This is Seventeen.
Seventeen is loosely in the beginning of my life. Seventeen is realizing you’ve got a whole lot of life left in front of you. It is accepting that life is a page of writing that has been started, but is nowhere near finished, that a few doors have closed, but many more are still open, that some choices are irrevocable, but some may be changed yet, that there are still many what ifs that need to be figured out.
Seventeen is being caught in the limbo of being seen as an incompetent child and being forced to make adult decisions.
Seventeen is having the freedom to drive anywhere, but having a curfew to stay within.
Seventeen is losing many of the friends you used to have, but keeping the ones who are the closest to you, the ones who understand you the best, the ones you hope to have forever.
Seventeen is being able to stay up late, eating pizza in the park, and play on a playscape trying to be kids for just a little longer.
Seventeen is year long concert series and jamming out to your favorite bands covered in sweat.
Seventeen is dying your hair bright colors, much to your mother’s disparagement, and then changing it a week later.
Seventeen is being forced to choose what you want to do with the rest of your life when your favorite food changes on a daily basis and you have no idea how to function without your mom nagging you.
Seventeen is being excited, scared, sad, angry, hopeful, happy, jealous all at once and trying to deal with it, while still completing your homework on time.

The flood gates open when you smell the familiar scent from your past. Remembering times that were long forgotten in the back of your mind. Every person has that one scent that instantly draws them back to a simpler, happier time. That one scent that brings forth memories that were buried deep within your subconscious, dusts them off, and lays them out in the light.

The smell of your mother’s perfume - brings you back to when she held you.
The smell of play dough - brings you back to that small seat in the classroom mashing colors together.
The smell of your house - where you instantly feel safe and can be yourself.
The smell of cut grass - shows your father pushing the heavy lawn mower as you play outside in a spring evening.
The smell rain - brings you to a moment of renewed energy and excitement for what’s to come.
The smell of smoke - reminds you of late night talks around a bonfire.
The smell of your old boyfriend’s cologne - Hits you when you pull out his sweater and remember the night he gave it to you.
The smell of wood chips - where you spent many days playing and laughing with the friends you haven’t seen for a while now.

It comes when you least expect it. These smells of nostalgia enter through your nose and hit you straight in the heart. And you can’t help the evocative smile that pulls across your face.

Sing it softly as I try to get some sleep.

At fifteen, the reaper came, silent in the night,
Stealing me from youth's warm, calming delight.
****** into a world where heartbreak resides,
Where innocence withers and hope slowly dies.

No more laughter, just echoes of pain,
Sorrow's lament, a relentless refrain.
Gone are the dreams that once danced in our sight,
Replaced by storm clouds, obscuring the light.

Now, I linger by your grave,
With flowers wilted, their colors all grey.
I mourn the loss of innocence, the childhood's decay,
In the quiet, I kneel, with so much left to say.

Grief marks the end of youth, a bitter pill to swallow,
and builds a home for loneliness to wallow.

First the small details begin to fade
The exact shade of brown in his eyes
The slight rasp in his voice
The warmth of his arms wrapping around you

Second the small moments begin to fade
The smell of smoke tickling your nose
as you sit and roast marshmallows over the fire
The smack of rubber hitting your foot
as you kick the ball to the other side of the field
The pain in your cheeks
as you laugh until you cry because of his ridiculous joke

Lastly the important memories begin to fade
The dizzy feeling of confusion
when he tells you he’s sick and has to stay in the hospital
The burning feeling of anger
when he can’t go back to school like everyone else
The choking feeling of sadness
when he no longer can breathe even with the help of doctors

Eventually all you are left with are
a few foggy, rose-tinted flashes
of childhood memories
a never ending ache in your chest
fueled by unanswerable questions
and an hollowness in your soul
from the absence of your childhood best friend

I envy the faithful

Those who have a sense of belonging
Those who believe there is meaning and
trust there is no end to this life.

I envy the warmth

Those who feel secure within this world
Those who fear nothing and have everything
planned out for them.

I envy the idea

That there is some cosmic parent
Watching over, loving unconditionally, and
wrapping their believers in a soft, wool blanket.

And there are moments
When I can no longer endure my own existence
Where I hope and I pray and I bargain and I wish
to any greater entity that might hear my whispers in the night

Please just make the pain stop.

There's nothing warm or cozy about contemplating
your own meaningless oblivion,
or realizing you will never again see your dead
friends, family, or pets in a land filled with milk and honey.

I have no comfort in believing
I am special in some cosmic way
I am nothing, you are nothing
sinner, saint, priest, or atheist – we all just become food for the worms.

If I was a friend to myself,
I'd tell me "come over"
and I'd lean out my shoulder.

If I was a friend to myself,
I'd have tissues in both hands
and I'd be kind and understand.

If I was a friend to myself,
I'd take my side for a change
and I'd create a safe haven
where my demons couldn't hang.

But I tell myself I am a failure
for getting so down,
comparisons fill my mind up with sound
I'd never be this tough on anyone else,
So why is it okay to spew
this endless hate to myself?

If I was a friend to myself,
I'd suggest we take a walk
and let the fresh air restore
what we had lost.

Please don't say it,
those three little words
that form a lump in my throat
and a tremor in my nerves.

Please don't say it,
I know you mean well
but my heart can't handle
another splinter or crack.

Please don't say it,
I won't think of you less
if you let this pleasantry pass
Carry on and ignore these tears overflown.

Please don't say it,
We both are aware I'll say I'm fine
as I stumble through a lie
to fulfill the expectations of this social interaction.

We decided to build a house
Made from glass dreams and ceilings of too high expectations
Laughter and secrets coated the walls
And dance parties lasted all night long.

But a storm came
With insecure winds and alcoholic rain,
And shattered the glass house.

I desperately collected the broken pieces
Slicing my hands and cutting my heart
Making my skin burn as I tried to mend the broken parts.

Worn out bandages and glue well past the expiration date
Were never going to fix this pile of glass
Though I never stopped trying
Til I noticed you had rocks in your hand
With no intention of ever putting them down.

So I let go of the glass
That forever marked my skin
And I walked away from the mess you made
Remembering to never
Build a house made of glass
Ever again.

They say that wisdom comes with age
that knowledge slowly worms it's way into your mind
that each day brings forth new ideas, new connections, new moments
that molds your not fully developed brain into a somewhat more stable shape.

I have moved another year forward
now have 22 years under my belt.
22 years of jam packing tidbits and statistics
from places I've never been,
and yet that aged wisdom still escapes me. ​
I feel as though I have Benjamin Buttoned myself
to a time before I ever existed,
an empty chasm of isolation where asking a question
feels even more difficult than finding an answer.

These pieces of myself are falling away
as easily as my baby teeth fell from my mouth
that metalic taste faded like the edges of a picture
labeled summer '03.

My eyes are crinkled,
lines mark my cheeks whenever I smile,
and my mind is fogged with the things I feel
I don't know.

I don’t blame you

I don’t blame you for being insecure
I don’t blame you for falling in love with someone incapable of loving you in return
I don’t even blame you for projecting your problems onto me
I understand that sometimes it’s easier to blame
our mistakes
our problems
on the people closest to us
I don’t blame you

I don’t blame you for our friendship falling apart
I don’t blame you for blocking me on every social media imaginable
I don’t even blame you for not speaking to me
I understand that we just weren’t
good
suitable  
for each other anymore
I don’t blame you

But I do blame you

I blame you for insulting me behind my back
I blame you for not being there when I needed you
I blame you for thinking you were the only protagonist in this story
and I was just a side character

I wish you knew how much I miss you
I wish you knew that for some
sick
twisted
insane
reason I don’t hate you
I wish you knew that I would still give you the shirt off my back
if shivers racked your body
Travel across the country
if you need something as simple as a hug
Cut my own heart out
if yours was broken

But I blame you

I blame you
Because I understand
and I wish this wasn’t the case
That you wouldn’t do the same

So,
I blame you

If I could speak to you one more time,

I’d tell you about all the great and terrible things I’ve done
Hear your voice crack as you laugh at the fact that I tripped on a gap in the sidewalk again.

I'd get to see you dressed up for prom
and run across the lacrosse field
and even shake the hand that handed you your diploma.

I’d like your posts, filled with new friends you made at college,
and might even get the chance to dance with a few of them.

If I could speak to you one more time,

I’d explain that I hear you in the singing of the summer cicadas
and I see your smile in every shade of purple that exists in the world
and feel your hugs in every tie-dye t-shirt I wear.

I’d forgive you for making March the hardest part of the year
and even survive the month without shedding a tear.

If I could speak to you one last time,

I’d whisper I love you despite it making your eyes roll.
I’d say thank you for filling my childhood with endless laughter.

If I could speak to you one last time,

I’d probably be too emotional to say anything at all.

So, I’d just hold you for a little bit longer.

Would the growing distance between us be filled with
angered screams
regretful tears
or a quiet understanding?

Would you place the blame on me because
I didn't love you enough
I kept my walls up
and I never invested all of my energy into us?

Would I try to explain that
my head was in a dark place
I was being pulled in a thousand directions
and I hoped you'd see the beauty in my disaster?

Would we reminisce on
our trip to that tiny island
to that little Airbnb
that had the exposed brick?

This is the place I’m supposed to call home
Then why do I feel so foreign here?
Like a first time tourist lost within a country where no one speaks English


Yet, at the same time
I see the same faces
the same places
The menu at the diner around the corner never changes
The streetlights come on at the same time each day without fail,
except for that one down the street that’s been out since before I can remember
Never changing, always stagnant
Like an iPod stuck repeating the same bubblegum,
boy band
pop song from 2004


And I feel my stomach turn
my face turns green
my temperature rises
I am sick
of this place
I am tired
of this place
I am sick and tired of whitewashed, backwards thinking of “I’ll take care of myself -
***** anybody else.”
Because this might be a town
but it is anything but a community


And one day
hopefully soon
I will escape the invisible bars that trace the outline of this town
that are continually getting smaller and smaller
as my dreams become bigger and bigger


I can no longer breathe

You paint me to be a beautiful rose
with fragile pink petals
and a stem that could snap with the gentlest of touches
You tell me I should be
dainty, delicate
My lips should be soft and quiet
because there is only one thing my mouth is good for
and it is not speaking
My hands should be small, clasped within a man's,
not folded into an angry fist thrusted in the air
My whole body should be hairless
because who would ever want to **** a hairy gorilla
I know I wouldn't (oh, wait...)
You mock me for needing to go to
the library
the party
the bathroom
with at least one other girl
And maybe your jokes would be funny
if I wasn't so terrified all the time
because society tells women
"don't get *****"
instead of telling men
"don't ****"
And it's time for a change
because I may be a beautiful rose
but roses have thorns
and mine are as sharp as daggers.

Beneath the canvas of the starlit sky,
A beacon burns, a lullaby.
Through shadows cast, a tale unfolds,
Of a love more precious than gold.

In shadows interlaced, the glow would sing,
A celestial whisper, a familiar wing.
I'd stray at times, chasing the day's fleeting gleam,
Questioning the light, like a forgotten dream.

Resentment clung to the flickering light,
As if returning home was a surrender to night.
In my heart, a whisper of pride,
Home meant I hadn't soared wide.

Through the years, the light reframes,
No longer a symbol of forgotten aims.
Like moth to a flame, I’d circle back,
To a hearth that murmured, a quiet track.

Now, the light's not a sign, not a line in the sand,
But a soft place to land, in an unknown land.
A sanctuary, a heartbeat, a welcoming roam,
In the cadence of shadows, I find my home.

The door swings wide with a creak and a sigh,
A refuge awaits, where tears can dry.
So, as I wander life's unknown,
The light guides me back, a beacon of home.

I have never had the patience to solve a Rubix Cube
So
instead I cheat
I peel each different colored sticker off
and place them in a way that
makes it appear solved
complete
I guess I do the same with myself
I peel off each of my colors
aspects of my personality
and rearrange them so I appear solved
complete
But under the seemingly ordered colors
I am scrambled

You linger like a ghost
between the lyrics I can't stop listening to,
Like that black dress I refuse to get rid of
covered in cobwebs and dust from the darkest part of my heart.

I'm so haunted by the mistakes I've made
these memories bury me in a graveyard of pain,
It'd be healthier, I know, if I'd just let this all go
but I'll just have to reap what I've sowed.

And though my hands shake and my forearms ache
the pain helps me understand the worth in it

It has to be worth it.

Or what's the point of surviving this ****?

When do we begin dreading birthdays?
When does the count down to the new year begin to sound like the tick tick tick of a time bomb?
When do days become hours
hours become minutes
minutes become seconds?
When do we finally stop and realize that we’ve lived seven years longer than our best friends?

Time is a fickle mistress

She moves so slowly when you’re young
When you want nothing more than for her to rush up and greet you
Then
in a blink
She’s gone before you can even utter a “Hello.”

But how are we to appreciate something we cannot feel?
How are we to gasp at the presence of something we cannot see?
How are we to sing a beautiful melody we cannot hear?

I wanted to see you today.
Catch up like we always do, but don’t do enough.
But Time, I guess, had other plans.

Assignments were filling up my inbox, papers just couldn’t be ignored any longer, and I was tired from not sleeping well the night before and my cat had to choose today to knock over the T.V., shattering the screen, and my mother called, you know how she can just drone on and on, and then I had to stare at my fridge for at least twenty minutes before deciding the chips in the pantry will curb my hunger fine, then this emergency at work and this thing with my sister…

Then
before you know it
it’s two in the morning
and I need to go to bed.

But those are all just excuses, aren’t they?
A bunch of moments to distract from the guilt from not seeing you.

You see, Time is a man-made creation
not some external force of nature.
Sure, the sun and moon glide across the sky,
but the meaning of that was assigned by us.
The day doesn’t begin when we open our eyes
there are plenty of cheap coffee mugs that say otherwise
So it doesn’t have to end when the light in the sky dies

Time is not a fickle mistress.

She’s in the gray hairs that grow with our wisdom,
In the wrinkles that are carved from our laughter
In the aches in our bones from dancing just a little bit too long

We are time.

And I’m sorry
I’m sorry for not making Time for you.

I wish to not feel the aftershocks of the war occurring inside,
To not make one move that crushes my whole day
under the weight that tears my joints apart.

And yet,

Doctors smile and tell me nothing is wrong
Doctors smile and state that my pain tolerance is just too low
Doctors smile and run the same **** tests
that produce the same **** results
They smile while I rip my hair from my scalp.

The days bleed into one as the clouds covering my brain
chain me to the bed and make raindrops fall from my eyes,
Friends start to believe that I just don't care when I leave their messages covered in dust,
dying in a graveyard called my will to live.

I want to be there for them,
my soul needs to be present with them,
but when you have to box a heavy weight champion inside your own veins just to be able to take a single step,
you got nothing left to give to anyone else.

I'm stumbling through this performance titled life
not even knowing the identity to the puppet master pulling the strings,
fighting an invisible battle against a nameless warrior
and somehow meant to smile and bear it.

Crying allows me to slow down and obsess over the weight of life's problems
like an anorexic preteen watching as the numbers tick on a scale
Sadness consumes my every thought

I wonder what Jesus would say,
If he found out today,
That the cross, where he hung, torn and bruised,
Has become our most sacred jewel.

Would he gaze at the wood with surprise,
See his pain in our reverent eyes?
Would he question the meaning we found,
In a tool meant to press him down?

The nails that pierced through his skin,
The crown that dug deep within.
A death we immortalize in form,
But forget it was born in the storm.

I wonder, would he smile or weep,
At this symbol we carry so deep.
And ask if we’ve missed the point,
Where flesh met iron, and faith disjoint?

Would he ask why we cling so tight,
To the image of his final night?
Why we exalt the end of his breath,
And make a monument of death?

Is this the legacy he would choose—
A symbol of all that he’d lose?
Does eternity shrink or expand,
With a cross gripped in every hand?

I wonder if he’d feel estranged,
From the meaning we’ve rearranged—
To worship the gallows, the nails, the pain,
And not the life that rose again.

I have never really been good at math
but I do know this
1+1=2

That a 1 can stand on its own
but the other 1
makes it just slightly better

And that’s how I think relationships should be

I’m not looking for someone to complete me,
I am looking for someone to add to me.

The human mind can't fathom infinity.

Yet,
when I'm alone with you,
infinity doesn't seem so unfathomable.

They say the human mind
can’t fathom infinity.
That there are more burning stars
than grains of sand,
That the universe
is ever expanding,
That there is no end.

And this rattles our bodies to the core.
The uncanniness sets in.

But when I sit with you
with your warmth wrapped tightly around me,
Your scent filling my head,
Your voice softly floating in the quiet,
gazing up at the night sky
Infinity doesn’t seem so unfathomable.

She was a ghost
floating through rooms
listening to people's stories
She noticed everything
while
They noticed nothing

I knew I would fall
But I still had to try
I just didn't realize
you'd be the one to push me

I don’t believe in God
I don’t believe there’s a life after this one
I don’t believe there’s a white tunnel that leads our souls from our bodies to Heaven

And yet
in my darkest moments
when I feel the most alone
I reach out
and
I pray

To whom?
I’m not sure
maybe my Nana
or my best friend
or maybe even God

A part of me just hopes you can hear me
A part of me thinks that you can’t
A part of me can’t fathom you being gone
A part of me knows that you are

But I don’t believe in an afterlife
at least not for me

And isn’t that ****** up?
That I hope you’re in Heaven
when I don’t believe it exists

Or maybe
I just don’t think
I deserve to go there.

I shuffle my music
and this one song
begins to filter through the speakers
I am instantly taken back to that warm summer night
driving to a concert
the windows rolled down
the music loud
We belt out the lyrics
not entirely on key
This moment brings a nostalgic smile
to my older face
I hope you still think of me and
I hope you smile
I hope I made as big of an impact on you
as you did on me
It's been a few years
though
so I get it if you've forgotten
But
do you search my name as much as I search yours?
Do you hear an old song
one we would sing together
and think of me?

When the white noise buzzing of the fan is shut off
there is nothing.

No voices.
No music.
No laughter.

Nothing fills the air.

But then the thoughts,
the ones you've tried to bury long ago,
start creeping in.

And you wish for nothing more
then a life boat of sound
to rescue you.

But you just slowly sink
and drown
in the sound of silence.

There is nothing more heartbreaking
than the feeling of
comfortable silence
growing into
uncomfortable silence
into
silence being the only thing you know.

I constantly forget
that my heart is much more
than a simple *****
that pumps blood to the rest of my body.

i still hear
your 70’s folk lullabies  
every time i go to sleep
even though
i’m 154.6 miles away.

I have to keep reminding myself
I don't love you
I love the memories you represent

When we first said
“Hello”
I didn’t know
what it would grow into.

I didn’t know
your eyes would become my favorite
shade of blue
your laugh would become my favorite
scratchy old record
your arms would become my favorite
place to escape to.

When we first said
“Hello”
I didn’t know
that you would become
my hardest
“Goodbye.”

A time for relaxing
A time for cleansing
A time for homework, no matter how little you want to do it
It is known as God's day
the holy day
A new beginning
A fresh start
The day to reset and prepare
for the long week ahead
It the worst day
of the best part of the week
Not quite as bad as Wednesday
but not quite as good as Friday

Freedom
is the ultimate form of
responsibility
because we have
no one else to blame
for our choices
but us

I have a hard time
opening up to people

Emotions terrify me

It’s like I’m on a rollercoaster
just waiting for the drop

I feel out of control

So
instead I bottle things up
I never talk about myself
or how I feel
I help other people with their problems

So I don’t have to deal with my own.

He was nothing I expected.

He was loud, obnoxious
the complete opposite of anything or anyone
I pictured to be in my life.

He kept me on my toes
called me out on my *******
But he did it in a way that made it impossible to be mad.

He made me laugh
told jokes about dumb things I never would have
thought to be funny .

And he's so smart
in ways that I never could be
with a passion that's intoxicating

But I was scared
scared of the implications surrounding us
scared of all the what if's
scared I would lose everything

So, I turned my back and I ran
I pretended nothing was there

I acted oblivious
like my heart didn't leap into my chest
when he threw his head back and laughed

I erased the night when we danced
when he almost confessed his inner most thoughts
with eyes that made me believe I was beautiful

Because then I would be safe
and what we had up until that point would be safe.

And now he can be with someone who makes sense
for him to be with.

Who isn't afraid.

Who will love him how he should.

And I can still be in his life
on the sidelines.
But in his life.

This anxiety coils around my throat
preventing my burning lungs from inhaling
the happiness that surrounds me
silencing the words that dance on the tip of my tongue
until they disintegrate into an acidic nothingness that bites my cheek and
rots my teeth.

I build walls so other people can’t hurt me

Little do I know
those walls are cemented together
with the blood of my self-inflicted wounds

how i can i sleep when you’re always on my mind?
~
how i can i sleep when you’ve broke my heart?