It's a cool October morning
on campus
across the way children play
you see college students make their way from one class to another
living out these lives that vary from
one existence into another

meanwhile, children play
and all the way these adults
to some and not others
make their way
some pretending
some barely surviving
some ridicule the experience
some express gratitude
because it's all some of us really have
this chance
that one day a future worth living may arise

and then all the while, children play
see,
we all wish we could turn back this clock that
lays both in our existence and our imagination
this clock
that holds these memories
that tells us we're far
and then so near
in the blink of an eye
tells us there may be something to fear
because by chance
one in a few
may not make it

all the while children play
we reminisce about our time
we tell ourselves we wish to turn back to the simple moments
but the truth is
this clock lays partially into existence
so that we may think back
and grasp what we didn't at the time
so that we may act
in accordance
when it comes time

its a cool October morning
on campus
across the way children play
as I make my way

I thought I knew what was best for Me
Everyone always told me I had great potential
Even though I kept messing up
and it wasn't what I wanted to hear

Everyone always told me I had great potential
If I would only work a little harder
That wasn't what I wanted to hear
My motivation only grew weaker

If I could only work harder
I didn't know what direction to go in
My motivation growing weaker
How could I ever make it in this world?

I have no clue what direction to go in
I'm hopeless, everything I planned was wrong
I can't make it here, in this world
Something has to change

I'm hopeless, everything I planned was wrong
I keep messing up
Something has to change
I don't know what's best for me

i am not an intellectual
trust me on this
i try and i try but
let's face it, i am not
an intellectual
i write this in a monday morning lecture based around my selected major in my senior year
and i am lost
i've been lost since the first day
of class in august
this class forces me
to question myself
this class forces me
to question my life
so no
i am not an intellectual
i am a heavily confused college student
dreading my graduation date
as this is the day that everyone else
will see that
i am a fraud
i am not an intellectual

it was you and me until it wasn’t anymore--
i’m realizing that state borders are bigger than i thought they were,
that four seven ten hours is a longer drive than it used to be.
it was you and me until it started getting darker earlier.
i’m realizing how dark the sky is when light pollution blots out the stars,
when all i can see is the moon blindingly bright.
it’s the kind of condition that daedalus would’ve wished for,
because if icarus couldn’t see the stars then he wouldn’t have fallen.
i’m realizing how dark dorm rooms are
when there’s no one else there except the solid weight
of loneliness.
i either forget to fall asleep or nod off too early;
it’s not like i have anyone keeping track for me anymore.
i’m realizing how free i used to be, a car and a highway and time,
and i’m realizing how stranded i am now: i’m feeling the freefall
of finding that i’ve lost my feathered wax wings.
it was you and me until i stopped listening, and then it was
just you.
i’m still waiting to hit the water, with bated breath to feel the shatter.
it was you and me--
until it wasn’t anymore.
until there wasn’t any more.

my best friend and i go grocery shopping together almost everyday. he has his hair up most of the time but i love it when he leaves it down and it's all curly and wild and the wind blows it across his face when we're sitting on a tailgate finishing the pack of cigarettes that we got the day before. we haven't left each other's side since the last full moon.

my best friend loves the beatles more than anything in the world and i love it when we get high late in the afternoon and we can see the sunset from my living room window while looking at memes and listening to track six off of abbey road. i never thought someone who loved dead musicians as much as i did existed until i met him.

my best friend and i sit next to each other in music theory on mondays and wednesdays. our weekdays feel like weekends because we have so much fun doing nothing even if we have class the next morning. i love it when he smiles because it's the most genuine thing i think i've ever seen.

my best friend holds doors open for me and he lights my cigarettes for me. normally i would take a feminist stand by saying thank you, but i could open my own doors and light my own cigarettes but with him i forget all of that and i actually think there's a 15.6% chance that he might be the love of my life. it's really hard to be myself with all these post-teenage emotions that have made me batshit crazy.

the day i get into college,
my mother says she is proud of me.
her eyes water;
her little girl is growing up.
my hands shake in the passenger seat.
my eyes water for different reasons.

the day i go back to therapy,
my mother says she is proud of me.
she cries again --
it's a family trait --
and holds me in her arms.
i wonder how she could ever be proud of a child who is scared of recovery;
a child whose only discernible feature is the anxiety rocking in their chest.

the day i move into college,
my mother says she is proud of me.
she says it's a big step forward.
she appreciates that i'm taking a step out of my comfort zone.
i want to tell her that it's my comfort zone that's adapting to this new place,
not me.
my comfort zone is nervousness and never-ending panic;
it's just searching for new things to worry about.
goodbye is so hard.

i spend my first few weeks of college in a panic induced state;
weeks blur into one another and i stay in my dorm whenever possible.
i skip meals,
because the cafeteria is a long walk across thin ice.
everyone's staring at me,
this obese baby deer,
learning how to walk on legs that are too meek.
i sometimes call my mother in tears;
she says she is proud of me.
it's so refreshing to hear that it hurts.
there are wounds beneath my elbow where i took out the rattling of my bones during a meltdown in my design class;
they itch underneath the bandaids as she reassures me:
she's proud of me.

i can only imagine the look on her face if she sees what i've done to myself,
the seven shallow scars underneath my elbow.
i haven't done that in years.
will she pull me out of school?
realize the pressures of living is too heavy for me to wear right now?
too heavy for me in five years?
too heavy forever?
the word proud is lost on her lips;
replaced by the word sorry.
how could she ever be proud of a child who can't make phone calls without crying at least twice?
how could she ever be proud of a child who hyperventilates when a cafeteria worker scolds them for not using tongs?
how could she ever be proud of a child who found a frenzied comfort in a blade?
mama, are you proud?