i live for words,
for that single intense moment where i get to step into someone else's skin and see from their perspective.

i live for moments.
like the way my little sister looks at the world,  
her eyes seeking out every possible thing on this planet that she was so recently introduced to, wanting to know everything about everything but not knowing how to ask just yet.

i live for emotions.
i live for the lovely chill that runs through my body when i read an empowering passage.
i live for that single coveted feeling of satisfaction when i achieve something,
even that coveted moment of contentment even when i haven't achieved anything.
I live for sparks of hope.
even when sometimes it seems like there's none.

i'm living for right now.

I was six and it lived in the loneliness I felt when my parents left for work.
I turned eight and it wore the face of my mother when she was told that the baby had miscarried.
when I was ten, I saw it move into me like a family into an empty house. it was the old paint under the new, the rearranged furniture, the dust settling on the bed.
at 12 it started to creep up on me. it was in my circle of friends, waiting to seek me out. it was in the teacher who had a white tan line where a wedding band used to glimmer, who both spoke and graded harshly.
at 13 it exploded into my head like lightning. it was a blank numbness that swallowed me completely, engulfed me and embraced me at the same time, without me ever realizing it. it was the moon-soaked sheets that I wrapped myself in at 12 am, after staying home from school for the 5th consecutive day.
at 15 it is my best friend with her puffy black hair, having a panic attack inside her english classroom. it's the way she pushes herself to the edge of her limits. it's me, and it's her, and it's living in the bursting chests of most of the people I know.
at 16 it is the face of my grandma who never went out and never learned English and never did the things she said she wanted to do. it's in my friend's voice when he says, "she doesn't look depressed. how could I have known?"
            and I want to tell him that depression doesn't ever look the same for anyone. it creeps up on people in such a sly way, inhabiting the hollow bones of the people who have lived it. it's clever. it knows how to hide.
            depression is something not everyone knows how to love.
it lives inside me, and gives me as much life as it takes away.

every day she rewrote her life story,
                                           better every time.

as i sit on the sunbaked bricks
             my mind wanders back to what you said.
"you're rude,you haven't changed, nobody likes you, you are insignificant,
                              you are nothing."
             It's not true. It can't be.
    If i am nothing, why do i hear the applause of hundreds of crisp leaves in the wind?
             are they clapping for me? or am i nothing?
    If i am nothing, why do i feel the gentle wind caressing my face?
             is it touching me? or am i nothing?
    If i am nothing, why do i hear the birds crooning sweet symphonies?
             are they singing for me? or am i nothing?
    Is the gray cloudy sky crying heavy tears for me?

                  Or am i nothing?

did you know haikus
don't always have to make sense?
hippopotamus.

The ones we trusted the most
                       pushed us far away.

Because they were cowards to the New York cold,
where raggedy excuses for trees reached out their spindly  branches,
sharing the same skinny neck and sharp elbows as my mother.
While snow sprinkled the drab cement, harbingers of more cold to come,
My parents retreated as far south as they could.
Don't get me wrong.
New York is a place of inspiration, blinding lights and lovely nights.
Though we're in the warm haven of Houston,
where summer is an oven and winter brings gentle breezes,
although the trees here stand broad, confident, and forever green,
My parents will never forget the frigid, bitter chills of New York.

the sun peaked in the sky, shining with authority after having chased the clouds away.
    "Beautiful weather today," you exclaim.
but what's so beautiful about the same boring radiant sun?
                                                     the same old blue sky?
I'll tell you what's beautiful.
the howling winds of a winter storm, and the rising growl of thunder
    are like music to my ears.
the shimmering threads of lightning weaving themselves across the sky
are what i dream about every night.
the soft sheets of rain soak me to my bones.
           I shiver with delight.
Even my eyes can't completely grasp
       the tragic beauty of a brewing storm.