When it comes to the world,
I'm a preterm baby—
I know nothing
of tales, adventures,
treachery, or wisdom.

I watch
with hooded, glazed eyes
that only understand
fragments—
splinters
of ideas.

So when I got a glimpse,
it wasn’t something
a cradle-bound soul
could ever decipher.

It's the justification of just—
It’s never just a papercut.
And it wouldn’t be.
It’s never I’m fine.
And it wouldn’t be.

My baby self
is allowed to throw a fit.
I think
every other version
should too.

But I’m only a preterm.
What do I know?

I was supposed to be somewhere holy by now.
Twenty-eight, maybe.
Soft-eyed, loose-shouldered,
eating cherries on a porch that faces west,
“I trust the sky not to drop me.”
“I haven’t wished on a coin in months.”
Instead, I’m awake at 3:47 a.m.
Googling “What does it mean to feel inside-out?”

I keep finding pieces of myself
in weird places—
a sandal from eighth grade
in my mom’s basement—
a song I skipped for years
until it wrecked me—
now it’s the only sound I can breathe to.
A fourth grade diary entry
that ends with:
“I think something’s wrong with the air.”

I think something’s wrong with the air.

I was so sure by now I’d
quit making altars out of absence,
retire from bleeding for the line break,
know how to hold still when people love me.

I thought I’d hear God more clearly
and panic less when I don’t.
I thought I’d be done
being undone
by
a read receipt.

/ Then the break. /

And yet.

I flinch at compliments
like they’re coming from behind me.

Sometimes I still check
if my name’s spelled right on things.
I still rehearse
what I’ll say in case I’m asked,
“So, what do you do?”

(I become.
I break and unbreak.
I drink soda in bed and call that healing.
I make it to morning and call that enough.)
I keep living like the soft things won’t leave.

There’s a version of me
who doesn’t bend into a wishbone
for every boy with a god complex—
and a version
who flosses because she thinks she’ll live
long enough
for it to matter.

There’s a version who never had to explain
the scars on her thigh.
A version who didn’t stay
just to see how bad it could get.

I keep dreaming of her.
Not to compete—
just to confess.
Not to ask forgiveness—
to give it.

She sleeps through the night and means it.
She makes plans and keeps them.
She doesn’t exist.

So I just keep writing toward something
I’m not sure I’ll survive.
There’s a version of me
who didn’t touch the red button.
Didn’t ask.
Didn’t hope.
Didn’t write any of this down.

My story is becoming

I feel it in the wind

It beckons to my soft heart

And aches within my soul

My story is becoming

I see it in my pen

The way words form together

The way that they begin

My story is becoming

So listen for its whisper

I hear it quietly yearning

It waits for me to answer

My story is becoming

Though I don’t yet know what I will write

I know that it is forming

Beyond my very sight.

Last night my poem hit 10,000 degrees,
Does that mean I burned myself a place in HP?
Or am I still on the path of becoming,
Hoping to get a lucky stroke and blow up?
Almost everything I post gets a reaction now,
I'm a name people know,
But does that make me somebody though?
What if I'm an actor,
Just playing his part,
I'll disappear when the director yells, 'Scene!'
If my art is recognized,
I've accomplished something real,
While living a dream.
But I am author enough,
That I could have a career in this?
Or will I start this journey,
But hear them yell, 'Dismissed!'

I have been redrawn
My old rendition replaced
With bright new colors and shades

Beneath the veneer
Traces and rough outlines
My foundation sketched in time

The graphite, my blood
It was poured onto the page
Many times it was erased

Unsure who I was
Sketched again and again
Eraser shavings of shame

I was blind to see
These sketches were exactly
who I needed to be

Before I could paint
I needed a rough outline
Before I could find my place

And when I did
The shame was swept away
The brush swiftly hit the page

No longer a sketch
But a beautiful display
Of bright new colors and shades

I have been redrawn
My old rendition replaced
By a colorful bouquet
And there’s still room for change