A penny for my thoughts? No.
How about a million dollars?

That’s enough to solidify all my young adult debt, debt I’ve collected from a world too expensive to accommodate anyone.

Its enough to pay off all the outstanding emotional debt from the men and women who never even gave me an IOU.

It’s enough to pay off the pile of torn open envelopes in my trash can from therapy sessions that consisted in me drowning in my tears over my father’s abandonment but never helping me feel any less lonely.

It’s enough to pay back my mother for the roles she’s played in my life, the shoes she shouldn’t have had to fill. The house she couldn’t afford to buy but did anyway to give us a sense of stability and never complained about it once.

A million dollars for my thoughts? Hell, I’d drown off my own sorrows in Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, lipstick, whiskey, and regret.

With so much money, I’d move to a nicer place, a nicer apartment.
I’d paint my apartment of hues of lilac and yellow and play old records by candlelight and in between kisses tell my lover that I am finally happy. But that it wasn’t he who made me happy, it was my money, but we’d never talk about that.

With a million dollars, I’d never be afraid to speak my mind. With that amount of money people would be my friend by default, that’s how it works right? When you’re rich and happy. More emotionally exhausting friendships, forgiven by birthday party invitations, fishing for thousand-dollar watches that would countdown the minutes until I became just a memory of a girl who left an unwrapped watch on a gift table at a birthday party. The watch left as vulnerable as I would feel in that moment.

With that kind of money, I’d openly tell my middle school crush I was in love with her and how much she tore my heart apart and I’d instantly get a restraining order because with that kind of money I’d feel important enough to be stalked. I know she won’t care.

My thoughts, not even worth a penny.

it is few that seek for color,
when the world leaves them grey.

it is few that climb mountains,
when only plains come their way.

a community of wildflowers pretending to be roses.
befriending what we believe are better plants,
and covering themselves in lavender.
they dip their petals and spikes into ink,
and they pretend that they are feathers,
and with these feathers they pretend to be birds,
and being birds is the only way they feel free.
they are left uncared for and wilted down,
they are overlooked and thrown away,
they are called pests and flower killers.
but they are beautiful,
they are powerful and everpresent,
they are proof that no matter how much pulling them out,
cutting them down, and praying them away, wildflowers are here to stay.

Sometimes I wonder if my existence is at all valid,
I remember sitting on the bathroom floor at school with my then best friend and staring at the tile that surrounded us.
I thought about all the kids before us who have walked on this tile, escaping responsibilities, escaping teachers.
I thought about how absolutely insignificant that moment in time was,
how my plaid skirt and that unforgiving burgundy polo would later on refuse to bear witness to the things said and heard in that bathroom.
The mindlessly boring and insensitive ramblings of two teenage girls sulking on a bathroom floor made no ripple in the atmosphere.
The moment and the memory were gone as soon as they left.
If this trail of lost friendships and missed opportunities for significant bonds has taught me anything,
it’s that everything falls apart one way or another.

I begged for you to touch me tonight.
I begged for you to dig your fingers into my skin,
to leave crimson half crescent moons into my being.
but you didn't.
you didn't and that hurt more than if you had
because my soul was aching for a comfort so painful it would bring only bliss.

summertime has never been my favorite.
the sun is too bright.
the days are too long.
public pools are *****.
and so are those men,
you know the ones.
the ones who you can't help but catch their eye.
the ones your fifteen year old mind had been conditioned to ignore.
the ones your twenty year old self has been told to smile for.
the strangers.
the fathers.
the uncles.
the family friends.
the men that made your mother tell you to close your legs for when you were ten because you were drawing attention.
the ones who shouldn't have been looking.

some mornings, as I watch the sky turn back to blue,
I think about how much prettier it would be with you.
how all the love in my heart would paint the sky bluer than blue.
how your eyes would match the sky and their sparkle the sun.
your smile would be the same shade as the clouds.
I am shaken with the realization that everything in nature leads me back to you.
because the moment I think to forget you, my heart swoops me back to the smell of morning dew,
and the memory of the cool wind hits my face and it makes me imagine that's what it must be like to kiss you.