I brush my teeth like I’m getting ready for war.
Or I forget to for three days
until my canines are wearing sweaters.

Temu moisturizer like battle paint.
Who knows what’s in there.
Who cares.

Upside-down Claddagh on my ring finger like a threat.
And it might be.

I put my hair up like a woman with secrets—
on the days I brush it.
A bumpy bun the rest of the time.

I shed like a stripper.
I strip like a thief.

I walk out the garage door like I invented sorrow.
I get in my car
like every song from Reputation to Tortured Poets
was written for me.

I wave to strangers like I’m about to die.
Cross the street like it’s a choice.
Clock into work like I have a hit on my head.

I **** Elf Bars like they’ve got confessions inside,
and blow out like they won’t give me cancer—
because they can tell
I approach them with pure intentions
and a positive spirit.

I know how to make an exit
that feels like a funeral.
I know how to hold a coffee cup
like I’m accepting an award
no one else can see.

I take bites of dropped chocolate chip cookies
but spit them out before they ruin me.

I spend too long staring at my own reflection,
just to make sure I still exist.

I catalog new moles.
Curse the milia above my eyelids.
Buzz off my mustache.
Denounce my chin hairs.
I think thin.

Sometimes I blink
just to feel time move.

I keep novels in my bag like armor,
and a journal like a last will and testament.

The expensive pens from Amazon
that don’t crawl up my left hand
like a disease.
That don’t smudge the page
like I have something to hide.

I pay for Spotify.
Skip the songs that hurt.
Play the one that ruins me.

I cry on the train
like I’m filming something important.
Because I will be.

I want everything I feel
to mean something.
I want every single ache to echo.
I want my poems
reverberating in the minds of people
who are emotionally legendary.

I want the world to apologize
for not feeling it first.

Sometimes I walk
like I’m being watched
by everyone who’s ever left me.

Sometimes I smile
like I know something God doesn’t.

Sometimes I think I was born
just to document
what it means to be alive
in the most dramatic possible way.

Because I am the first girl
to ever feel anything.

i want someone to call me babe
in a way that they really mean it
i want someone to pull me into their arms
look me right in the eyes
and call me babe
like im their whole world
like i could really do no wrong
that they would always look at me as im in the stars
i want to be told that im the light of someones life
i want them to call me babe
lovingly, teasingly, sweetly
i want the sweet caresses
the gentle touches
the sneaky glances
i want someone to call me babe
i want them to really mean it
i dont want it just platonically
i want it romantically too
i want it gently
whispered to me over the phone
or in passing conversation
i want it to feel fulfilling
loving and sweet
i want someone to call me babe
and to really mean it
to know that someone wants me to be theirs
in that way
its different
i used to think it was corny
but now i crave it
yearn for it like a late night snack
or the warmth of moms hot chocolate
i think i want it so badly
because i know it would fit me just right

tomorrow's my birthday
the day i more or less have been waiting for
and yet
i don't seem to care anymore

why celebrate something
that comes every year

i guess it's monumental
i'll be of legal age

i can drink... in mexico
i can sign up for dating apps
i can vote

but

why celebrate something
that comes every year

i am working after all
and the day after that
my feet already ache
i can barely stay afloat
and apparently i'm being missed???

so
why celebrate something
that comes every year