The people who live in the trees are fragile.
They run from the people who live outside the trees when they watch them stare at the leaves or have picnics in the grass near the base of the trees. But, they are people watchers by nature. The people who live outside the trees enjoy sandwiches and always know when the leaves are changing color. The people who live in the trees speak in short, whispered songs like fairies with secrets so the people outside cannot hear them. Like flies on the wall, they are always watching and listening with joyful eyes and perky ears. The people who live outside the trees are always filled with laughter.
On the summer solstice, they gather round with berries dipped in sap to watch the day pass by and see all the people who live outside the trees dancing and being free in the World.
My prayers to whoever will listen when it’s passed my curfew
Overpowering patchouli smelling wrists that make me feel earthy
How my heart skips a beat at every video of a sunrise with low-fi music in the background
My desire to take pictures of everything I find beautiful
My hidden struggles of tear-stained pillows and a hint of yesterday's mascara
Pages unread in books I’ve mistreated and put down because things got in my way
My fascination with everything and never feeling fulfilled when I’m learning
The overwhelming feeling I get from waking up as a human on this ship
Preaching my positivity and hoping anyone will listen
Wanting to help every creature who walks this planet
Even the voiceless
My fear of failure and death
But my love for living and experiencing
The fear of missing out because I got nine hours of sleep
The fear of missing out because I can’t afford to go to France
The fear of missing out because everyone else is beautiful
The fear of not being myself
The fear of never finding myself
The fear that I am myself
My hands caress
They are the caterpillar
I am the cocoon
They are the butterfly
My empathy is the remnants of the home I gave them
When will I wrap myself in Love?
When will I protect myself so I can transform?
God watches all these butterflies dance
While I’m stuck in the tree
Too scared to jump and try
Afraid of breaking my own soul
I want to be like them
Like a bird or even a mosquito
Free to roam and fly to Heaven
18 things I learned at 18
One book. Just find time to read one book.
Two friends is all you really need.
Three year anniversaries are magical if you’re in love.
Four “unhealthy” meals won’t make you gain five pounds.
Five college classes a semester is hard but necessary.
Six people staring at your blue lipstick will only make you more powerful.
Ten pounds. You might gain it...you might lose it. Don’t be mad about either.
Eleven, the age I wish I was.
Twelve year old birthdays are strange because your brother is almost a teenager.
Thirteen times. You’ve changed your mind about the future eight times.
Fourteen times. You’ll probably change your mind fourteen more times.
Fifteen was most definitely the worst age ever.
Sixteen Candles is apparently a good movie...still haven’t seen it.
Seventeen years old I was when I stopped eating meat and went dairy.
Eighteen years old does not make you an adult. And you only bought one lottery ticket. And you ate meat again to make sure you still want to be a vegetarian (You do. You almost threw up afterwards because you felt so guilty. So, don’t do that again.) You really want to go back to veganism but feel like you can’t. You’re making excuses. But it’s okay...you’re eighteen.
Nineteen is here. Nineteen years and counting. Nineteen years of mistakes, failures, badassery, and kickassery. Nineteen times around the sun. Let’s see how much more fun we can have.
My 19th birthday is this Sunday, so I made an ode to 18.
Taking a deep breath is hard when your neck is being squished. And your eyes are wet, painted with tears.
I hate holding them back. The “crying breath” I have is uneven. ‘I’m just sniffling!’ type of sniffles, as if there’s not snot running up and down my nostrils.
I get in a steaming hot shower; not wanting to bathe, but wanting to escape. Watching beads of water hit my raised skin calms my heartbeat, but also gives me a sense of sadness. When you’re sad, you start to notice little things like the pattern of your breath, the serious line spread upon your lips when someone tells a joke in hopes of cheering you up, the gulps you take, and your milky, glazed eyes staring blankly back at you in the mirror you haven’t cleaned in weeks because you didn’t have enough energy to walk up and down the stairs to get the cleaner and to put it back. You start to pretend. You pretend to love, and to hate. You hate the world and everyone so much, but only because you are hurting and you don’t want to hurt others by letting them in, or them to hurt you too.
Nonetheless, you hurt anyway.
The divine almighty
of the crooked earth
made the weakened crawl
with dirt dragging into
our chipped fingernails
like the paint on our homes
Her flood of chaos ignited the flames
and her flames burnt down the only
hope we had: the sea
& her mighty craft
swept our flatlands into the ocean
like dirt under a rug
or ice under a fridge
and we were engulfed in the fire
that our own hands caused
She came down on us with her wrath
ripping herself apart in the process
just to show us she is the divine almighty
and then the moon betrayed us
followed by the sun
Checked out on us like a motel for drunk couples
Who turned off the lights to save the electricity
This stream of my consciousness
Is brought to you by
The polluted wounds of
Unreconciled love for myself
I never rip Band-Aids off
Because I never put them on
I was too busy healing the scrapes
And bumps and bruises
On another person’s arm
When I stopped writing poetry
I found all my cuts
Buried deep under my skin
Into a layer of unforgiveness
Sometimes my heart can beat so fast
I begin to feel alive again
But I’m scared of what else I could feel
I had to accept the thought of feeling it all again
Rose water and palo santo can only go so far
When the deepest scars
Aren’t even visible
I’ve never been hurt more by
Anyone besides myself
I’ve never been loved more by
Anyone besides myself
And my hashtag self love routine
Isn’t always bubble baths and body positivity
It’s the analyzation of my human existence
Including my flaws and my worst characteristic
And sometimes I have to break my own heart
In order to become more than a wound
— The End —