,
That brings me back to a place of a past time.

I use this chapstick everyday,
Hopeful that one day I’ll actually use it all.
What we had will be gone.

Two months have passed,
And I can’t seem to make a dent.

Will you always be around?
At least my lips are always moisturized.

As I moved on,
I watched the parts of you that lingered in me
Completely vanish.

I began to notice,
The chapstick isn’t honey flavored.

It’s scented with hellos,
Flowering bushes,
Springtime summersaults,
And fresh cider.

Every spread of that chapstick tube I use,
A part of you peels away,
Like the dead skin that previously surrounded my lips.

But the more I stare at that golden, honey design on the chapstick,
The more I come to realize that it’s just chapstick.

Nothing else.
No more,
No less.

I’ve saved our letters,
They’re in a box in my closet.

Nothing screams pain more than old words.
Words that meant the world in that moment,
But over time,
Entered into a downward spiral.

I loved how you curled your Y’s,
And oh-so confidently striked through your A’s.
That .38 pen fit you too well.

The floral stamps reminded me of a crowded garden,
One filled with bees, butterflies, and even grasshoppers.
You got those at the Art Museum, I just know it.

An asymmetrical heart sealed the letter,
Instantly ripped in half by my eagerness to read your words.
Did you kiss the heart where the envelope seals, just like I do?

Before flooding myself with your paragraphs,
I delicately brought the parchment to my nose.
Ambrosial, particles of your aroma trapped into the air of the envelope, spread on the parchment.

I am grateful for our endearments that are captured on paper.
No time for reliving, only reminicinsing.

Thank you. So so much.
You will never know how important it was to me.

In today's world, it is quite simple to be caught up in your worth being represented by a numerical value. Let me explain:

I am a nine-digit (quite confidential) numerical value that the government rewarded me with (thank you, Teddy Roosevelt!) from the moment my little feet entered life from my mother’s warm, snuggly inside.
I am a whopping one thousand, two hundred forty as my fingers tear through a solemn envelope sent from the college board, just moments before the envelope and the information enclosed within was shredded in every which direction to approximately one thousand, six hundred pieces.
I am one of two hundred eighty-five people rushing through the ancient, wooden doors at eight fifty-nine on Sunday morning. I am one of two hundred eighty-five people, just another member of the congregation, as I humbly fold my hands together, attempting to wash away all I have done wrong in the past six days.
I am seven as my mother places her comforting hand on my trembling body as she swiftly guides me in the direction of a grim, tense waiting room of a children's neurologist. I am eight as I place my ear up against my blue room, as the thin walls between the rooms try to conceal the hushed voices of my mother and my father discussing medication to treat severe anxiety.
I am a twenty-four as my squeaky sneakers frolic on a slender wooden surface of what we call “home court”. I am an eleven as my coach and I fretfully record my cumulative points during the final moments of the season; his disappointment being reflected by deep breaths every now and then as we are drearily restricted by four grotesque walls that define his productivity.
I am one of ninety-one works of literature that my english teacher manages to read and assign, you guessed it, another value to; the combination of letters and symbols printed on a sheet of paper somehow translates to a number.


I think you get the point. But let me clarify, there’s more to the story:

I am valued for encasing myself in red, white, and blue in early July as the sun begins to hide behind the earth; the chemical reactions of potassium nitrate and sulfur dominate the sky.
I am valued for my worthy efforts put into preparing for a five-hour tedious saturday morning dedicated to staring at a scantron and the backs of people’s heads.
I am valued knowing that I was born to sin (thanks, Adam and Eve), as I was made exceptionally in the image of god.
I am valued for being an anxious person who lovingly worries incessantly about family, friends, the future of females, and my fate.
I am valued as I launch my legs, one in front of the other, down the slick, wooden court to retrieve a lost ball that my teammate didn’t put in effort to catch.
I am valued for my honest, hard-working efforts to produce a conversation on paper between my english teacher and me. Hopefully this does the same.


I am not a value. I am valued.

an ode to my hair
how curly you may be
as gold as the sun
full of tranquility

an ode to my hair
cannot be contained
fuzzy like a rabbit
exploding from the rain

an ode to my hair
always the same length
puffy like a ‘fro
beautiful in strength

you treat me so well
in case you can’t tell

you are the sun to a flower
an elevator to a tower
an umbrella during a shower
a symphony of bells on the hour

your thoughtful actions brings me pleasure
with love like this, it’s kisses we can measure

You shine so bright, almost blinding as I commence my slumber.

Will you apologize for keeping me up? I guess you need more attention than I thought. We’ll hang out through the dusk, I always appreciate company.

Moon, you are so powerful.

Has anyone told you?

No need to hide your powers, let them shine blindingly.

You’re dragging me across the start line,
While I stop to drag you too.

Accountability. Or something like that.

I adore how we romanticize,
Every little thing is a date in disguise.
But it’s our own type of date;
We make the rules and then the spontaneity takes over.
It’s like doing a puzzle without the box,
You know it’s a painting of flowers,
But you’re not quite sure how it all fits.
And secretly, a piece of the puzzle is on the loose.

You just don’t realize how bad you need that missing puzzle piece.
I mean, ****, you don’t even realize it’s missing in the first place.

I digress.

It doesn’t take much to be entertained;
We create beauty through the broken.
Maybe it’s because we’re experienced,
We’ve traveled long, brutal roads to get to where we are now.
Or maybe it’s because we’ve been raised on the ideas of taking advantage of every opportunity,
And keeping a positive attitude through and through.

Or maybe it’s the 2-wing-3 ****. ****.

If our love were put into words, it might contain the following:
A kiss on the forehead,
A song shared through Spotify,
A tight hug before parting ways,
A listen to Familiarity, specifically minute six,
A walk through Beaucatcher Road while picking up trash,
A long scratch on the back,
A discussion about aquarius friends,
An unwarranted FaceTime call,
A warm cuddle puddle,
A beautifully crafted literary story,
A trip to Trader Joe’s,
A grab of the clothing,
A drive to Taco Bell,
An aquarius,
A gemini,
A tangle of arms,
A striped shirt or two,
Two pairs of Blundstone’s,
A peach Bootlegger,
A heart-to-heart on how to inhale,
A migraine,
An 11 A.M. move-in appointment,
A conversation about Gigi,
A set of laced fingers connected by a sweaty palm and a dry palm.

But words don’t do justice,
And you know it more than I do.

But sometimes words can be handy dandy.
With words,
I can say that the puzzle piece happens to be under the kitchen rug near the table,
And it goes near the top right corner,
Next to the mini hydrangea.

You found the missing piece.
What you needed all along
Was right under your belt,
Unknowingly.

And just like that,
The puzzle is complete.

And it’s beautiful, to say the least.
Or so it has to be,
It’s a painting of flowers!

I love you forever,
More than you know,
And more than you’ll ever know.

Smooches!

sunday’s
oh how you destroy my sanity
please leave me alone, let me be

sunday’s
religiously, i should be in love with you
but i can’t, you have me stuck feeling blue

sunday’s
the to-do list continuously grows
you are the worst, and everybody knows

At the end of time,
I will rest.
Mother Nature will swallow me,
And lay my body down.

My mind frolicks through an empty field,
One filled with tall blades of grass and abundant soil,
Wondering if now is the time.

Should I rest early?

I glance down at my toes,
The same ones that ground me to the Earth.
The soil feels too cool against my sun-pressed skin.

Not now, not now.

One day I will have my time.
But for now, I stay afloat.