We all need
A sanctuary.

Admittedly, I've got
My own
Maybe most of us
Do.

But mine has cracks in
The walls and dirt
On the glass and too
Many memories.

But we all need
A sanctuary.

Admittedly, sometimes I
Borrow someone else's
Lie on the floor and stare
Up at my anxieties.

Watch the yellow light flicker
Under the dim wooden
Pews, the lines where the
Walls meet.

We all need
A sanctuary.

Nothing
Has changed.

They're preaching from
The same pulpit
Every Sunday morning
And I'm wearing this same
Pasted on piety like it's not
A grimy dress.

We're all talking and talking
About change.

And I've got a shiny
New haircut, the
Picture of change
Yet I'm still staring out
That same
**** window.

NOTHING HAS
CHANGED.

LITERALLY NOTHING
HAS CHANGED.

I'm pretty...
Pretty what?
Not PRETTY
I'm just
Pretty
******.

NOTHING
Has changed.

So how am I
Not the same?

Honestly, it's hard to find
One who's soul matches yours
One who radiates light and honesty, when
Kindergarten is a decade behind.

It's hard to find someone who's not a
Superficial saying.

A relief, it is then, to have you.

Cups of coffee in the afternoon
Our strolls down leaflined sidewalks, on
Dreamy mornings it's good to have a
Friend, when true friends are hard to find
I know that I always have
Somebody, and I hope you always know you
Have somebody, too.

Hey Dixie.
You were pretty
Smart, weren't
You?

You packed up
And left your
Dead end town
Deadened life.

Hey Dixie.
You were pretty
Sad, weren't
You?

Girls like
You, girls like
Us are
Often sad.

Hey Dixie.
You were pretty
Scared, weren't
You?

Ran, you ran
And I never found
Out if you ever caught
Up with yourself.

Hey Dixie.
You were pretty
Strong, weren't
You?

Stronger than the
Coffee and whiskey
Stronger than your
Lipstick lullabies.

Hey Dixie.
You and I are
Not the same
Are we?

You had a heart
And I've got a soul
Yet you took the
Easy way out.

Hey Dixie.
I guess you were
Pretty smart
Huh?

I've been staring out of this
Hole in the wall
For about
936 weeks.

I say
Hole in the wall
Because they replaced
The window
About
Two years ago.

The frame is
Different, more
Energy and
Efficiency.

Same wires, trees
Night and day and seasonal
Intermittent poser runway.

Headlights, I counted the
Headlights once
Once.

Gray skies
Snow and sunshine
The frozen summer exile of
My focus.

I've been staring out of this
Hole in the wall
For about
937 weeks.

I'm just a girl
Lying on back road pavement
A girl with cold fingers
And pink hair.

Read my walls.

I stay up all night
Writing papers I hate and
I hold what hurts
Tight inside wooly blankets.

Read my walls.

I'm just a girl
A face in a shiny restaurant
An icon on your screen
A flannel-denim conversation.

Read my walls.

Read my walls, every crack around
The edge of the molding, the way the
Bumps cast their shadows, every chip in
The paint, every scratch, every letter.

Read my walls.

We all want love, we all
Want recognition and I'm not
Worth half of what anyone has
To give.

But please
Read my walls.

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.

It's so
yellow
The walls are
all yellow
It's so
empty
And I can't
look up from the
Golden
table.

I guess I just
don't have
Anything
to say.

It's got some
yellow
Sticking my toes
between strands of
Scratchy acrylic
my mother's words
An unintentional reminder of
who I am not.

Sunlight
yellow
Containers
yellow
I DON'T HAVE
THE PATIENCE
to pick at the beaded
lint
MAKE IT ALL STOP
YELLOWING

I won't
yellow
I'll be
YELLING
screaming
IT'S ALL
yellow.

It's two a.m. and I'm suddenly thinking about how what we love most can make us the saddest. Out-of-state asphalt can't help me now. And I'm not upset about what I've lost, I'm upset about the things I can't lose, no matter how hard I try.

It hurts in the sense of being shot up with Novocaine and knowing you should feel pain but can't. It hurts like having fingernails that aren't short and playing my brother's guitar when he's not home -- uncomfortable and exciting. And I've been in bed for the last eight hours, but there's no way I can sleep now. Not when I'm consumed by all the petty facts of failure I define myself by.

I was crying this morning as I put on my makeup, and I'm still not sure if it was the eyeliner or the song playing. My face just deteriorated from there and I'm emotionally drained of all motivation to do anything but hide under an old afghan or shrink into a huge sweatshirt on my kitchen floor.

Good grief, it's just flannel, it didn't really matter. But it was her flannel, then it was my flannel, then it was my friend's flannel. Now it's just flannel, and who knows who should have it. I'm just doubting my own sanity. Every second is like reading my walls a hundred times and feeling it the same every minute.

I was expecting to write a lot of sad poetry but I wasn't expecting to be too sad to write poetry. And I don't want to move from this spot, but I guess I'll have to in the next two weeks, even though I might shake uncontrollably in the middle of the night when the lights are out. I'm not losing my mind, it's falling out, I swear.

I bought a paper
Bag of sunshine
Stood on dry pavement in
An early autumn rainstorm
And let the damp crush it
Crumpled brown paper bag.

I remember a car trip in
A vehicle similar to this one
And how I had notebook paper and
A purple pen with purple ink
I guess that old Barbie pen was
My first love.

Honestly, my nose is cold but
It's not raining
And my socks are keeping
Me and my massive sweatshirt warm.

Pink braid, pink shoes
I'd like to think I'm wiser
As wise as the owl on my keys
Too wise to write a letter like I did.

Part you, part her
Part him, part them
Part coffee breath but mostly
I wrote this brown paper poem.