I have a question.
When you see your reflection
in my eyes,
do you see yourself
as you see yourself?
Or do you see yourself
as I see you?
Either way,
please stay so that I can
figure out my answer
to the same question.

My head is a picture book novel.
   The words and images my mind’s
   camera collects every day
   have been shaping me
   since I’ve been very small,
   so that I use phrases from books
   I read when I was three,  
   and I cry at songs
   that are meant to be happy.
   My actions are reactions
   I’ve learned to use
   from watching my parents talk
   on the phone
   or from a clip of a movie
   I scrolled past while surfing channels,
   or hearing lyrics on the radio
   that tried to make a point.
My head is a picture book novel,
but sometimes, even I skim
past the words.

My heart is a palette of colours.
   Every person I’ve come across
   has made their mark -
   be it the sloppy spattering of indigo
   from the girl I bumped into in the hall,
   or the delicate transition
   from amber to scarlet
   from him with his uneven smile.
   I’d like to think that
   I leave everyone’s heart
   more beautiful than I found it,
   but I know that that’s not true.
   I know that sometimes
   I forget to apologize,
   so I never remove the stains
   of grey and charcoal
   that I perhaps didn’t accidentally leave.
   Maybe in my quest to be a
   better person, I should try
   to remember to paint over
   work I wouldn’t want myself
   to be remembered by.
My heart is a palette of colours.
But right now, I wouldn’t
hang myself on a wall.

There is a time
and place
for everything.

You may not
feel like
the top of
a mountain now,
but that is
alright.
You can feel
   like the dried line
   on the inside
   of your coffee cup.
You can feel
   like the leftover
   crumbs
   on the floor.
You can even feel
   like the rain must feel
   on a day
   the world wants sun,
but do not reduce yourself
   to the cobwebs
   in the corners
because you feel so.

For even if you don’t feel like
   the first ray
   of sunshine
   in the morning,
or feel like
   the comfiest cushion
   on your mum’s
   couch,
or even feel like
   your favourite character
   from your
   favourite book,
remember that
you would not know
   happiness
if you did not know
   sadness.

There is a time
and place
for everything.
Do not worry if your’s
is not now.

Count the times
that you feel fine,
and hang them on
a long wire line,
and hang that wire
above your bed
right above
your resting head,
and watch those
memories you keep
help you calm
yourself to sleep,
and remind you
when your day’s not bright
that your world is filled
with small bright lights.

The world is not a paper crane.
It’s soggy streets
and pouring rain,
rapping dreary melodies
on your window pane.
It’s side roads
and alley ways,
numb fingers
ripping sellotape
trying to put together broken things.
The world is not a paper crane.
But it’s the smell of grass
on sunny days
and matching china
cups and plates.
It’s warm blankets
round the fire place,
eagles souring
through the great escape
the day it finds its wings.

I’m collecting memories
Every time the noon bell rings,
I stop to see who’s listening.
Perhaps the melody is nostalgia
for them as well.

I’m collecting memories.
There is a boy who
cannot see who crosses the road
at nine forty seven every morning.
He trusts strangers better
than I ever will.

I’m collecting memories.*
Sometimes I am sitting in a room
with the people I call my friends
when they laugh at a joke
I don’t understand.
That doesn’t mean they love me
any less.

I’m collecting memories.
You occasionally push
your hair off of your face,
and I don’t know why
it makes me melt.

I’m collecting memories.
The other night, I looked up
and was startled. I forgot
that there were so many stars.
I wanted to lie down on the pavement
and look up until I fell asleep.

I’m collecting memories
It’s very lovely to watch
two people smile at each other.
It reminds me that
things will be okay.

They say it’s beautiful
   this sadness that she keeps
but she thinks about it,
   and that can’t be true.
They want to paint her.
   They want to write wordy poems
about her canvas coloured
   a thousand shades of blue.
They call her the sea.
   They call her a storm.
They try to wrap her up
   in neat metaphors.
And they feel so sorry for her,
   yet they spend long nights
wishing it was them
   who everyone adored.
She spends the time counting
   minutes left in the hour.
They spend the time counting
   the rungs of the scarlet ladders on her wrists.
They write stories about
   the golden boys who come and save her
The boys she wished
   she never kissed.
And they applaud
   the times she really laughs.
And she hates the way
   that tastes -
like a spoiled, sour reminder
   in the back of her throat
telling the world she
   was sick in the first place.
And they say it’s beautiful
   the sadness she’s drowning in
and they’d rather write stories about it
   than throw her a rope.
And all she can think about
   is how ugly it all is
as she fights to keep from sinking
   and tries not to choke.