there are very few things that are so beautiful they hurt
swimming in the rain.
dancing in the dark.
you.

Women are not allowed to be angry.
We are taught to be quiet, easy, pretty.
We cannot yell, because that does not make us beautiful.
We are taught to be delicate, dainty, soft.
We are not allowed to be angry.
1 in 5 women will be sexually assaulted before they graduate college.
60% of the world's malnourished population are women.
830 women die from preventable causes due to pregnancy or childbirth.
We are not allowed to be angry.
Women earn 77 cents to every dollar a man makes.
62 million girls are denied educational around the world.
4 out of 5 victims of human trafficking are girls.
Female genital mutilation affects 300 million girls worldwide.
5 African American women die from breast cancer each day.
We are not allowed to be angry.
Our president mocked a ****** assault survivor on live television.
Our country elected a ****** abuser to the Senate.
63% of **** cases go under reported.
We are not allowed to be angry.
Women of color are stereotyped as angry without even opening their mouths.
Women of native descent are 3 times more likely to be sexually abused in their lifetime.
We are not allowed to be angry.
We are not allowed to be angry when we hear classmates talk about how they were sexually assaulted and no one cared,
tears streaming down her face. She was 16.
We get told to "calm down, you're being dramatic" by people we thought we could trust, people we love.
We are mocked for our passion, for our apathy, for our triumphs and for our failures.
Feminism has become a ***** word.
But it is the only way,
the only way,
we can gain our equality, our freedom.
I don't want to be terrified of being alone at night.
I don't want to watch what I say around a group of men.
I don't want to feel scrutinized in every article of clothing I wear.
I don't want to be sexualized for having *******.
I don't want to be scared of being alone with a boy at a party.
I don't want to be called angry when I speak up for my rights.
We are not allowed to be angry.
But we are.
We are angry.

I went on a walk today.
I wore my blue dress,
the one with the pockets,
you remember?

I went on a walk today.
Two sparrows were singing to each other.
I wondered what they were saying.
I do wish I could sing back,
you know.

I went on a walk today.
The neighbors told me I looked like springtime.
I smiled back and it felt like dancing.

I went on a walk today.
Two skips down the road,
they say,
three skips down the road,
they sing.

I went on a walk today.
The world was dripping with honey.
Sticky sweet. And so thick you
might drown in it.

I went on a walk today.
The trees were sighing in the sun,
and the rusty weather vane was brittle in reply.
I wonder when the last time was
that they danced.

I can talk to trees. The secret, you see, is listening. Go ahead, try it

sometime. Quiet your mind and focus on the rhythm of the world

around you. When you look for it, the heartbeat of the earth is very

easy to hear. Press your palms against the bark and focus on the way

the wind flows over and around everything, focus on the way the

grass and flowers push up to reach the sun, focus on the way the tree

breathes in the air around it. I can see the tree's memories of weather

and growth; the stillness reflects my own. If the tranquility was a

color, it would be the flush of a cheek coming in from the cold; if it

was a sound, it would be the lazy hum of a bee in summer; it if was a

scent, it would be sweet, like springtime flowers.

she awoke
like an aubade-
a song greeting the dawn.
her eyes blinked the morning dew away;
the sleep dissipating like fog rolling over hills and out of sight.
her body was full of stories,
of dreams-
she sang wordless lullabies in
amaranth and ivory.
it hurt her, i think,
to craft worlds from impetuous grins and
the lazy dip of cherry blossoms in spring.
her veins hurt from the
strain of harsh lights and panic attacks in public bathrooms,
her veins hurt from the monotony of school
and the dull, numb throbbing of a
barely there headache.
She would come home,
after a particularly long day
and stare at herself,
not recognizing who stared back.
sea foam on her lips and
glitter shimmering upon her cheeks,
she broke the world apart with her bare hands
and climbed inside.

we're spinning.
spinning.
spinning.
in the next instant,
it's gone.
the fading laughter is still caught in my throat.

i am not the girl who wins.
in the humid days where we sit around the table at my grandparents house and play cribbage,
i am not the girl who wins.
even in the games of hide and seek i love so dearly,
played in between meals in summer afternoons,
i am not the girl who wins.
“your little sister is a firecracker”
they say
can they see how they break my heart with those words?
“your little sister is trouble” they say
and there is love in their eyes and they look at her like she’s the sun
yes, she’s a firecracker, maybe
but i always thought i had fire in my veins, too.
and my little sister beats my father in board games
and i’m not the girl who wins.
and maybe it is this that is the foundation of the melancholy that has settled so deep in my soul it got stuck and now won’t come out.
when it rains i think yes- come cleanse me, soak down, down, down
into the rotten bone.
make me clean.
because i am not the girl who wins.
people shake they’re head and me and say
“you always were such a quiet girl, always dreaming”
and yet it is said as an insult,
something made to burn
and they turn from me as if i bore them,
because i am not the girl who wins.
by the warm fire with la vie en rose playing a room away,
my father's sisters are drinking hot chocolate.
my mouth is frozen shut.
i want to make them laugh and tell me i'm wicked
but
their eyes glaze over when they look toward me,
with my head in the clouds and my mouth too heavy to open.
and for years
for years
i have been hidden behind the old linen couch in my grandmother's house
begging for people to take another look
to come and see
"look at me," i want to say, "i am also a fire"
and our world loves the glittering people,
but i am not the girl who wins.

i am desperate
full of need
of wanting
to shake life by the shoulders
and say
“give it all to me”
i want be so heartbroken my hands don’t stop shaking for 7 days
i want to laugh so hard my heart feels like it’s collapsing inside of my ribs
i want to lay outside in the heavy humidity of a
mid summer day,
to feel the heat pressing down around me,
the cicadas’ symphony ringing in my ears
i want to rip the world open with my bare hands
it’s not enough for me,
this endless existence,
i want to live.
i’m trapped,
with only a quiet, persistent desperation
to take life by the throat and spill it’s content on
the wet pavement
i want life’s blood to fill the hollow cracks in between my bones

i am being pulled by the stars again.

the sea
is limitless
and turbulent
and wildly beautiful
and has captured my heart in its
shimmering swells of cobalt waves.
this is a love letter
for a love that cannot be captured in words.
that is all.

i wanna go walk in the rain
and kiss new people
and stomp in puddles
and see the mountains when the sun hits them for the first time in the morning
and i wanna eat new food
and wake up with sun
and sleep with the moon
and walk among miles of beaches
and run barefoot in the sand
and climb the tallest trees i can find
and sail uncharted waters
and swim in the ocean while it rains
and jump out of planes
and explore antartica
and climb mountains
and go skinny dipping
and run barefoot through the jungle
and climb to the top of a building
and live.
really live.

i find it so heartbreaking
that there are a few times in someone’s life
when you meet someone that you know
could be your favorite thing.
that there is a bright red bud
of possibility within your meeting
and sometimes it works
but other times,
too often in my opinion,
something is not quite right-
just a bit off-
and you walk away knowing all too well
the what-if’s, the almost’s, the could-be’s.
what a terrible thing.

moonlight dances
across the pavement.
birds flying in
great sweeping dives,
the night air is harsh against my skin.
I am bare.
the old wheel underneath the
deck is rusting,
a *****, rotting red that seeps into
the dirt below it.
undeterred, the faded yellow
glow of the streetlights
washes the neighbor's flowers
in a pale blanket.
and then I am running.
running, thrashing, hurtling,
against the black backdrop.
my heart growing trees.
my heart a weeping willow.
****** cuts cover my feet,
infected by the mud splattered
against my flushed skin.
it's wild,
this chase.

if you listen closely,
you can hear the wind and the trees.
the wind murmurs
secrets and words in hidden languages.
the trees whisper the fates of gods and mortal men.

i think i might be horrible.
i am too impulsive and too reckless.
i hurt people even when i don’t mean to and sometimes i don’t care.




i very much want to be good.

the raindrops,
effervescent in their glittering descent,
tumble aimlessly to the ground.
even the heavens cry too.

i'd like to think that
in small corners of my mind
i built
gardens;
sprawling, enchanting forests.
in the dusty attics
i wove
tapestries
and libraries.

we were like lions, i think,
the way we loved.
it was a love that was more than love.
i could close my eyes and walk fearlessly through life with you.

all i’m saying is that
i cut myself washing dishes this morning
and i watched the blood form a raindrop
slowly slowly slowly
it dripped onto the cutting board and stayed put,
a shiny, red as a rose, drop of blood.
and all i’m saying is that
i watched it fall
and i cocked my head at that one, tiny drop of blood
how small
how fragile
one poke and it would dissipate
how metallic it would taste,
that one small drop of blood.
it would burn my tongue, i think.
all i’m saying is that
sometimes i feel like that drop of blood
that fell so far from its home
all i’m saying is that the sun is shining outside and i am watching this speck of blood and wishing desperately that it would rain
and the water sloshing around in my brain would leak
down down down
and the sun would come out inside of my head
it would leak through my eyes and
onto the sidewalk
and into the river two blocks down
all i’m saying is that i think
i would like to be a spot of sun
rather than a spot of blood

You miss him. Yes, you do. Even though you shake your head and reassure your best friend laying on your bed that he’s not worth your time, you do. You miss him. And he wasn’t ever yours, that’s the catch. You miss the small grins, the surprised laughs, the crinkle his eyes made when he smiled at you. and through all of the pain that the world has thrown at you, all you want to do is talk to him. Lay under his 4 blankets and 6 pillows with him. Become him. Crawl underneath his skin and live there. he is so close to your heart, this insignificant boy. So close and yet you’ve never touched him like he was. The only time you brushed a finger against his you memorized the sensation. Your friend casually mentioned she saw his at the store. Bed bath and Beyond. Getting bedding with his brother. How can you explain the ache your heart felt at those words? The blind pain behind your ribcage at the thought of him? How your mind ran over and over the shy way he would meet your eyes? The way he nearly teared up talking to you about his old friends made your heart cave in on itself and all you wanted to do was hold him. He was yours, in that moment. In the office with the pool outside dark and nearly empty, all that existed was you two in that room nearly overflowing with ‘what-ifs’. Each conversation laced with secret meaning. And you will probably never see him again. And you act like it doesn’t hurt, because he was never yours in the first place, obviously. But in a way, he was. In a way he belonged to you, in those moments in the office. He was yours and you loved him, just a little bit. And you fall in love fast, you know you do. You create infatuations from shy smiles and you know you should forget it ever happened. But somehow you find yourself running a finger along the spines of your memories. Memories of him and his curly hair and the smile he gave you when you clapped excitedly or pointed towards the sunset or caught his eye from the pool. Because you miss him. And today is the first day of an existence without him. The panic that sentence induces almost makes you wild with recklessness. What if you text him? What if you tell him you want to see him before you leave? Will it hurt more? Will it be worth it? What if he doesn’t feel the same? How can you know? How can anyone ever know?

i watch the world from behind bars.
i do not fit fit into this body;
it's much too tight,
too rigid,
too confining.
i do not fit into this conversation;
it's terribly dull,
terribly loud,
terribly intrusive.
i do not fit among these people;
they're much too shallow,
too strict,
too breakable.
i watch the world from behind bars,
trapped,
too small to shout my name.

“where does it hurt” he asked me one morning
“in my stomach” i said. (sometimes i traced over memories so often i carved holes into them)
“where does it hurt?” he asked again, days later.
“in my heart” i said once again. (the doctor said there’s no medical term for heartbreak and i said what about pain or torment or please-god-make-it-stop)
“where does it hurt” he asked, before he could finish i blurted out, “in my head”. (some dandelion fluff had gotten stuck when the pretty boy from work had smiled at me and his eyes crinkled)
“where does it hurt” he asked when i had come home one day, exhaustion leaking into every crack in my surface.
“everywhere” i said. everywhere.

isn't it terribly beautiful,
the way the ocean loves the moon?
he whispers and she responds
in an eternal dance.

“is it lovely where you live?”
the man at the bus stop is talking to me today
a change from the polite silence we usually grant each other with
i think for a moment
“yes. yes i suppose it is”
“and do you laugh often?”
i smile at the question
“i would like to think so”
his face, worn and browned like old leather, looked at me curiously
“and yet?”
i turn to him completely
before, we had been sitting side by side on the bench, facing forward as we watched the cars
take off down the road
but now i turned to face him
“i don’t understand”
my voice seemed somehow strangled.
he smiled,
“you are unknowable”
i blinked.
“yes. yes i suppose i am”

we're sitting in a car.
not any old car, but this one.
an orange '73 camaro,
rather ugly if you ask me.

my heart settles into this home,
a happy, lazy contentment
a bee drifts past the car
in summer breeze,
bringing along with it
the pretty scent of tulips.

you're sitting there,
a beautiful boy, i suppose,
and you're smiling.

my heart is going to jump out of my chest.

a heart not yet
broken;
a canvas unfinished.

you don’t think about it too often
but the cold harsh hurting
of someone leaving is unbearable.
i am both addicted
and horrified
of it

the process of healing is a strange,
shy thing.
it sneaks up on you slowly,
honey coating the tongue,
nectar dripping from the lips like blood upon the pavement.
and at first, you step away from it,
you are not used to being handled gently,
and the memory of cuts and scrapes is far too harsh against your mind.
but it starts slow,
first in the smiles stolen from secret glances,
then the swell of your chest when you realize that anger no longer makes a home in your heart,
and healing finally breaks through the
rough, blackened stitches of your heart
when you see the morning sun against the pale purple sunrise,
and you think
"there i am."
it is the first time you feel safe.

i have often felt frayed at the edges slightly,
as if at any moment I would fade into nothing,
the way ink dissipates when water hits the page.
there are moments when I feel real again.
sometimes when the air is cold enough to sting my throat, I swear I am visible.
sometimes when the sun rises early in the morning, and the fog rolls across the street, and the birds softly awaken, I swear the world sees me too.
but the feeling is fleeting,
and once again I feel like the faint sound of a seagull in the distance, or the quiet sensation when you know it’s about to rain.
almost there, but not quite.

i stand on the edge of the universe
looking down.
a lone figure observing life as it unfolds.
passion spills red onto the canvas,
sadness threads blue
in intricate tendrils.
the tapestry is decorated in
horrifying and lovely colors,
and yet,
i am lonely up here all alone.