Too skinny
to be a tree
too fat
for grass
grows fast
yet creaks
at every wind

The bird
burdened
by a beak
full of borrowed
bites
of a little bit
of everything.

Its a funny thing to think
that there's no one in this world
that knows everything about me,
especially no one in this home.
And then I realize that maybe
that's why I'm so **** good
at being alone.
I'm perfectly cut out
for this life of isolation you see,
because I'm tired of coming home
and finding little pieces of everyone else
clinging to me.
Being altered might be too much to pay.
I don't want to look like her
or talk like her
or think like her
and why the hell
did I just say the word "cray"?
Truth is
no one knows
everything I've ever thought,
everything I seem to be
but I'm actually not.
No one knows
that I despise the word hipster
or that I felt bad
hooking up with him
when I'd rather been
kissing his sister.
No one knows
that I stay up late writing poetry,
that if it was up to me
I'd be far away from here
with nothing
but a backpack
a bucket list
and my fear
of not having the chance
to do absolutely everything.
Nobody knows
how many times I've stepped on cracks in the sidewalk
or how often I get writers block
or how particular I am about my clothes.
Yeah it's kind of funny
how much nobody knows.

I'm the Nat Geo reader
the Facebook creeper
the go- to- sleep- later
the fake ***** hater.
I'm the question asker
the things- I'll- never- use- again stasher
the big stomach eater
and natural leader.
I'm the girl with the
small eyes and big hands.
And why would God
give a girl
with so much to see
and no one to hold
small eyes and big hands,
can you tell me?
God is laughing you see.
He's saying Child..
I knew you'd be a
seer- to- believer
a mental image taker- not- leaver
so I gave you small
thirsty eyes
and big hands too,
because you're usually a pusher
and bigger hands would
make you that much more likely
to hold things close to you.
So my squinty eyes can see
that my big hands push me
to pull things close.
And I completely forget their size
when I thank God
for a mighty fine pair
of hands and eyes.

Let me tell you about this boy
my cuddle buddy
best friend
lover toy.
My hand warmer
jacket lender
mix tape maker
park walk partner
parent pleaser
calls me his sunshine
guy.
Yeah real sly...
when he nonchalantly
sends that piece of hair
back behind my ear
he leans in enough
to rupture this forcefield
I have built around myself.
He smells like stargazing
and it's hard for me to imagine
that I've ever understood
the concept of walls and ceilings
because I suddenly doubt there'd be space
within them for me and these feelings
because somewhere up above
me and this boy's hands
were crafted to hold only each others'.
The trees know
and the rocks know
and the "no trespassing" cops know
to let us be
in our own little puddle of moonlight
in a world with so many potholes
we are just tadpoles
not sure what the future brings
but willing to keep on swimming
because we'd heard that God
had promised us wings.
Yes this boy will put an end to the dark days
reinvent my concept of time
to where my heartbeats mark the seconds
but until that moment arrives
I'll keep looking for the boy
with the hands that only
fit mine.

I knew from the first day
that this boy
the one with the bright eyes
and crooked smile
yeah I'd be thinking
about him
for a while
I'm sorry this isn't
what you want to hear
that I've been gawking
all year
from across the room
and when I speak to him
I let his words
fall upon me
like the sweetest perfume
my mind six months
ahead of our small talk
as I picture him asking
me to go for a walk
so I apologize
for the fizz
that escapes my lips
when you inform me
"Yo. I have dibs."

I feel for all the sisters
of imperfect brothers.
When the one who's
supposed to be your hero
turns out like any other.
Not that I blame you for anything.
I'm sure all you did
made sense in your head,
at the time.
Just like it made sense in mine
to me
that time in D.C.
when I hit you upside the head
with an etch-a-sketch.
And I bet it never occurred
to you then
that eventually
I wouldn't be able to count
on my fingers and toes
the number of times
you drove your baby sister
while buzzed or ******.
And I guess I feel
that I have something to prove
because I've written three poems in my life
and they're all about you.