I’m scared I’ll never make anything,
Never do anything,
Never be anything.

I’m scared no one will be able to feel all the love my heart keeps a secret.
(Have I even loved enough?)

I’m scared no one will be able to see the determination in my eyes.
(Have I even strived enough?)

I’m scared no one will hear me as I pour myself dry.
(Have I even poured enough?)

I’m scared all that will be left of me in this world is a question mark.
(Will it ever be enough?)

I’m scared.
(?)

You’re hard to capture.

I cannot hold the depths of your soul in the palm of my hand without losing sight of your smile or the way your love lives in your eyes. You change too fast for me to put it all down on paper, and I feel like every conversation turns you into a new person, a more radiant person. I will continue to chase my tail in infinite circles as I try to put you down on paper. I will record my observations of how pretty your hair looks after it’s been jumbled while you sleep or how my clothes look more comfortable when they’re draped over your skin. I will scribble little love poems on the backs of receipts and in the palm of your hand, trying to tell you how lucky I feel to steal some of your time. But, none of these things feel like enough.

You’re too hard to capture.

It’s a beautiful experience to try and capture you anyways.

Flying off swing sets, glimpses of sunsets, blades of grass floating in the air.
Snowflakes on my tongue, so much to become, dreams as big as a triple-dog-dare.
Chasing after leaves like a dog chases bees - relentlessly and rightfully fun.
Broken arms, not broken hearts, with band-aids to fix all my wounds.
Sadness existed solely in silence or when I was sent to timeout.
I didn’t yet bear the weight of the world. My bare arms were too busy living.
Surviving off smiles and makeshift mud pies, my backyard bakery was thriving.

I think back on that time when the whole world was mine. I wonder where I went since then.
That little blonde girl with the ribbons and curls doesn’t recognize herself anymore.
My old friends are gone, they simply moved on. I guess I had to move on too.
Monsters and demons crawled from under my bed, into my head.
And sticks and stones couldn’t touch my bones. My words were all that could hurt me.
My arms are now scarred from when life was too hard. They’re not bare anymore.
I’m more and more scared, I wasn’t prepared for my dreams to disappear.
It’s hard to have dreams when you struggle to sleep. I wish I could sleep through the night.
I wish I could see through the eyes of what used to be.

Why is the world so different than it seemed?
I’m ripped at the seams.
I can hear the screams.
From the little girl who had dreams drowned in the world.

Golden hour kisses your cheek.
I have never been more thankful for the sun.
The world passes by, and we let it.
Our moment is my favorite one.

If this life is a meteor, there’s no harm in simply watching the beauty fly by while it lasts.

Even if it burns?
...
Especially if it burns.

I’m not asking for much.
Just everything.

I want the light to shine through, and the darkness to settle
(but only when it needs to).
I want to soak up the sun, even if it burns.
I want to dance in the rain, even if the droplets come from tears.
I want beautiful sunsets, laughter with friends, cuddles on a cold night.
I want to learn to dance and trip on toes.
I want snowmen and hot chocolate with marshmallows melting next to a cackling fire.
I want heartbreak and thunderstorms and paper cuts and short breaths.
I want butterflies and butter pie and authentic love, like everyone else. 
I want to feel the rush of air in my lungs when the first taste of fall interjects itself into the summer air.
I want to hear the birds awaken like dominos falling in the trees when the sun rises and I haven’t slept a wink.
I want to feel my heart rest when it has found the right words to say.

I’m not asking for much.
Just everything.

Everything everyone deserves.
Everything life can extend to us.
Everything that makes me feel alive — makes me feel a life beating beneath the surface of my skin.

I’m not asking for much.
Just everything —
The good, the bad, the beautiful, the human.

Everything.

Lift me up from beneath the stars, and I’ll help you reach the moon.
That’s where dreams go to dance; where they’ll act like they’re just out of reach.

But they’re not.

They may live in the constellations, but they were meant to travel with you.
You just have to show them you care.

You have to chase them.
Embrace them.
Fall in love with them.
Then, when your dream falls in love with you, it will follow you home.

Don’t settle for anything less than something that was born in the sky.

The breeze flutters by like a secret.
The sun warms me up with a hug.
The birds serenade my existence.
The world wants to show me I’m loved.

The trees oversee my protection,
While the clouds perform in the sky.
I feel safe in the arms of this moment.
I don’t want this peace to pass by.

There is a lot to be heard in this stillness,
For its beauty is speaking out loud.
I listen to the whispers of wind which say,
“You are loved by the creator of the clouds.”

All the world is tucked in under the same sky, but we all have our own private view of the stars.

I want you to feel like a mountain, like you’ve been molded for millions of years,
Faulting and bending and building to become as you appear:
Strong and towering and brave, always rising toward the sun,
Certain of your movements, determined to become someone.

I want you to feel like a river, overflowing with life and with love,
Rushing and curving and spilling to cover us all with your flood -
Nomadic and adventurous and free-spirited, never ceasing to explore the world,
The river of life and of love flows from the heart of a girl.

I want you to feel like a forest, growing up from your roots and your seeds,
Spreading and falling and flourishing, a life-force that helps us to breathe,
Layered and vibrant and plentiful, rising up when you’re given a chance,
Your branches extend out toward others, and you stand firm in your wind-woven dance.

I want you to feel like a wonder, I want you to feel like a sight,
Embedded in all that I see and experience, joining me on this journey through life,
You’re worthy and natural and life-giving, astonishing all who meet you,
You’re as beautiful as the world out there, and I’m stopping to enjoy the view.

Saint Patrick’s Day tasted green, like cold
beer after bottomless beer. I was searching for a way
to the end. Plucked shamrocks faded to a broken
gray. They called me dead with only enough color
to float my folded body to the beds of McLean.
I was too cold and too blue to sleep that night.

The morning arrived disguised in perpetual midnight.
Threadbare blankets and gowns barely covered my cold
shadow. I was forced to a breakfast line. Shaylyn
told me it tasted better than it looked. She hated the way
the staff sent sorry-smiles over gray slop. I quickly saw the color
of the pity they served me, and I started breaking

out in cold sweats. We were a broken
people in a place made to hold us. That night,
they served Sloppy Joes, and they gave me a paper lion to color.
I called it "killing time in place of myself." They called it "protection from the cold."
White cinder blocks kept us confined. Reaching level 2 was a highway
to fresh air, fresh faces, and our stolen shoelaces. Mom

visited me from 1 to 3 and 6 to 8. We paced the ward, and sometimes George
(from room 309) followed behind. It seemed he was trying to break
even. Too much lost, not enough gained. He begged us to take him far away.
We apologized in smiles. There are too many bleeding arms in this black night.
I covered my existing wounds, feeling my way by the cold
trails of open veins. We never acknowledged that the color

of the scars won’t match our skin in the light. Color
me crazy, just like Janice,
with scars from twenty-seven years in this place. The cold
beds stiffened her back. The first time, they told her she just needed a break.
As a self-proclaimed lawyer, a doctorate of her own invention, each night
she built her case of escape in colored pencil. Always

colored pencil and never a pen. We always
cut our food with spoons instead of knives. The color
when we hit rock bottom is concave, and it feels like night.
To the people in that breakfast line: Shaylyn. George. Jamie.
Richard. Carmen. Janice. Me. We are a broken
people who met in a place that was supposed to contain us. We know how cold

it can get at night, or when you finally reach that last dollar. The way
out of this cold world isn’t always found in a hospital or the grave. Sometimes, it’s the color
of our eyes or the sound of our names that mend us. We are learning to be unbreakable.

God is a ghost, but god is alive,
That’s what they want us to think.
Really, we’re just humans, trying to be divine,
Reaching for something we’ll never find.

God is a ghost, but god is alive
…
Is he alive?
…
Or is it a lie?

Time: there’s never enough, but it’s all we have
Trust: it takes almost an eternity to form, but it can come crashing down in one instant
Love: everyone’s supposed to have it, but no one knows exactly where they’ll find it
Life: we have only been given one, but we act like it will never end