The world is my oyster,
but it’ll be a long time
before I get any pearl to show for it.

I’ve gotten so impatient—
waiting and waiting,
prematurely trying to crack it open,
but it’s no use;
it’s stubbornly glued shut,
saving me from the dripping sand of potential.

My backpack straps dig into my shoulders:
they burn with the weight.
I’m sick to my stomach,
and my throat still catches on thin air.
I just want things to ease up
or give me a break.

Mom comes with ginger ale;
we sit together in the car
and consider whether or not to
visit the doctor.

I’d love to be more of a flirt—
tell girls that
they look lovely every time I think it.
I’d love to tell every
girl that takes my breath away
how she can go ahead and
sit on my lap or
whatever she wants.
I’d love to grab her around the waist
and slow dance and
sing love songs in her ear.
I’d love to, but
I won’t.

I look up, out of the car window,
and somehow I forget that I am here
and not there,
and it’s a momentary relief
mixed with bewilderment,
but then it ends,
and I’m crushed by where I’m not.
I don’t believe in a location called ‘home,’
but I miss certain locations
more than others,
and I’d like to feel in place.

Isn’t the world supposed to be full
of people who are also
confused and out of place?
I’m not the only one,
the only alien on this odd planet,
but when I look around,
I still feel isolated.

Chicago sounds lovely,
with new people places and things
I don’t yet know.
People around here say,
“Isn’t it cold there?
You’re going to get shot.
I bet your parents won’t like
you being so far from home.”

They don’t realize
that there are tunnels
and winter clothes.
They haven’t understood
that if I die,
I know exactly where I’m going,
and besides,
I was never promised safety.

My parents raised me to be independent,
and they didn’t try to push me to any
one school,
but when I showed them
the acceptance letter,
they called everyone.
They’ve been so excited,
and they think
this is a sign of success,
me going off and exploring and living freely.

Isn’t it cool that
the traditional image of a heart
is actually two hearts entwined together.
I do declare,
you are a work of art,
and I’m happy to leave you
with a little part of me.
So many works are based
on pain and anger and disappointment,
but my dearest,
even though it was a kind of good bye,
I hope we can always have
this lovely affection,
for you are still
my favorite girl.