My hands have always been weak.
When I was seven years old, they decided
that I needed to go to physical therapy
because I couldn’t hold a pencil.
I couldn’t hold the reins tight enough.
I kept dropping things. I couldn’t do
anything right.

I have always been inherently sad.
When I was nine years old, they decided
that I needed to go to therapy
because I couldn’t control myself.
I couldn’t appreciate what I had.
I never slept. I couldn’t do
anything

I punched walls and kicked doors.
I ripped posters off of my
fourth-grade classroom walls.
Ten years old, I walked through the hallways,
All eyes on me because I was
Toilet Girl
I just couldn’t seem to
get it right.

When I am twelve, I’ll start
to write ****** poetry instead
of destroying things because
both are art forms but
my parents have to pay when I
destroy things.

When I am thirteen, I’ll realize
that it’s not just material objects
I have trouble holding on to.
I have trouble holding on to people, too.

I am fourteen, and I have just
been told that I’m not
doing anything right.
I haven’t hit a wall in years but
I guess old habits die hard because
I’m fifteen with
new scars on my knuckles

I am inherently sad and my hands are weak.
I write poems on my computer because
I still can’t hold a pencil.
But for someone with such
weak hands
I have a lot of scars on my knuckles.

when my son was younger
he asked -

how old are the mountains
from where did the First People come
why does the sun sleep in the ocean
what is the color of rain

now that my son is older
stronger, wiser and bolder
he asks -

how old are the mountains...
...what is the color of rain


some things don't change.

The scene is a certain school courtyard, full of certain adolescents. Boys and girls are criss-crossing haphazardly and are bustling about, caught up in their respective little lives. They go in, out, from and to their tiny and certain daily adventures.

A certain boy and a certain girl look at each other as they walk; their eyes meet.


CERTAIN BOY:

When I look at a girl in the eyes, I imagine both of our lives up until the singular moment of iris and iris, me and her. I imagine us somewhere in the beginning of a little chick flick movie of sorts.  Or the starting line of a flowery poem. Or the prologue of some great literary novel... Though that moment of pupil and pupil is the first ****** in our mini romantic comedy.

I can see the whole story being laid out:

The nervous greeting, the fruitful giggling, the blossoming smile. Then the shy hand-holding, warm hugs, the sweet first kiss, the ***** grab and tag and rustle in whatever shadowy make-out spot in the school. Followed by commitment, sentiment,  "I like you"s , "I need you"s,  "I miss you"s, "you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life and I don't wanna lose you"s and finally- "I love you"'s.

And then of course the inevitable bored, lifeless, un-innovative, sad, miserable, heartbreaking and mundane conversations that happen once the mysterious honeymoon period disappears. The under-appreciation and the desperation and perhaps some cheating, but more likely to be found is loneliness.

This then ends in a 'break' or break-up, which are essentially the same thing.

However that may not be the end just yet, they might just get back together. Maybe. Maybe not. But no one has that much time to worry so... On to the next big thing.

But-

I can already see that whole story being laid out:

The nervous greeting, the fruitful giggling, the blossoming smile. Then the shy hand-holding...


CERTAIN GIRL:

Why... why is he looking at me like that?


End of scene.

To be what they want
Is to win a battle
To be who you are
Is to win a war

religious figures
are depictions of the same
we call it the sun