I don't know if I'm more afraid of the future or the past.
I don't capitalize "I" if I'm feeling low.
When I call myself the ocean,
it means I'm crying.
Half my phrases are made up
about things I see
but don't understand.
I'm a jungle-gym.
Thoughts climb me
pull out my hair
Nestle in my ear drum
Sing until my fair skin
shines in snow.
I don't know why you still matter.
Why gravity hasn't taken you
smashed you on the side of its bowl
mixed, poured
served you to your mother.
I don't know why
I still know what your door
sounds like when its opened
or slammed shut.
I'm scared because I couldn't handle it last year.
I'm scared because
the Christmas tree in the school's court yard
looks just like the one from my hospital window
I'm scared that you're dying.
I'm scared that I lost so many
that I dyed my hair purple
and yet you still don't see me.
I'm scared because September
lives in Seattle
and he's the only one okay with
me not shaving my legs.
You see,
it feels as though
everything is miles away
I've never been a runner
and I don't know how to drive a car
I don't know how I'll get there.
I'm afraid of trust.
I'm afraid to trust myself.
What if tall windows aren't enough?
Will the library be big enough to hide in?
Will my favorite color stay green?
What if I lose myself?

What if I don't go to India?