you're
crying
and as you walk
down the dimly
lit glass hallway
the faces on the walls
wave
in your breeze
of sadness and
iron oxide tears.

every surface in
your mind is
covered
in a thick layer of
concrete dust
and you wonder
how long before
your nose
takes a dive
sneezing
too often
to breathe.

there is clay
everywhere
and you can't see
the cracks
between your
knuckles
under the
thick layer of
thought.

as far as art
departments go
you're not feeling
so creative
painted or
charcoal
it doesn't matter
when there is more
brown paper offered
to you every
time you believe
you've failed.

would you believe me
if i told you that a
newspaper and a pair
of old blue eyes
reminded me
and maybe you too
that there is somebody
out there
who actually
cares.

press that
thumbtack
into the wall
slowly
pin down
everything
you've tried to
forget
and avoid
stabbing your
finger into
the perforated
abused and
continually
rotated
corkboard.

you're not
wirebound
anymore
i promise
only your
entwined metalic
thoughts.

The bench is three paces
From the bike rack
Twelve feet
To the light pole
A million miles from
Where I want to be
And eleven minutes
Closer to you.

He's circling around
The L-shaped
Concrete garden
And she's singing where
The sidewalk
Meets the asphalt
While I'm somewhere
In between them.

If this campus were
A battleground
Every one of us
Would be losing
And the shuttle bus
Would only serve to
Carry away our
Stone cold bodies.

We're all waiting
At some earthy spring
Bus stop
For the same ride
A bittersweet
Kiss of death.

Now I see a car
Coming up the hill
And I get to my feet
After all
I shouldn't keep the
Hearse waiting.

who knew that growing up,
feels a lot like growing thin?
who knew my weathered bones
would grow to hardly recognize the skin that they live in?

i’m tired
and when i say that
i mean more than just the sleepiness that seems to reside permanently around my collarbones.

i’m heavy
with the weight of converging adolescence and adulthood
like kissing life-milestone tectonic plates,
they bury us.

we spent the last of summer days soaking up what little sun the mountain range allotted us,
and the last of summer nights gathered closely around the burning ends of our post sunset cigarettes
murmuring that there must be more than this.

striving to make the grade without making ourselves insane.
substantiating our existences with substances and excess.
growing closer to these ragtag companions we’d patch-worked together in a few months time than friends we’d known for years,
this is family.
this is kin.

they say that nothing compares to the first breath of spring but i digress,
the first breath of freedom - that first whisper, no matter how tainted with ash and glitter and the ever-present impending air of responsibility it may be,
is truly incomparable.

but, on the first night you find yourself talking someone down from the dangerous concoction of stimulants and ego,
listening to them scream about how they hate the world, and you, and themselves,
remember your arboreal roots.

remember that there are trees that survive forest fires with their lives but not their branches.

that same night you will see in the mirror how resilient buds can bloom through ice, and concrete, and self-loathing.

you will find solace in persephone.
letting a piece of you die each and every winter seems a fair price for the rebirth of spring.

i cannot say that this will be the last night you find a friend on their bathroom floor,
like a child with matches, trying to strike away the unruly sprouts that have taken root under their skin
i cannot say with confidence that you will never find yourself there either.

there will be more forest fires coming your way
like a child with matches, you may start a few yourself.

but, darling, spring is around the corner
you may be mangled and gnarled and knotted,
but i have seen trees engulf steel, and watched as flora took back abandoned gardens
i have witnessed oceans of grass shoot up from ashes,

there is nothing manmade that the earth cannot take back
the earth will take you back,
there is still green within you.

count the dandelions you find poking their cadmium heads through asphalt,
remember inhabitance is not a matter of comfort but a matter of will.
feel the ripe bud of growth in the soles of your feet.
remember there is nothing wrong with returning to the dirt.

Growing up too fast wasnt something i chose, but it marked a defining point of my childhood despite not being 18. I lost my innocence the day i realized that the pretty words a boy will tell you are a dagger in disguise. I lost my innocence the day i let my reputation define me, but adults will still say "You dont even know how bad life can get yet, all you have to do is go to school." What they dont know is that in school, they may teach you how to read and write. In school they taught me how to recite plays and taught me how to multiply 10 times 8, but they didnt teach me how to stop loving someone who doesnt love you anymore. They dont teach you how to deal with a goodbye you never received. In school they dont teach you that your friends will turn their back on you if its the cool thing to do, they dont teach you about how a boys kiss can taste better than Prozac. In school they dont teach you that alcohol makes as many problems as it solves but man does it feel good to let your throat burn for a split second rather than deal with the aching pain in your heart and the problems in your head that you couldnt solve. they teach that arithmetic and english are the main things to learn in life but life isnt 10 times 8 and life isnt this beautiful picture that artists paint. Life is the nights you lie awake at 16 missing a boy who you gave everything to. Life is the pain in your eyes that says Im fine when you know that isnt true. So maybe you are right, maybe i dont have to pay bills or deal with the "adult" world, but ive learned more about life in my 16 years of ages than some adults ever will.

I see you sometimes
And I can tell from that
Faraway look in your eyes
That you spend too much time
Waiting
And not enough time
At peace
With yourself.

It feels like you've spent
Most of your life
Waiting
For the bus.

It's warm for February
But your hands are slightly
Chapped and your flannel is worn
Down and missing a button.

As the air bites your
Ears just remember your
Eyes only water when
They want to be free.

One by
One
Each piece of
Your drum kit
Flies away
One by
One
Each memory comes
Back at night.

Until all you have left
Is a snare
The same snare you
Started out on
And you're still the
Nervous kid
Who didn't make it into the
Salvation Army band.

Find a street corner
And scream at three
If you're in the right town
Nobody will question it.

It's too easy to hate the things
That are thought at night when the only
Bones that will work are
The red ones inside of your hands.

Stop
Just
Stop
Now.

All the memories that keep popping
To the surface like the
Bubbles in your carbonated
Beverage
Stop trying to
Push them back down.

STOP
JUST
STOP
NOW.

There are signs
Flashing
Warnings and
You won't listen.

YOU CAN'T
CHANGE
WHAT YOU DON'T
ACKNOWLEDGE.

And there's one more
To add to your list
Of screaming messages
Notated in black ink
On blue tape
Stuck to your cranium.

Ice and rubber
Fire and glass
If there's a cure
You haven't found it.

But now the bus is snaking
Up the hill and you're
Shifting your feet and
I can tell that you're not going to
Let your mind start wandering
Until the next time you're
Waiting for the bus
Downstream from a cigarette.

One day I'll understand this feeling
I'm alone in a room of my family, but I'm not alone.

I have myself, don't I?
I'm always there for me, aren't I?

I ask myself this on a daily basis when my friends seem to care more about me than I do myself.

Once I'm gone, maybe things will change.

Fall break came at the perfect time. And it's a memory I'll cherish forever -- waterfalls and falling leaves and sunshine and cold waterbottles and plaid flannel shirts named Rufus and milk bottles and miles of blue sky. Monday. Rain on my umbrella, smile for the camera. Tuesday. And then like waking up from a magical dream, blue carpets and textbooks and shifty-eyed girls in Ugg boots and my anxiety. Wednesday. Back to studying for midterms and I'll throw in a pair of borrowed shoes.

I've got hours to wait, so I went outside and Ron said "it's people like me and you who give a **** that'll get A's." Then I went back in and found a side hallway. I wrote down what he said and listened to the janitorial staff. She opened the supply closet and told her friend "come into my office" with a laugh. Five minutes later they came back out talking about how Jamie was ******* about them at nights but it looked to me that they were more ******* about Jamie, and whoever she is, she's apparently worthless. And I wonder if this is how to make friends, by chilling with the cleaning ladies. Actually, that would be a family tradition. Is this how you find your niche?

Now they've moved from talking about Jamie to school shootings and all the good cleaning closets to hide in. And I wonder if this is why I spent 17 years "sheltered", because I'd rather be safe than normal. I'm writing all of this in the back of my science notebook because when I write my fingers don't feel the need to pull at my scalp. Rifle my hair, maybe, but no snapping. And I have 45 minutes before I get another hour to wait.

Sometimes I walk by the art department and I always want to go in, but what would someone like me be doing there? I'm not an artist by any sketch of the imagination. But it's always dark in there and I wonder what goes on in that back hallway. Like this back hallway where I'm sitting with these collegiate white cinderblock walls. How much misery from the cleaning crews have they heard?

Everyone says I'll find my niche, but it's looking to me like all I'll ever find is empty corners and solitary benches. People are okay, but the only person I really have to fall back on seems to be myself.

In the midst of my coming of age,
I lost myself.
What was once a one-way street is now a crossroad in the heart of the fields.
24 eyes staring at me from all directions,
waiting for my next step,
I'm waiting for my next step.
There are no signs of where the paths will go
nor signs of how much miles the road was
but I'm letting my heart take the lead.
For in the midst of the trip or maybe at the end of the road I know,
I will find myself again.

We know its not love but we don’t know what love is
so we pretend just for the night.
We surround ourselves with nothing else
but each other. The lights are off
just like our feelings and the space around us
is emptier than our hearts.

This isn’t love but we don’t care
we pretend because we don’t know anything else.
Just for the night we focus on each other while
surrounded by the empty bottles that made us this way.
We find ourselves intertwined with each other
so we just pretend.

When I wake up I know the feeling will be gone
and so will you. Loving will turn into
heartache and I’ll still be mesmerized
by the smell of your Burberry cologne
that you wore so well that night.
But I don’t care because even if the sensation
leaves me when I wake up
I know what it felt like
even if it was only for the night.

My last memory of…you
I drove all the way through town, chain-smoking through half
my pack as I burned deep inside from stoking the ashed embers of a fire
I had attempted to smother before it burned us both out after it had licked

Its way up my whole body—

But I reveled in how it ate me from the
deepest
inside while I let the tobacco
consume the healthy volume of my lungs leaving me breathless which I prayed
would either make you notice the red in my cheeks
or make you worry about me
in contrast from the systematic silence that had deafened our
friendship and scarred
any possibility of our future, but
when I got there you told me to drop the habit so it didn’t linger in my hair.
You also pointed out where the butts had rubbed away my lipstick and with a look that made
me want to smack
you across the face, but
also crush your lips
with mine because it
deepened your gaze
and sharpened your jaw
instead I said I’d gladly put the rest on you. Your friends, the Miss Priss Brigade,
saw chipped nail polish and slightly dull skin and last summer’s leftovers and I knew

we’d never end up
unfiltered and imperfect in the barely industrialized studio flirtingly touching
and kissing and dreaming and enchanting ourselves with the what-ifs of a future
we saw through wine glasses worn

by teenagers who didn’t know love from illusion.