i don't miss her per se
not really-
not the way she stirred her coffee counter-clockwise
or how she spoke my name
ever so softly
like a secret
no one else could hold

i miss the feeling
of her-
that imagined life
woven in between shared glances
and almosts
the home i built
in her soft
gummy smile
before i saw the cracks

i miss what never even happened
the parallel version of us
the ones who stayed.
is that still missing her?
or just missing
being wanted
by someone
who never really could?

my ache has no address
no home
yet it answers
to her name
every time
like it's all i know
like she's all i know

i hated poetry
always dreaded it-
writing it
and reading it
i thought it was just word *****
but made pretty
with italics,
because it never made sense.

then i turned fourteen,
got a job,
lost friends,
lost family members,
grades dropped,
everything shifted.
i started listening to spoken word on spotify-
to quiet my brain
for a minute or two

but i understood them
maybe it was maturing...
or just... feeling more?
all i know is-
my brain flipped a switch
now i write
now i enjoy it.

i don't know why i ever hated
something this honest
something this messy
this beautiful.

it’s funny how people grow apart —
one day you’re laughing,
the next,
you’re not texting
or calling
or sending dumb memes

a girl i used to know
stopped calling one day
sent a birthday text —
like a ghost with good manners
i haven’t seen her in months,
she’s an old friend.

maybe it’s just the cycle of things.
maybe we’ll find our way back.
but that doesn’t make it hurt
any less.

the moon is a whisper
on my bedroom wall,
she's ten times louder in my head

her name is a tide
it pulls,
it tugs,
it etches itself
on the inside of my eyelids.

every blink is a memory i didn't ask for
her laugh-
uninvited
but welcome
always

the bed is too big
for one body and this much longing
some nights
sleep forgets me
other nights
she replaces it

she laughs into her girlfriend's shoulder
but watches me like a secret
like she's holding her breath-
a sigh of relief
in the shape of something new
and i see it-
the way her smile trembles
when our eyes catch,
like she's just met a truth
she wasn't looking for,
as she turns back to her girlfriend
the girl
who isn't me.

we never speak
just glance
across italian class
across the corridor
across everything we don't say

she sits beside.. him
laughing loudly as he kisses her cheek
but her eyes flick
they always do
to me.
the girl sitting alone
head in a book

we trade seconds
like stolen notes
neither is brave enough
to unfold
to admit
and maybe in some other version of today
those glances would have been hands

to be a teenager is to be in those social media group chats
to be a teenager is to know the hot goss, to know everyone's life
to be a teenager is to gush over boys and giggle when they look at you
to be a teenager is to be reckless, and funny, and happy
it's a social norm
it's known that if you don't do any of that, you're left out

so no, I'm not in the group chat with the funny name
no, i don't know the hot goss on jenny and tyler
no, I don't like any boys — i'm trying to figure out my sexuality
no, i don't like to be reckless, i'm not funny and...
i'm not happy
but maybe being a teenager isn't just that-
maybe it's the quiet, chaotic, messy in-betweens
maybe it's the questions with no answers yet
maybe it's the becoming, not the being
.....right?