My mouth still lingers with the flavor of cigarettes
and all I can taste is you.

My hair still is brisk and musky like the woods
and all I can smell is you.

My eyes still burn from the cold on that late winter day
and all I can see is you.

My skin still itches from the wool scarf you gave to me
and all I can feel is you.

My ears still ring from the song you wrote
and all I can hear is you.

My mind still sits in awe of the way you are
and all I can think about is you.

Perception is something of wonder.
      I see black and she sees pink.
                                 She feels warm and I feel empty.
Not necessarily opposite.                                            
                                                 Not necessarily similar.
An offset of brainwaves and past events.
      Might as well be fire and skin.
                    Might as well be the start to my half way.
Because life is not different.
                                                  Because life is not close.
Perception is a thing of infinity.
And there is nothing to do about it.

It is and isn't my fault of who I act.
There are two sides of me that contrast.
One of me is calm and steady
Who I like to act.
The other is scattered and obnoxious.
This is the contrast.

The collected me is weak and sometimes numb.
It's a matter of chemicals, you see, that makes me dumb.
I know you don't like the person you have watched me become.
But understand, this is the contrast.

It isn't my intention to be like this, I swear.
These chemical sacks in my head sometimes scatter everywhere.
I promise I get better in time during this affair.
Please! For the love of all things, know this is the contrast.

I am a lot of two people I don't understand.
It might have been best if I were more bland.
Having me with you I know can get out of hand.
Sweetie, the doctors say I can't be helped, see this is the contrast!

It is and isn't my fault of who I act.
There are two sides of me that contrast.
One of me is calm and steady
Who I like to act.
The other is scattered and obnoxious.
*This is the contrast.

You answered just a little too fast.
It surprised me.
I haven't seen you in about a year,
And I am realizing I've missed you.
It surprised me.
The last time I saw you,
And the time before that,
You were intoxicated.
It surprised me.
I haven't seen you in about a year,
And I am realizing what you are to me.
It surprised me.
You are a dress without hems or seams.
I hardly know you but you are beautiful.
You are the bullet in the rotating cylinder of the gun to my head.
You dig through my skull and explode my amygdala.
And force me to love you.
You are the jam in the barrel as I pull the trigger.
I fell to the ground in realization:
You both killed me and saved me.
It surprised me.

According to my mom and dad, when I was little, I used to say that I wanted to be a garbage truck driver. Yeah, I know — literally dumping trash and pumping gas isn’t something a typical four-year-old girl wishes to grow up to do. It impressed me how the men rode, clinging onto the back end of the truck, pushing buttons to crush the unwanted goods to dust. Although I am sure it would have been more appropriate for a young lady to look up to Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty, I looked up to those men because they appeared fearless and strong. I never really liked the “girly” things my parents and sisters gave to me. In fact, when Barbie smiled at me through a plastic window, I took her out, tore her head off and threw her body to the dog. I should have loved the color pink and liked the smell of daisies; I didn’t. I was ridiculed for hating both and told I shouldn’t be so different.
When I turned six, my grandpa gave me a book about prehistoric beasts. I couldn’t read well, but I liked the pictures and the long words with plenty of strange letter combinations. Words like “pterodactyl” and “brachytrachelopan” fascinated me, and made me feel exceptionally intellectual just to know how to pronounce them (even if I did so poorly).  When asked, I proudly responded, “I want to be a paleontologist when I grow up!” Adults praised me for being so intelligent at such a young age, and I felt special. But one day, I learned that bone diggers don’t make much money. So, I changed for a few extra thousand dollars a year.
By the age of eight, I decided I wanted to become a veterinarian because that’s what my best friend wanted to be. She loved animals and said we should help them because they can’t help themselves. I took a bite of the pie graph, “Occupations Wanted By Children.” It tasted bland and watered down but it made me normal to want that for myself—even if it wasn’t my own dream. My friends and I babbled about having every species imaginable for pets and loving them more than Romeo loved Juliet. But when my mom told me that I might have to  euthanize animals, the pie tasted a lot more ****** going down. I decided I should search for another job.
Around twelve, I started writing a journal. I named it “Joyful” because that’s what I felt the best emotion was and wrote in it occasionally during my sixth grade year. The pages were cluttered with names of boys I had crushes on and i’s dotted with hearts. I modeled my naivety through my entries but it was motivating how I could see my style and thoughts developing over time. My entries went from “I love the sky!” to “When a cloud drifts just in the right position next to the sun and makes that golden ray, I feel as if God’s finger is pointing down to a specific thing he created and saying to us on Earth, ‘Hey, see that thing over there? Yeah, I made that and it’s beautiful. It deserves respect.’”  I have smashed windows in the writing process and let in drafts of fresh ink. I am aware that being a writer in most cases makes a person financially deprived, but that won‘t affect my aspirations. Writing has been my dream since sixth grade and even now I know I’m not perfect but at least I’m pushing myself to be better. I’m changing for me.
No matter how adamantly I’ve tried or how much I realize that writing is sometimes harder than brain surgery, I don’t seem to slice it out of my life. Societal success is measured in dollars but if dreams had monetary value and salary was how badly a person wanted to make that dream come true, I would be paid more green than the Earth has blades of grass. I shouldn’t have to explain to people why I don’t want to be a garbage man or a paleontologist or a veterinarian, or why I don’t want to live by their popular choices. For all I know, I could be the best waste manager that ever had the pleasure to take away last week’s paper. I could strike it rich by discovering a billion-year-old algae. I might save the next Lassie or Winn Dixie. It isn’t up to other people to decide what I want to be when I grow up (if I ever decide to). Instead, I’ll write in spite of everyone else — for the ones that didn’t follow their dreams and strived for physical wealth. If I am to be paid in blades of grass, I will live. And I will die knowing I am one of the few to see a such a gorgeous, glistening, green meadow.

People
          Always think
          Everyone can be fixed
          But in the light of things,
          There
Are
          Secrets
People
          Hide in places darker than the night
          Because even the night has stars.
          And
Stars,
          No matter how bright,
          Still have a glisten.
          And people,
          No matter how strong,
          Still
can be weak.
          But even though stars shine
And
          People are frail,
We
          Still compare stars to people because
all
          people glisten and all stars
die.