I am not a number.
I am not an eight hundred, a seven-twenty, a six-fifty –
I am definitely not a five-forty.

I am a girl, a student, an athlete, a daughter,
I am a friend.
I am someone with hopes and dreams, wishes, doubts, and insecurities.

I am afraid.

I know that you will look at me differently,
Judge me by my faults, and the fact that I couldn’t figure out number twelve,
And set direction for my life based on that fact.

I am helpless to the system,
The one that has claimed so many futures, and
The one that tells you you’re not good enough.

I am afraid I’m not good enough.

I drove dad’s Chevy for the first time one morning
In a storm.
His old, blue, dented, beat-up, ninety-seven Chevy,
Worn tires tractionless on wet asphalt,
Raindrops veiling the windshield like the comforter
That keeps me warm and safe during the nights I
Spend at home, thick and grey with a glint of silver, and
Pintucked stitching littering the middle.
The lines on the road, like the seams of the comforter,
Break evenly and cleanly, stretch on forever.
My knuckles, like little snow-capped mountains,
Gripped the steering wheel as I did the covers during a nightmare.
Dad, on the other hand,
Was as calm as the breeze curling around the trees on
Any day but today;
Relaxed as if the forecast were fine as the
Silk of the duvet.

They land on the flowers in the garden, and
The purple petals bend under their weight like
Eyelashes with leftover mascara from last night.
Six legs and antennae dance
From stamen to stamen, a kaleidoscope of
Color, and big, bug eyes stare at me
With the black vacancy of their souls.
They are silent predators (of nectar),
Coming from the sky and touching down on their prey
Like vultures swoop down on carrion.
One comes close to me, advancing overhead
And panic in my blood makes my heart beat
As fast as its wings, going up and down.
I put my hand up, palm glistening,
Trying to protect myself from the terrible insect,
The garden monster;
And at last, deflecting from my waving hands,
The butterfly flutters off into the spring air.

This is a poem about any teenage girl.
When she tries, sometimes she fails,
But most of the time, when she thinks she fails,
She really didn’t.
Even so, when she fails, she cries.
When she cries, she hides it.
When she hides it, she’s pretending.
When she’s pretending, she isn’t being herself.
When she isn’t being herself she becomes one of millions,
Lost in the sea of girls who are only trying to become people that they’re not.
Tossed by waves of propriety, undulating in the tears she keeps to herself and those of others.
She can’t find solid ground to stand on; there’s no way she can stay afloat.
She reaches out her arm to try and grab onto someone, someone she thinks is strong,
Only to find that they are slowly sinking too.

You are so kind to me.
You compliment me and tell me I'm pretty.
That I'm funny and that I'm smart.
You say it didn't work because you did something wrong.
That you were to blame in this unhappy ending.
But really I was just afraid that I wasn't good enough for you.

There is a girl sitting alone.
She isn’t perfect but tries so desperately to be
Because that’s what you are.
She picks herself apart for being who she is
But really, she is just waiting
For you to tell her that she deserves someone as good as you.

I understand.
People may say that makes me just as crazy as you are, but
I understand.

I understand why you need to feel physical pain to match the emotional pain.
I understand that you didn’t know why you were hurting before, but now you do.
I understand that it makes you feel justified in your sadness.

But I don’t understand why you do it
From here it looks like you have it all.
But then again, I also can’t see your scars from here.

I can’t see the scars that score your skin
Like a game of tic-tac-toe, that go
Deep as a river, flowing blood as dark as the circles under my eyes
Because I stay awake at night, thinking of you, and wondering why
I’m not a good enough friend to help you stop.
Asking myself why I’m scared, too.
But not as scared as you.

Why don’t I get lullabies anymore?
Why don’t I get someone to tell me that the world will be alright when I wake up in the morning?
When I finally open my eyes after a sleep littered with unsettling dreams
I see hatred. I see garbage, fighting, sadness, and pain.
Am I dreaming the true reality, or are my dreams just coming true?
Even though when I wake up the world is still spinning,
It’s not turning the way it should.

I hate horror movies.
I hate the way they keep me awake at night, because
I already lose so much sleep thinking about you.
But I’m here now, holding your hand
And it makes it all worthwhile to feel
Your fingertips dance along my knuckles
And your grasp, tight around my hand when you know you want to scream.

I hate horror movies
Because they don’t have happy endings.
Because, even though the beginning starts out great,
By the end everyone is alone, lost, and helpless
Without the life they led before.

I drove dad’s Chevy for the first time one Sunday morning
In a storm.
His old, blue, dented, beat-up, ninety-seven Chevy.
In a storm!
Who would have even let me take control
Of this two-ton machine on a sunny day, when
The raindrops didn’t cover the windshield like a blanket,
And the wipers actually helped to push them aside?
When I couldn’t see my scared reflection in the puddles on the road?
When the worn down tires had traction on the asphalt?
I was going thirteen in a thirty-five, and the
Old woman behind me honked her horn at me
To the tune of a song abundant with cursing.
My heart was beating at the speed of the piston’s pumping,
And my knuckles were white on the wheel
Like little snow-capped mountains.
I was inches from the wheel, and I looked over the windshield
Like a kid at an ice cream store, only
My eyes were not filled with hope for a
Rocky road sundae.
Dad, on the other hand,
Was as calm as the patter of the rain on the sunroof;
Relaxed as the trees in their suburban backyards.
I guess it all goes to show you
How much faith my father has in me.
Or,
How stupid and stubborn he can be sometimes.
But aren’t those really just the same things?

Your hands wrap around my neck
Like a warm knit scarf in Winter.
Your kisses touch my cheek
Like a bee on a flower in the Spring.
Your body touches my skin
Like the suns warm rays in Summer
And you fall for me like I fall for you
Like the leaves in Autumn.

An ocean poured from the sky, its waves crashing onto the
Umbrella, whose pink and purple polka dots lit the dark, cloudy day.
Together, under the umbrella’s
Safe shell, in the midst of the storm,
They wait on the sidewalk.
Deep puddles form around their rain boots,
Large enough to reflect
The boy’s and the girl’s intertwined hands.
Above, rain hammers the roof
Like bags of marbles opened across the floor,
And the wind snakes through the buildings and streets, hissing.
But the boy and the girl stand smiling,
Paying no heed to the rain or the storm clouds
Or the time or the day or the things they have to do.
Only to each other.
Even as the wind quickens, and the rain lashes the air,
And the sky grows darker, and the air cools,
The pink and purple polka dots of the umbrella
Are unmistakable between the wet city buildings.

You walk down the streets of Manhattan, confused.
You don’t know where you’re going, and you have no idea where you came from,
Just that it was a dark and abstract place,
With pictures on the wall that you didn’t understand.

You follow the sidewalks and the cracks in the pavement
Down to the subway and you get on the 6 train.
You don’t even know where the 6 train goes.
But all the same you take it, because it is the only thing in your life that has direction.