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tacet 7d
at a crossroads
between child and adult,
when you can’t decide
what to care about
who to care about
or when to care

sometimes it’s easier
to jump up on a table
in a crowded cafeteria
and scream 80’s song lyrics
than it is
to ask a boy his name.
tacet 7d
you mock my “lol”
my “ya”
my “c u l8r”

you tell me I’m childish
impolite
improper

but that nigerian prince
has worse grammar than me
and HE’s sure the real deal
this is not meant to be a good or meaningful poem I promise
tacet 7d
I once dreamed I’d be an author—
then, I was still unaware
that I lack a knack for stories
but I do have rhythmic flair
tacet May 24
dear mistress of the wicked,
friend of the darkness,
purveyor of evil
and gracelessness and sin,
unanimously considered
the single nastiest force
in the universe:

I fear some residents
of planet earth
are trying to steal your title.
mind if you sic ‘em for us?
tacet May 24
I don’t believe in luck
and yet it infiltrates my thoughts
when it deems itself most convenient.
if I sit in my room,
playing whatever silly match-three
has snatched up my interest this week,
my losses are justified by,
“see, it’s really just luck-based.
I would’ve won with better patterns
already existing on the board.”
obviously, what I mean here
is that it’s based in randomization,
yet I never seem to think so.
and the same if I see a story
of a person or family
suffering the worst life can offer
and pity the down-on-their-luck few.
it’s as if I am looking
for something, someone else to blame
for my misdeeds, misfortunes,
but I never feel lucky
when I avoid them on my own.
good luck is used sarcastically
or when offering pleasant nothings
to those around me.
now, the concept of luck confuses me
as well as irks me,
but considering it is something to do
while I wait for new lives
on my match-three game.
lucky me.
tacet May 17
you know:
when you give me that look
over the buttons on your instrument—
a brass whatever-you-call-it—
where your eyes are bugging out
and your lips are pursed inward
like you’re some sort of frog
and your face holds the purple tinge
from a lack of air,
you look ridiculous.
i always make sure to tell you.

you don’t know:
when you give me that look
after you finish losing your mind
over one of my terrible jokes
where your eyes are shining
with something i can’t quite place
and your lips are pulled back
in a smile—that smile—
and your face holds the purple tinge
from a lack of restrained emotion,
you look remarkable.
i always make sure not to tell you.
to something new, but a long time coming.
tacet May 17
parting’s such sweet sorrow,
this much I concede.
but is it really parting
when a prisoner is freed?
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