roaming the streets up late at night, we kept walking even if its dark. just followed what feels right, even if we didn't know where to go.
i remember we're laughing romanticizing the years, falling in love and getting drunk, now im 18 and im terrified.
uncertain about the future as we long for summer to come back spent our time distracting ourselves because we can't be kids again
Even if I have months before turning 18, I have this realization of how turning 18 is a sort of ritual. Where we are stuck in the middle of a transition from being a kid to an adult. This is also the time where responsibilities pile up, where I just wish I was a kid again.
Summer fills me with nostalgia in a way that I cant explain. But when the air hears up and the black ants crawl all over our house I find myself remembering when we covered the window with sheets so we could sleep when it was still light.
Most years I was alone, friends not good enough to contact outside of school. I stayed up late in bed reading every night. It was during summer that I stumbled on my first podcast, on my first ****** novel, on my first question of gender. In the heat of summer I sought change. Alone, I struggled with questions of college and career and the future. I despaired, sobbing into my pillow until I fell asleep.
Summer is full of possibility, of the past, of the future. I caught fireflies out on the lawn, I put cicada husks in a jar and kept a tally, I invented games for myself and my sisters. I work late nights and come home to a warm house. I eat cereal for 3 meals a day. The rules don't apply to Summer.
Driving 90 miles down the highway at 3am on a Tuesday Night Hair flying in the backseat radio blasting at 30 the future is bleak And the past is dreary 18 years old almost on the edge of 19 Emotions seem unbearable and other times weak Nothing is ever alright I just sit in my room and imagine myself grown over night I cant pretend the future isn’t scary id be lying if I said that I act a 1000 years my age no one understands that I don’t know my purpose The search might take my lifetime What happens when the lights go out ? Am I in heaven ? Am I alright ? To say I have worries is way over my head, anxiety creeps in while I’m laying in bed Is it wrong to think I’m meant for more than this life ? Think positive think positive I’m trying cant you see ! The more I think positive the more unfortunate I believe
and here i am, cleaning myself off my bathroom tiles in attempt to try again. but trying again isn't as easy the 4th time around. i want to be a kid again. but even at 9 and 10, 11 to 16 being a kid became an adults job. looking after myself and cleaning the dishes of uneaten food, cleaning wounds and kissing plasters like my own mother. i'll be okay. that's what i'll always say, and i guess when you say it enough the lies become the truth and my eyes blink away my youth. here i am cleaning myself off the bathroom tiles knowing that i have to try again.
i'm 10 months clean and i think it's time to start writing poetry again
I remember these early times The first Downtown in the cold Lights out. Adults living like heathens Teens on the streets My inspiration The freedom which comes from taps on bricks cold air to put you right back in your body Frightening. It was freedom nonetheless
Growing up in Eugene as young teens we would frequent the downtown bus station where scores of transient teens would congregate to talk of life, meaning, use drugs and debate existence after childhoods of parental neglect.
She learned from a young age that Rage, Anger, Defiance, Meant nothing. Not to her Nor to others. So she kept silent As silent as the sun can When she's raging in the vacuum of space. Her eyes would ***** with tears And her jaw would clench in frustration. But she'd rather stare into hell and cut off her tongue before it meant anything. She is a patient woman they say, She is a proper lady She is as passive as a flower And as kind as sunlight after a thunderstorm. She is a balm to the suffering and to the evil. She is God's child. But I have thorns I can burn you I can drown you
She has a child’s temper In a woman’s body. She weeps alone, Rages alone, Starves alone. She quietens her struggle And pretends she is only marble. Grief is an option And Anger is a choice. She chooses neither So she feels nothing.
How she would like to Yell and scream! How she would like to hurt, To let go And hold on selfishly to her happiness. Freedom is an option too. She does not choose it.