The human thigh bone is stronger than concrete, a boy in a man's body tells me, as he ***** down a joint trying to **** himself quietly. I find it funny that we weren't built to break, our bodies are so strong it takes trucks to overturn us. the funny thing is, we were designed to survive but they forgot to make our souls strong. sometimes people talk to me about the invincibility of the human spirit, and I think that sounds really pretty but doesn't solve problems like how teenagers are taking their own lives off of shelves as if they were thieves in a seven-eleven. they say the human spirit can endure anything thrown at it, but then how come so many of us hate ourselves so hard we can't see straight?
the human thigh bone is stronger than the buildings we keep killing ourselves in, And I have realised there is a big difference between being alive and living.

instant chemistry,
instant spark.
new person, new topics, new feelings
yet somehow, it feels as if we’ve already met.
a familiarity in you that I see in me, too.
common interests, humour, and laughs,
the only two things that separate us
are gender and heart.

a newfound bond,
a connection I already see
shining strong and true.
you see me, and I see you
our real selves, transparent and clear,
as if we read each other fluently.

it hasn’t been long since actually knowing you,
yet it feels like I’ve known you my whole life.

our friendship still new, still beaming, hopefully true
but with misread signals and miscommunication,
each falling for someone,
but I thought you liked me.
you didn’t know I liked you.

feeling like an idiot
hurt and annoyed.
after feeling it all, I realised
my feelings were real, but untrue.

I like you a lot,
but not how I thought I did.
I thought I had a romantic crush on you,
but I have a crush on you as a person,
as a friend.

and I’m so glad we’ve met now
and get to live this life together,
finally having someone
who sees our real selves,
finally seeing something deeper
than the reflection in a mirror.

A never-ending pattern,
my own internal fight.
I get attached too easily,
pour my soul into others,
give them my all
and leave nothing for myself.

Maybe if I make them happy,
keep them safe,
they’ll stay this time.
Maybe for once,
I won’t be left
empty-handed,
rebuilding again.

A never-ending pattern,
my own quiet war.
Maybe if I give enough,
they’ll finally like me.
Maybe I’ll finally be loved
without having to beg.
Maybe I’ll finally be wanted
without having to bribe.

Until then, my pattern of destruction continues.
Demolishing my own foundation
just to furnish others.
Turning myself into shelter
for people who never intended to stay.

I attach too easily,
too quickly.
I try so hard to fix others,
forgetting I’m just as broken,
just as alone.

I get excited too easily,
too quickly.
I try so hard to hold onto others,
but they always leave.
And I’m left there,
demolished by my own bricks,
heartbroken and crumbled,
because I let it happen again.

But even in the rubble,
I ignore the caution signs
because some part of me still hopes.
She always has.
And she always will.

i went back at twenty-three,
to the school that survived me.
the rebel, the headache,
the girl who wouldn’t listen —
and thought of this building
as being trapped in a cage.

it felt like coming home.
my teacher grinning wide,
filling me with warmth,
hugging me from the side
during the memorial,
as if the teenagers on stage
weren’t reciting poems
about the war.

he kept leaning in,
whispering jokes
of old times.
shushing didn’t work –
i was secretly glowing
in their unexpected pride.

they called me the proof.
an example, that
the troubled can bloom.
but all i could think
was how they loved me
through my worst,
and still do.

she is a narcissist
you can find her at 9 o’clock on tuesday nights,
taking photos in front of a full length mirror,
trying to find a spark of beauty in a life that is more bland
than bread without butter, people without mouths, mouths without words
(words outside mouths)

words fall out of her mouth before she can stop them
they are not always hers
she stole them from the magazine she reads on sundays, the one that keeps her distracted
because monday is back to the real world
(school means enemies)


she doesn’t make enemies, she chooses them
she speaks to a boy once and has a bad impression
and for the next three years he somehow manages to make her angry
she hates how he looks, how he talks, how he walks
how he beats her in an election of popularity
he doesn’t know he’s her enemy, but she doesn’t care
(if sharing is caring, she will not even breathe the same air as him)


air isn’t hard to come by, everyone she doesn’t like has a head full of it
everyone she likes also has a head full of it
the difference is that half think she’s crazy, and the other half are crazy
she has pride in herself
(that’s what everyone else thinks)


she has daytime insomnia, except
instead of not falling asleep, she can’t stay awake
in a world of people who think shallow water is safer and
shallow minds are better
it drives her crazy to think of romantic love
(she wants it but i guess she can’t have it)


her life is divided by the color of lockers
the yellow lockers of her first middle school, the good years, when she was admired by everyone
she was smart and charismatic
and she was happy in only a way that a
bee that has never lost it’s stinger can be
(innocent children always change)


the red lockers of a second middle school, full of memories she hopes to forget
the building where she first learned hatred and hopelessness and how you can never take happiness for granted because there will always be someone to take it away
(she was angry at her parents for their uninspired decision to move)


the blue lockers of high school, the idea of which kept her going all through the red year where she almost let go of the thin, little, fraying string of a balloon, keeping her barely out of the reach of the sharp nails of the devil’s paradise
she ran into blue as she ran away from red’s angry arms, crying for help, crying to be saved,
and she was.
she saved herself.


in blue she found herself away from the miserable creatures red produced, and she could never put a pin quite on how it changed
but she fell in love with feeling clean, and she started to look pretty
she pulled herself together and woke up each day grateful for the blue lockers that lined the halls of her high school
(she worked hard to be narcissistic)


she believed she found euphoria
she trusts in herself now, but
only because she trusted everyone at the beginning
(and no one in the middle)


her life is divided by the color of lockers
when she sees photos of the blue of her new school,
she is reminded of the yellow where she was so happy and
the red where the walls of the school mirrored what she saw everytime she closed her eyes
her mind is a board game, divided
by emotional reasoning
(i read an article that said that’s dangerous)

Weeks without response
Has our friendship ended or
Will you soon return

Single whipping flame
Maybe that is what I am
Sparked by unknowing

i watched a grainy film once,
through blurs of a stolen light,
words dropped like crumbs.
i picked them all up,
kept them safe
tucked away in my mind,
until i had the puzzle pieces
to give them back their shape.

years later, i etched
a number on my hand.
not for him,
but for the girl,
who mimicked the words
before knowing what they meant.

now i wear his language
like a second skin,
slightly flushed
from the heartbeat beneath —
pulsing with all
once chased,
and incomplete.

i didn’t know it then,
how far that ship would sail —
how it would anchor me,
then leave behind a trail
to places only dreamed,
with a way back for when i was ready.
i didn’t know it then,
how it would lead me
to chart entire lives
into maps of unfolding,
guided by a compass of poetry —
all of it
once borrowed
from a screen.

Once he’d adored her,
‘daddy’s little girl’
he had said
while he swung her around
then she perched on his shoulders.
He’d tell everybody
about his angel.

Until she hit thirteen,
the devil she became.
His grip tightened,
knuckles now white
‘Just like your mother’
‘Don’t you dare talk back’
He’d taught her how to flinch

Shown her
the cost of silence.
and whilst
Mothers forgive,
Wives excuse,
daughters remember-
because he always remembered

He raised a daddy’s girl
who won’t bow now
a girl unfettered she became
whilst he, fettered by his past
mistook fear for power
but now that’s gone
and so is he

to be a teenager is to be in those social media group chats
to be a teenager is to know the hot goss, to know everyone's life
to be a teenager is to gush over boys and giggle when they look at you
to be a teenager is to be reckless, and funny, and happy
it's a social norm
it's known that if you don't do any of that, you're left out

so no, I'm not in the group chat with the funny name
no, i don't know the hot goss on jenny and tyler
no, I don't like any boys — i'm trying to figure out my sexuality
no, i don't like to be reckless, i'm not funny and...
i'm not happy
but maybe being a teenager isn't just that-
maybe it's the quiet, chaotic, messy in-betweens
maybe it's the questions with no answers yet
maybe it's the becoming, not the being
.....right?