A baby born after tomato seeds
Were sown in the earth
I’ve known from early on
That loss occurs
As I lost a pet, a friend,
My family’s unity.
I’ll return home from Value Village—
Not where I need to shop, but where I choose—
With bags,
And bags,
And bags
Of my own personal flair.
The feeling of glee have I felt.
When dancing in the rain
Giggling,
Singing,
Carefree,
Side by side with my sister.
My friend.
I’ve been labeled as serious—which I am—
Though more important to me
Is my full enjoyment of time.
My nerves have humbled me,
And brought me back to Earth.
(Contrary to my ego’s belief,
My voice is no angel’s.)
Sincerely I can tell you
That I am not perfect.
I think too much.
My unruly emotions tend to dictate my life.
I once spent all of Thanksgiving break staring at the television.
Once I flung cake at my father.
And once I traveled to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter, to live in my imagination.
If only for a day or two.
Twice I have had hot cocoa explode in the microwave.
Twice I have stumbled and sprawled up the stairs.
Twice discovered bobby pins tangled in my hair.
You see, I’ve got a ring representing my heritage
On a chain
Around my neck
And learning how to adapt is like second nature
To me.
I have plenty of experience in severing ties. But please
Please do not make me repeat.
If ever you tried to number
The tea mugs I have sipped,
I would wish you good luck,
For they are many.
I long to see bustling cities,
Rolling hills,
Diversity and
Unique people;
To experience
The WORLD.
The guitarist of The Script once
Winked
At ME
I call him Baldie.
I remember that sort of excited yet unsure tension I felt
When I stood hand in hand with the person I loved.
It’s tucked away; I’ll lose myself in it sometimes,
Even now.
Things do scare me though.
I am scared of loss.
I’m scared of being
Forgotten
Of not mattering
Of my emotions getting
The
Best
Of
Me.
And I put milk in my tea this morning.
The morning before,
Too.
I am what you call ordinary,
But only at times,
Because lightning once struck the grass
Twenty feet away.
Here’s a secret:
I cry over politics.
The possibility of not having the future
That could be
Terrifies me.
You know, even now
I can smell
The rain crisply cutting through
Summer’s grime.
Weak baby bunnies I have held in my hand.
Only a
Week
Old.
Felt their nibble,
Their trembling whiskers;
Light
As the wind behind faerie wings.
I’ve spent a birthday in Ireland.
Witnessed the foggy haze.
Had the chill nip my nose in the bracing wind.
And I’ve spent drizzly days at the library.
Breathing the scent of musty bindings,
Ancient ink,
And smelling the stories
That waft through the air.
Sitting in front of my wood fireplace
I’ve poured over pages with rain beating on the roof.
I can still smell it now.
The fire.
The rain.
It smells like sweaters and of sleep
Of warmth and of welcoming
Like Home.