it’s december and i’m tired of waiting for you like i wait for snow to trickle out of the mundane gray clouds which lack of christmas spirit (i miss it when we were young) and i’m tired of waiting for a bitter breeze to hit me like an unexpected blizzard because it’s 2024 and it’s only getting worse from here (we’re going to die alone, i’m sure of it) and i’m tired of hearing that global warming is a facade but waking up to 80 degree weather in november is normal and eating dry turkey with a smile on my face is normal (i’m only cold on the inside) and discussing my weight and the fan fictions i wrote at the dinner table and not hearing from you on thanksgiving is normal - a text, all i’m asking, pleading from you is a text - hit me like a snowstorm and tell me everything is going to be okay (please, god, give me real normality), that the world won’t end from overheating, even though it already did when you didn’t wish me a happy birthday (i’ve lost track of how many months it’s been since i’ve last heard from you).

validation is like drugs. the first time i got validated, i felt like i was floating. i was above cloud 9 just by someone telling me “you’re my friend” in the third grade. not best friend. not my soulmate. friend, and i couldn’t stop my smile from spreading. feeling needed by someone who doesn’t actually need you is a fantastic feeling. that’s why my heart races when anybody invites me to hang out. they didn’t need attention - didn’t need my attention, specifically -  but the syringe filled with proof that i am a fun person to be around sticks directly into my veins and stays there until the medicine runs out and i no longer have the serotonin for those around me. the euphoria and i dwindle, and i grow distant, because it’s become evident that i wasn’t needed for your journey; i was just a pitstop. someone who could give you some laughs but doesn’t have enough advice to listen to your problems. i can tell you your dress looks nice but i don’t have enough courage to defend you in a fight. i can remember your favorite color but you didn’t remember me enough to resurface old photos of us at fifteen and smile at the thought of our memories. i’ve been down this road before. trust me, i have. i want to be seen, but not to be sorry for. don’t look at my past and defy it as my present. i’m not the lonely kid who sat on swingsets and barely had the strength to push herself. i’m not the little girl who had no one to twirl me during daddy-daughter dances. i am still the girl who wishes things were different, but you don’t need to know that. so please, tell me that i’ve changed. tell me that you’re proud. tell me that everything is going to be okay, and that i’m worthy to stay the night. that i won’t become another pitstop.

i never noticed the pimples placed around my cheeks and the roughness of my hands intertwined around soft ones. i never batted an eye at my failed attempt at wing eyeliner until i saw girls my age’s eyelashes were longer than mine and their eye makeup sparkled with the L.E.D lights at parties. then i made it my mission to pump three pumps of lotion onto my hands and wash my face religiously and spend thirty minutes in the mirror before school, even if it meant i’d be late. i never knew the standards i set for myself until i realized the pedestal was too high for me to climb. i always told myself i wasn’t afraid of heights but broke down in tears when i got back my test and saw my teacher’s red-inked mark ups. faults of mine swallowed me whole and spat me out into a more flawed version of myself with tears smearing down my cheeks and smudged eyeliner covering my eyes and pimple patches peppered on my face and dry skin all up my arms. i wrote perfectionist in big, bold red letters but was too perfect to notice. i always told myself i wasn’t afraid of heights so i went above and beyond my ambitions, too consumed to realize my high standards were too high for me to reach.

maybe if life moved forward (if i moved forward) then i would find someone better than the boy before. mercury comes with misunderstandings - at least that’s what google is telling me - so maybe you couldn’t tell how much i really liked you (maybe the signs i was giving you weren’t enough and maybe the signs you were giving me were too much.) how much i thought you were the one. how much i dreamed about you (ashamedly, still do). how you could have asked me to prom with a big sign and how i would jump into your arms and scream "yes! of course i’ll go with you." and i even imagined us breaking up and me storming into my room while my mom tried to comfort me and how i cried to olivia rodrigo because i want to relate to breakup songs. i want to feel the heartbreak and see if it's as bad as everyone says it is. that’s not selfish, right? the want (the need, if we’re being real) for you to rip my heart out of my body and shatter my insides until all that’s left of me is broken glass and blood that spells out "see, mom? i like boys afterall." i would look down at the proof that i am lovable and turn my sobs into smiles because i survived the war and am left standing (just without a heart, the will to live, and the haunting realization that you will never love me the way you never did).

smoke lingered throughout the air
illuminating my father’s face
and shadowing my mother’s
the bud of the cigarette catching fire
the somberness of this second fading in the distance
a memory being erased
the screams gone silent
her hysterical tears scrubbed harshly from her face
the look of shock smeared from mine
but father stayed still
through the cries he stayed still
and he let the moonlight trickle in through the window
reflecting off of his watch
the seconds ticking into minutes
and transitioning into hours.

we sit for hours in silence
in grief, torment, misery
letting the sound of shuddered breath
and last drags of cigarettes
ghostly wisps in the air
fill the room.

i tend to set my expectations low and let fate decide if i’m good enough for them. i never really liked the boy in 6th grade, but i really loved the one that got away. i wear pants a lot because i hate shaving my legs. my dad made me uncomfortable throughout my childhood, but i was too afraid to say anything because i thought his actions were normal. i trick myself into thinking i’m lazy but i think i’m just too tired to try. my family is falling apart and no one cares enough to fix it. when you come over, i shove all of my clothes (clean and *****, i didn’t have time to check (i had time to check but didn’t care enough to use it)) under my bed and hope you don’t notice. i feel like i’m not a good daughter but i don’t think i’m a failure just yet. i’m too tired of searching for a boyfriend but i really want one. i know he’s the problem but i wish things were the way they used to be. i’m lonely and i think i’m the reason why. i want to change my identity and i want to escape life and explore another world.

you call me
your princess
but i haven’t been
to your kingdom
in a while.