You round up because what difference is a quarter of a inch
Heels, depending on the size, will make you the average height
Leggings and sweats will bunch at your ankles
Shirts become dresses, but only for you
Dress hems hit the floor, but only for you
**** skirts become **** dresses
Having to hem every single pair of jeans
Sleeves. Sleeves are far too long
"Petite" clothing doesn't fit either
Step stools are your best friend
Jumping for something that's just out of reach works too
Constantly being mistaken for a 16 year old
(Even if you are turning 20 this year)
Being used as an armrest by someone who thinks they're funny
Stuck in the front for every group photo
There's that awkward height difference between you and everyone
Standing on tiptoes and having the guy lean down for a kiss
You hate sports that require tall people, like volleyball and basketball
And yet, you wouldn't change your height for the world

We would sit on the steps of the porch
so the sun would warm our legs but spare our eyes.
She would peel potatoes and I would ask her,
where she got that scar
how many boyfriends she has had
how many bones she has broken
if her heart had ever been torn
and how many times and by who
and what was the worst cut she had ever had.
"I don't know Kels. That was all a long time ago."
That always seemed like ******* to me.
How could you not know many people
you have let touch your lips with theirs?
But then I grew.
I grew and I got scraped, and burned
and broken over and over.
I had my heart stolen
and I gave it away again and again.
Every experience just stacked against the other.
So I guess I kind of get what she was saying now.

So sick of getting discouraged by the way my own hands write lies for no body but my eyes alone to see. I do not create metaphors in the way I speak for interpreters to breathe.  I may have forgotten how to write but god these words still whisper in my dreams. "WE GET IT POETS, THINGS ARE LIKE OTHER THINGS" a stranger in the audience yells in the middle of my memior , I am sorry sir but you are an ******* like that of the gods greatest devils and I pray that you will stop. I should stop, but I have ink in my veins, and my smiles are composed of similies.I have a voice as small as a mouse but as loud as a lion. I look up at the stars and all I see are fallacies, oh god, look at the red herring. The constellations are making fun of me. How I wish I were a book so at least I'd have a spine. I cower in the land of fiction novels hiding from the people that are better than me. I know I'll never have the taste of Walt Whitman or face the horrors of Mr. poe but ******* how I want to. I'm afraid that if I don't figure out my purpose as a writer I'll forget how to speak to you and we'll grow apart like leaves on a tree in winter so glue a pen to my palm and make me dance and hopefully words will relearn how to waltz across the page. Its the very fiber of my being and I can no long use this double helix as a crutch.