The guitar was strummed
deftly; fingers moving
carefully yet effortlessly
across the instrument's
smooth, wooden neck,
creating a soft and splendid melody.

We stared at the musician as he
lay on the white-tiled floor, enraptured--
we unknowingly formed a circle around him,
as if he were the sun and we were
the planets revolving incessantly around his pull.

Then the thunder outside joined in,
invisible drums pounded by an invisible drummer,
making our melody louder, stronger.
A downpour followed, drenching the dark night
in streams and puddles; all the while
adding the quickened pace of maracas
to our song.

The makeshift band played in harmony,
the audience watched in dazzled awe--
and suddenly the lightning came,
capturing this incredible moment
with the flash of a camera.

Homemade posters line the walls
of my basement—
white computer paper dominated by
once-vibrant crayon scribbles
and once-funny inside jokes
now faded and stupid
with the years of neglect.

The posters used to be
the only thing hanging
over my head. But
I’ve outgrown them;
torn each one down with
quick, decisive tugs
and replaced them…

I should be used to this by now--

I've been left so many times
in the past,
it's no wonder that
my right hand is inferior.

I never liked Goodbyes;
I'm more of a
"see ya later"
type of person,
because it holds the
(empty) promise
of future reunion.

"Goodbye" is foreign
on my tongue. I've
said it my
fair share of times,
each one being
harder than the last.

This Goodbye will be
the most difficult of them all, which
is why I cannot will myself
to say it;
to have those
two dreaded syllables
leave my lips
and enter the air,
making your departure
from my life
real.

I don't want you to go,
but I know that
I'm weighing you down
instead of boosting you up;
holding you back
instead of pushing you forward.

So here we are, and
I'm about to say it, and
the word is living in the back of my throat and
about to exit my mouth and--

I stop.

And "see ya later" comes out instead.

Because I'm not ready
to give you up just yet.

The routine started, and
the world around me stopped.

Intricate arm and legwork
carefully layered to create a
smooth rhythm. She moved
in time with the music,
she was the music;
her body a vital instrument
for this Dream Girls song.

She was a vision--
captivating,
liberating,
invigorating--

my head spun
with every pirouette;
heart leapt
with her graceful jumps.

A great love radiated
from her entire being.
I saw it in her eyes as she danced.

I felt it in my heart as she danced.

I'm walking out of
the Nordstrom Rack store,
sky as dark as the
asphalt of the parking lot
under my sneakers. I'm
not wearing a jacket even though
the Weather App said it feels like
twelve degrees Fahrenheit outside.

But I'm not that cold--
my hands are still warm
from the laborious inventory work
I wound up excelling at.

I can't say I'm surprised, though.
I was born and raised
on hard work; knew it
before I knew my ABCs.

My thumbs are a deep pink,
angered from picking up
shoe after shoe after shoe
for nearly five hours. Deep
grooves and torn skin
accent the pink hue.

As I stare at my
worn-out fingers,
I can't help but wonder
if this is what I'll
end up doing with my life...

Am I meant to
follow the career path
laid down for me
by my family? Will I one day
inherit my father's tough,
callused hands; or his father's
overworked knees--
all from pushing my body
to its limits just to
barely make it by?

A, B, C, D--
will I eventually fulfill
A Blue Collar Destiny?

I'm sorry my clothes
smell like cigarettes
even though they're
newly washed;
I don't smoke, I promise--
I don't do my own laundry
when I'm at home

And I hate that
I am now familiar
with the disgusting,
skunky odor of ****
even though I've never
seen a blunt with my own eyes

But yet I still know
how it feels to be addicted--
not to a drug, to a person--
the effects are just the same.

It's like I need you to be
whole; a part of me is
missing when you're
not near--and God,
it hurts sometimes!

The anxious jitters
overcome me, eyes
cold and unnerving,
thoughts more
and more
convoluted
by the minute.

No, I've never smoked,
but that doesn't mean
I'm unaffected.

Secondhand smoke
has the power
to ****, too, you know...

I should be studying,
since I have my first formal final
in three days, but I
have too much on my mind right now.

It's probably due in part to
procrastination, but these
thoughts have been
swirling around my head for
awhile, impatiently waiting
to be flushed out.

I often look back at
old photos, old memories--
comparing my old self to
who I am now.

The obvious changes grab me first:
watching the multi-colored braces
disappear; followed shortly by
that stubborn baby fat; the
gradual transition from
softball bats to tennis rackets.

Only recently have I noticed
the evolution of a smile.
It's difficult to explain, really,
but the difference is definitely there.

The younger smiles are...less...
burdened, for lack of better words--
less weighed down. Now I'm
not saying that
smiles become less
radiant and genuine
as we get older,

I'm just trying to point out
that the innocence is gone--
it's as if our smiles
sport our scars too;
as if our lips are saying
"This is what the real world
has turned us into."