Flashback to as far back as the mind goes,
Masculinity is mighty and feminism is flawed,
Man is right and woman is wrong,
Boy is strong and girl is weak,
I’m a gentleman as long as I’m on top,
She can’t speak unless spoken to,
No place for women at the pulpit,
Men can’t learn from lesser beings.

Flashback to four years old,
The first time he was told,
Homosexuals will burn eternally,
Because they’re *******,
He said God doesn’t love them,
They’re an abomination to creation.

Flashback to age twelve,
Welcome to the USA,
Export the Mexicans,
Eliminate the rag heads,
Burn the gays.

Flashback to seventh grade,
She left him for her,
The hate talk convinced him,
All gays were wrong always.

Flashback to freshmen year,
It was Halloween,
Debate class in the morning,
She was dressed as a nerd,
But obviously that so wasn’t her,
Because she was Iranian,
He asked where her turban was,
Said her outfit wasn’t complete without it.

Flashback to the close-minded, conservatively, homeschooled child,
Racism was as familiar as his father’s laugh,
Sexism known like the scent of his mother’s casseroles,
Ignorance was his bestfriend,
And hate pumped through his veins.

I don’t know if right wing racist remarks are forgivable,
But the one he was bred to despise showed nothing but forgiveness.

The Iranian girl shed tears,
Which caused him to shed his foggy lens,
For the first time, he saw his own sins,
A joke rooted in hate hurt an innocent girl,
An innocent tear hurt an ignorant boy,
I am an ignorant boy,
I felt her pain,
I stabbed myself with shame,
She befriended me,
She forgave.

Flawed people produced twisted identification,
She isn’t the Iranian girl,
Just a person.

Mexican, black, dark skinned, or light,
Christian, Atheist, Muslim,
Left wing or right,
Straight, gay, man, woman,
Irrelevant.

Mexican, black, dark skinned, or light,
Christian, Atheist, Muslim,
Left wing or right,
Straight, gay, man, woman,
Human.

You struggled to make friends the first day of high school.
You lied about your interests, and changed your style
Just to be in a group
Who got drunk every Friday, and high every Saturday.
Who screamed, “**** *******, get money,” at the top of their lungs
Like it was their teenage religion, and they were the preachers.
From being homeschooled, to participating in that cross-faded crowd,
It was a big leap for you merely to say the phrase, the prayer,
Much less act upon it, pushing yourself over your limits, once again.
It is your senior year now, and the cliff into chivalry
Is one you could not even consider jumping off anymore.
Your mom drug tests you once a month, shame on her face.
And you have too many petty offences to make anyone outside your group proud.
Sports were too cool for your group; you have to be sober to play, apparently.
And if you had anything higher than a C in a class, you were kicked out.
To “go with the nerd groups” and be the topic of next Friday’s teases.
Now everybody hates you, the kid who was so quiet on the first day
Who is on a path to nowhere, with, “**** *******, get money,” as your only prayer.

Homeschooled boy
Tall, blonde
with acne,
holding a lunch pale.
He gives you that
mesmerizing,
innocent,
sweet smile
as you pass in the hallway.
He makes you blush.
He makes you feel special.
never fall for someone like this
They aren't what they seem.

They aren't innocent,
AT ALL.
All they want from a sweet,
Christian girl
is ***.
All he wanted was to tell his friends
what he did with me.
He didn't care about me.
He just cared about his image.

He was the new, homeschooled kid
and he wanted to fit in.
Oh but he fit in just fine.
He smoked ****.

Little did I know,
because he lied to me
about everything.

In the beginning,
he told me he was an honest person.
Of course I believed him
because I want to see the good in people.
He also asked if I was honest,
I said yes because that was the truth.

One month later,
I found out the truth.
At first I didn't want to believe it,
but he played me.

He lied to me
about who he was,
what he did,
and who he told about us.

This absolutely crushed me.
He was my first boyfriend.
He was just an innocent,
lunch pale-carrying,
boy, right?
all wrong.

I wish I saw the red flags
and never committed to a relationship.
He broke me just as fast as he got me.
and i will never trust again.

My suitemate Sunny is from Nebraska. She’s 5’9,” and has cinnamon brown hair that’s half messy-bob, just long enough that she can twist it up with a pearl-studded comb, and half mohawk. She has the long, slanky elegance of someone who’s spent most of her 18 years outdoors.

She’s a cowgirl. There’s a well-worn sage-nova cowgirl hat hanging on her dorm wall and she has her own horse - a red-roan quarter-horse named Valentine - at home, of course. Her best friend growing up was a Sioux girl named Wachiwi who shared her love of barrel racing and lived on a nearby reservation.

Wachiwi was the first person Sunny came out to, at 10. Sunny was 13 when she came out to her family. “I like girls,” Sunny declared defiantly, out of the blue, one night after dinner, “not boys.” Her younger brother had snickered, her older brother rolled his head and said, “Oh, lord.” Her two little sisters seemed unconcerned. Her dad, after a moment’s thought, responded by asking her if she had taken the kitchen scraps out to the chickens yet.

Sunny grew up on a ranch and there was a rigid structure to her days. She would get up early and do ranch chores (muck out horse stalls, feed the chickens, gather eggs and set out hay) then study - but her first love was World of Warcraft.

Sunny was homeschooled and her stories of how that was accomplished are epic. For instance, they had three satellite internet services which she would have to switch between, throughout the day, like a gambler hoping to get lucky and every other Saturday they drove three hours to exchange books at the library. Whatever they did though, it worked. She’s unholy smart - like someone made a deal with the devil smart.

Sunny describes Nebraska as “basic, cliche and poor.”
“Wow,” Leong says, “you really paint a picture.”
“We all inhabited different worlds,” Sunny says, shruggingly, “Lisa’s from skyscraper clouds, Anais a palace, Leong a dystopian communist hellscape..”
“I wouldn’t say a palace,” I demur. “WHAT,” Leong screeches, throwing popcorn at Sunny.
“Stop!” Sunny says, raising both hands to ward-off further snack assaults.
“I just mean, if you were to go live in Nebraska - you’d have to go in on those terms - expecting something basic, unimaginative and poor, periodt.
“I couldn’t wait to excape.” she says, definitively, “I was thirsty.”

Everything about Sunny is deliberate, she looks you in the eye. Like a madwoman let out of the attic, she takes perverse joy in being fiercely blunt, raw and outspoken. She has a drive that can’t be mollified - she’s making her life over and you better not get in her way. The girl cracks me up - I could stand to be more like her.

Sunny’s joining my world this June for most of summer vacation. “Maybe you could show me Nebraska one day.” I say. “Maybe.. someday..” she says trailing off with a far off look, “but I wouldn’t do that to you, you’d go CrAzY in three days.”

“I’ll own that,” I say, wiping away fake tears.
.

I am not who everyone expects me to be,
some think I'm a ditzy blonde who can't think for herself,
some think I am one to be pushed over, repeatedly hurt,
some know I have a brain, but expect too much from me.

I do not even know myself anymore...
always compared to my brother,
my aunt, my cousins....
newsflash, I'm not them!! I am who I am.

I am a teenage girl...
I love classical music, I don't just hear the music, I feel it.
I love the opera, there is so much emotion in these.
I love the fine arts, music, museums, art.

It's true I don't love reading, but yet my favorite book is 'To **** a Mockingbird'.
I am homeschooled, so what? Homeschoolers are some of the most brilliant people out there, no one should call us dumb.

I am a blonde, I'm not ditzy, I don't need everyone to tell me things I already know.
I love nature, and photography.
I am great at math, I love it, along with science. I have a 4.0 GPA.

I'm not mall, gossip, and makeup.
I am, sports, cars, weaponry, and music.
I don't wear dresses, and skirts.
I am gym shorts, jeans, tees.

I am a fantastic cook, but I ain't no "house wife" type.
I clean, but if I didn't who else would?
I love kids, but not in my life until after college, and marriage.
Do you get it yet?

I am one of the most honest, trustworthy, kind person there is.
I love easily, but I do not trust as easy.
I trust no one, but I love, and get hurt.
I am a broken spirit, I love, and I forgive too much, I am too trusting.

No one knows me,
like they think they do.
I am who I am,
not who everyone wants me to be.

Snapshots,
So little to remember
Dark rooms,
A dresser against the door,
Shattered windows,
Alone and forgotten
Faces creased into frowns,
Lies, tears and terror.
In truth, just images
From a childhood I can’t remember.
A dog I loved,
Behind the couch
In his golden fur,
Sleeping to a violins melody.
Theatricality in all it’s might,
With logic forced down my throat.
A friend, a foe, an acquaintance all in one.
Six years strong, it’s a wonder we’re not done.
David Bowie to sing me through long nights,
Trapped in a fantasy world to pass by the long days,
Bare feet hard against the pavement,
With continuous failed attempts.
Forced to wear dresses, because that is what girls do,
Bought Barbies instead of Legos, because that is what girls play with,
Books about horses instead of heroes, because that is what girls read.
Dyslexia,
Bad Eye sight,
A speech impediment,
Homeschooled.
Day after day, what did it matter that I’m clever if I’m alone?
No supervision,
Plenty of judgment,
Brewed and engineered by ****.
I swore I’d be different,
And so I forgot.
I forgot the life that taught me exactly what not to be.
At 18 my name will change
And these few fuzzy snapshots will fade to black.

Dear 2020,


   “I know that this is going to be the last letter. Things have gotten worse, so much worse, and I know that I will disappear like I was never there. I never affected anyone much, really, I just got in the way, and caused people shame. I’ve caused myself shame. I’ve done all the wrong things, and I know that now I am a burden on my family. They have all gotten tenser since I was diagnosed. They have gotten angrier, now they fight more than they ever used to. I am such a burden on them. They don’t need me, all I do is disappear into my room and try to pray for God to **** me in my sleep or something, which obviously isn’t working. I’ve brought everyone's mood down. I’m sorry if I had seemed promising before, I will have never had much of a life at this rate and I know Sean can be”

   I don’t know what else to say. I believe in it all, except for the part about this being the last letter, but if I had written to you last night like I was going to then this is probably what I would have said. I instead used a crisis text line, which helped… for a while.
   I don’t like coming home anymore. I don’t think Connor, and the rest of them could understand, when it’s not abuse or anything, it’s just so unhappy here. Everything is tense, and it doesn’t feel like a home anymore. I am yelled at so much, and cut so little slack.
   I am eating again… way too much. And I’ve… found another razor head. After all that digging in my bathroom, I knew I would. But if I’ll use it… Oh, I know I probably will. Having my body hurt takes my mind off of my heart, which is why I also like P.E. Even know, with my hand wrapped up, I earn so much sympathy at school when Connor is really the only one who knows what really happened to it. Well, Connor, my parents, and you.
   I really don’t think my parents love me anymore. They had loved a tomboy, with long hair, extroverted, with skills at writing and drawing and who didn’t care whether people hated her or loved her. I am feminine, with a boy’s haircut that I don’t like to brush, introverted, with anorexic tendencies and no passion or skills at anything at all. And yet somehow my broken, hurting self-attracts people. Overall of my years in elementary school, three people had confessed their feelings for me. In this year alone, it has been five. What hurts is knowing that even those who I do like back I could never be a worthy partner for. The chance of my dying, lashing out at them, or simply deciding to ignore them as an isolationist technique to be happy is much too high, which is why only two of them like me now.
   I’m so tired. All the time. Even when I take naps (for instance today I fell asleep at Walmart) I am still extremely tired. I think I am just tired of being here. I want to go home. I say this a lot to myself, although I don’t really know where I mean by home. I think I mean this third dimension, one I’ve thought up myself. It’s the place I go when I sleep, or when I’ in my room by myself for a long time doing nothing. Sometimes when I say I want to go home I mean that I want to die, so that I could live in that third dimension forever. I would really like that.
   It’s called the third dimension because if my actual house is the first dimension, and school is the second, then that is the third. The rest of my world (Walmart, the castle, etc.) is just surrounding fabric of the first (and largest) dimension. But when I don’t want to be either at home or school, I want to go to the third dimension. Which is like death, and can be rarely mimicked from one of the other dimension. And even if I am homeschooled next year, I will not be able to escape the first dimension. So I need, and want, the third.


That is all I have to say, really, except that I am thinking of posting these letters on my Hello Poetry page, since I will never read them in 2020, and perhaps someone will find that I am relatable. Or stupid.


Love always,


Hollin

Facing the dedication plaque of The East Coast Memorial in Battery Park,
sat a navy spiral bound with a worn post-it note upon the cover.
Head slightly tilted, I scoff at the carelessness of some kids.

Intending to toss the book into a bin we keep at the office
filled mostly with hoodies and socks –
don’t ask me how you lose just one, ’cause I don’t know—
I look down upon the cover in my left hand
and notice this phrase, written in a young girl’s script,
“Please take me home, share your journey, then pass me on;”
and I am struck by the naivety of these words.

Flipping the cover open, my eyes are then met with,
“April 24, 2001
My name is Samantha, and I live in Moneta, Virginia. I’m twelve
years old and enjoy science…”

What am I supposed to do with this: a child’s attempt at unifying the world?
Turning the page, the date was now September 10 of the same year,
and the story is of James, a homeschooled old boy from Richmond,
flying up to Colorado to visit with his dad. Tossing


it on a terminal chair near a flight bound for LAX it was found
by a twenty-something named Megan, meeting her twin who had just finished
his second tour in Kuwait. The new mother briefly skimmed
the pages while waiting for her brother, then penned a piece
about who she dreamed her daughter would become:
a surgeon, particularly that of the heart.

Becoming intrigued by this woman, I sat down on the nearest bench
and continued their tale. Seeing John’s flight arrive,
the diary was placed into her pack to be carried home,
before she rushed to greet her closest friend.

Four years later, while cleaning out boxes for a New Year’s resolution,
the journal was thought of and Megan left in the Kroger basket
while she gathered the ingredients to make her great-grandmother’s vegetable soup.
On his way to pick up medication for his father,
a history professor saw it next. Adding a short account
regarding his focus on minorities and women in American History,
Dr. Clark handed the spiral to his niece, who was heading towards Manhattan
to visit her grandfather.

After a five hour flight, an orange duffle bag was placed upon a hardwood floor.
Tales of life left on the living room table, Amy settled in for the night.
A veteran of World War II, Walter is eighty-seven years old
and takes his life moment-by-moment
because that was the only way to survive
with bombs exploding and friends falling dead on either side.

Though he rarely spoke of his time in Germany,
as he sat before a carved eagle,
like he had every morning since its dedication in 1963,
he thought about the men who served under him.
And in this notebook, he wrote their names: every man in his unit,
who did not come home.
Entrusting their stories to another, he finished his walk.

Staring down at this last entry, my mind forgot how to think.
I was overwhelmed that this diary of a twelve year old girl
had somehow managed to become a memorial to those killed in action.

Silent moments passed, and with bound letters still in hand,
I thought about my niece, who lives in Virginia,
about fifteen minutes from this girl called Samantha. I wondered
if they had ever met and if that child had the slightest imaginings
about what passing on her tale would become.

And yet, what was I supposed to write?
How could I follow the somber courage left behind by this man?
And then, as if lighting had flashed above my head, my body jolted
with realization that my tale was theirs.

The day I first met you,
Is a day I will never forget.
I was 10 years old.
Even then I thought that you were beautiful.
I was the new girl.
The teacher told me to go sit down beside of a little girl,
With sandy blonde hair.
The teacher knew she was the only one who would be nice to me,
After all,
Who wanted to be friends with the new kid?
Apparently she did.
I got to know her,
And soon she became my best friend.
I made a promise to her that we would be friends forever,
No matter what.
We were friends for a little while after,
But then something changed.
That something was me.
We hit middle school,
And all of a sudden I was too good for her.
I ignored her,
And when she'd come my way,
I'd turn and walk in the opposite direction.
This I regret,
She did nothing to me,
And I treated her like garbage.
The girl,
The only girl in fact,
Who was nice to me then.
After middle school ended,
I had a change of person.
I left everyone,
And was homeschooled for a year.
I found myself that year.
I also found out that it was ok,
Ok to accept myself,
And be me.
I came back this school year,
5 years after we first met,
And something happened.
I fell in love with a girl,
For the very first time.
I tried to ignore,
And deny it,
Even though I already knew what I was.
She is in my English class,
I sit beside her,
And every day I feel that we get a little bit closer.
Nearly a month ago,
She told me that she liked me,
I told her I felt the same,
And then before I knew it,
We were dating.
She was my girlfriend.
My old bestfriend,
The one who as a child I thought was beautiful,
Is now my girlfriend.
She seems to love me,
I catch her every now and again just smiling at me,
I look up and smile back.
We hold hands,
And hug,
And say I love you...
But as teenage girls,
That's typical behavior.
I want to be out,
With my girlfriend,
And not be shamed.
She says she loves how I express myself....
How is that so,
When I cant even express how I love her?
I'm stuck,
Kissing and loving her,
In private.
But,
At least shes mine.
This is the story of how I fell in love with my bestfriend from 4th grade.
This is the story of my girl.
This is the story of us.

These four walls don't fit my baggage
I show up to the house a trademark of my home on their porch
Hoping that this means it will be something like it
I am wrong
Instead of making the inmates feel welcome they're trapped
The woman opens her door and she is smiling
I don't know if she'd be smiling if I were black if I were a refugee
if I had my sexuality printed on my forehead ready for her to judge
But I smile back
Does this mean I'm accepting what she assumes of me
Behind her is a girl
Her mind closed off from the world her mother with the key
Homeschooled  to protect her from *** Ed and other awful things
I realize this is where I will have to sleep
We talk  until she says that God will never like gays
That you have to realize that you are a Sin before you can truly live as a person
Response with dropped jaw wide eyes knowing I can't cry
So we continue talking abortions **** victims and I don't sleep
I talked to her about these “issues” like I was not one like I was not gay like this isn't a part of me that I am not a sin for I have never experienced prejudice
I'm a white girl with all the privilege
All I know is acceptance
This girl is flipping my world with just a word
This girl is telling me I am not enough
5 days in this house and I feel like I am hiding
how can a person do this for more than 5 days
I've never understood what it's like and I won't
Dinners hands clapped  together religion the glue
Praying something so new to me that I don't even know what to do
Conversations and card games so comfortable with each other on Friday
She calls me a friend and I feel like a traitor like I Betrayed my family just with Association
I know that this is not something I should feel but I still do
The morning of we say Bye
Suitcases Packed ready to leave
I grabbed one to take with me
Forgetting we have the same suitcase
I open it up and accidentally I see her baggage
It's heavier than mine

The aftermath
is almost worse than the surprise and maybe
It's just me-
Wrecked after every time we hang out
Becoming so close and intimate and vulnerable with you
Getting into the mindset that we'll be this way for a good while
But we wake up, like a one night stand
And we have to say goodbye
It wrecks me

But it's demanding to be felt now
So I will not hold back even though I'm weak
And I realize after you leave each time
That I'm alone, in a new city, friendless, homeschooled
I don't really have a life anymore
And maybe that's why
Waking up is the worst part
Because we have to throw clothes on a just say goodbye

And I want to steal you for more than a couple hours in an afternoon
Or for a night
I'm clingy and I don't want to let you go.
Because even though I know it's not
It feels like we are so separated. And

It kills me every time I know you left and are doing your life thing.

The aftermath is sometimes worse than the surprise for me.

I can’t forgive myself
For your mistakes
I still reflect on them as mine
I’m not fine
My freshman year of highschool was a hell
It’s a story I’d rather not tell
But then again I owe it to you- for what I didn’t say I  and what I didn’t do
I always came back to the memories of you
A homeschooled girl with Blonde hair
Going with her ambitions without a care for anyone else
As the silent clock struck quarter till 1
The devil addressed our reality with his ******* son
And a sinister smirk
That night came to lurk
And left me in murk
10 lines of powder- I was fine
Nothing wrong  with my mind
6 for you and you were gone
But you kept on going- on and on
After the ninth hit I said “Stop”
But you were insisting that you wouldn’t drop
Line 10 you weren’t fine
At 12:46 am on the 11th line you died
Into my arms you fell
And for the longest time I never would tell
Anyone of what happened on that night

Six years later
And I say
That my Dad's death wasn’t in vain
But it was yours that was harder
That cold lifeless head
Those vacant eyes blankly staring at me
Though we didn’t know for certain at the time
I had felt death and had seen it before
I knew you were dead
In the present future I stay awake
Trying to stay sober
As I reflect on my college experience
And the drug intake
This girl- Rosie she was you through and through (other than her hair color)
I Thought that was a sign
But she was taken
And even if she wasn’t
I would not make her mine
But at the same time you were on my mind
So I did drugs to ease the pain
And severely messed up my brain

Lorelei
Use your voice
And sing for the angels
And hopefully you were buried with your tennis racket
I missed your funeral
Our last memory is so surreal
Your hazel eyes met my eyes one last time and we never truly said goodbye
This book
The strife it took to make all of these poems
Doesn’t compare to the magnitude  of your death paired with my fathers
This book is dedicated to you
And all mothers and daughters
And for anyone who’s ever lost someone
Life can end as fast as a bullet flies from a shotgun

i walk down these hallways
smiles facing me everywhere
i look.

i try to escape the prison
but never succeed.

some people say that popularity
is a blessing but i say it's a curse.

all my secrets on a spreadsheet
for everyone to see.

every flaw on show like a band
at a concert.

i try to cover them up but never can.

some days i wish i could go back to my old school.

the one where nothing was public.

everything was hidden and known only by my
friends and i.

the place where being unknown was the good thing.

but now you have to be popular.

you can't possibly be unknown unless you're homeschooled.

every day i fantasize about what life would be like if we were all just

unknown

Growing up I used to watch the neighbor girl
as she sat silently in her backyard
once the evening air cooled down.
We used to be about the same age,
but she’s older now.
Mama said she was ill.
Thought she heard ghosts in the FM radio static
like conversations made of crushed metal
echoing throughout her house for years.

Perhaps out of cowardice
more so than fear,
I kept secret
the fact I could hear it too.

It would start slow with a feeling
that I tried to shape into sound
until I could feel the words
aching like a phantom limb,
not motivated by promise of meaning
or destination,
but by an impulse to simply hear fragments
of the vast expansive despair
dripping on the other side of our world.

Before moving to the part of town
with better schools
I saw her one last time
sitting on that old picnic table
letting the sprinkler mist draw her outline
on the splintery wood planks.

She turned suddenly
faced me in the dark,
her hands cupped gently around a mysterious glow,
something ineffable,
a grief too big to be named.
Without a word
she sang a bellow to the parapet pines.
Not so much terrifying,
as hopeful,
bending the world between us
until it simmered and groaned.

Later, eating pizza amidst the moving boxes
I asked Mama what the neighbor girl’s name was
and if she was homeschooled.
Mama looked through the door screen,
with a slow acceptance.
There’s no one
here.
Now go wash up.
We’re leaving before morning.

And I am told to just forget you
Like I haven’t seen your soul
The way you breath and live
And
How I didn’t show you
Where I hide my scars
And why I don’t cry.

It is Thursday
And my father tells me about
My stepmother.
Apparently she
Has been using a pandemic
To make my father feel inadequate
Because she is a high school teacher
My father never graduated high school
And my little brother is now to be homeschooled.
I tell him I can’t do it anymore
That the negativity is too much
That it sounds like he is making her problems
His own.
That it sounds like
He is still in a relationship
With her.
If she is so insecure
That she must use her profession
To make-up for her ability to mother
It is her problem
And not something we need to address or deal with
Because it is her problem
Not ours.
I tell my father
That he has already divorced her
That he is not in a relationship with her
And need not hold on to her problems
Like we have a stake in them.

That evening
My father is not present
For dinner at 6:30,
Which has become
The custom time we eat dinner
As a family.
This tells me
That what I said
May have been all too accurate.
I wonder if my step mother is right
To criticize him
Right to point out
That he has some **** to deal with
Before he can provide a stable home.
I eat dinner alone
At the dining table.
The only light on in the house
Is in the kitchen and my brother’s bedroom
The rest of the house lies in silence.
I am eating my dinner in the dark
With the lights on.

It is the hight of COVID-19 pandemic
It is said that 1 to 200,000 people
Will die this week.
My mother calls me twice.
The first time
I silence my phone.
She leaves a message
And calls again,
So I answer it,
I tell her I am busy.
She tells me she is outside
And has something for me.
I walk out
Into the unnaturally warm night.
She is in her car
Waiting in the driveway.
She looks thin,
I can see
That she still hasn’t put on the weight
That is natural and becoming
To her body.
I wonder if she has yet
To seek treatment
Or therapy.
She hands me a cd
Wrapped in paper towel
And secured in a plastic sandwich bag.

We are advised to not touch anyone
Who does not live with us
It could further spread the virus.
I have not seen her in at least a year,
But when she reaches out for a hug
I embrace her
As if she has not
Abandoned us.
I still have love for her.

So
When I follow you on Instagram
I am sprouting a seed of forgiveness
Because
Being the bigger person
Does not mean being bitter or stubborn
It means being honest with yourself.
And
I still have love for you.

I can’t forgive myself
For your mistakes
I still reflect on them as mine
I’m not fine
My freshman year of highschool was a hell
It’s a story I’d rather not tell
But then again I owe it to you- for what I didn’t say I  and what I didn’t do
I always came back to the memories of you
A homeschooled girl with Blonde hair
Going with her ambitions without a care for anyone else
As the silent clock struck quarter till 1
The devil addressed our reality with his ******* son
And a sinister smirk
That night came to lurk
And left me in murk
10 lines of powder- I was fine
Nothing with with my mind
6 for you and you were gone
But you kept on going- on and on
After the ninth hit I said “Stop”
But you were insisting that you wouldn’t drop
Line 10 you weren’t fine
At 12:46 am on the 11th line you died
Into my arms you fell
And for the longest time I never would tell
Anyone of what happened on that night
Six years later
And I say
That my Dad's death wasn’t in vain
But it was yours that was harder
That cold lifeless head
Those vacant eyes blankly staring at me
Though we didn’t know for certain at the time
I had felt death and had seen it before
I knew you were dead
In the present future I stay awake
Trying to stay sober
As I reflect on my college experience
And the drug intake
This girl- Rosie she was you through and through (other than her hair color)
I Thought that was a sign
But she was taken
And even if she wasn’t
I would not make her mine
But at the same time you were on my mind
So I did drugs to ease the pain
And severely messed up my brain
Lorelei
Use your voice
And sing for the angels
And hopefully you were buried with your tennis racket
I missed your funeral
Our last memory is so surreal
Your hazel eyes met my eyes one last time and we never truly said goodbye
This book
The strife it took to make all of these poems
Doesn’t compare to the magnitude  of your death paired with my fathers
This book is dedicated to you
And all mothers and daughters
And for anyone who’s ever lost someone
Life can end as fast as a bullet flies from a shotgun

R.I.P.
Rest easy
You deserve it
Can’t I believe i could’ve done more
When I begin to reflect and realize  that I should have stayed by your side
Passion and pride burning inside
I can’t cancel out my pain
Or justify
My heart’s apartheid
For years I’ve hidden behind a false smile
Nobody understands the extent of my denial
Everything that I've been I've been through
Has made me stronger
Every now and again for you I want to cry
But for you in my life of ups and downs
I try to vye as I'm hanging out to dry
If She hates me for what we know what is a lie
Then letting go is even harder- I'm confused about this
After you died the only way I knew how to keep people in my life was choke them with love and attach myself to everything to aid the scars because I couldn't lose anyone else in death or untimely separation
If my Dad’s death was a star
Then you're  the broken glass on the flashlight the shattered headlight on a car
This poem is dedicated to you
My first true love
And forever friend
I'm now atoning for the one and only sin
The one I didn't ever rightfully commit
That compressed my world
Into a blunder and a blender of confusion and surreal reality
I don't remember much of 2011 after that
And if no one sees it to be true
At least I know that I was the first one to love you and vice-versa

3 times meeting in person
a homeschooled kid
fell in love with me within
2 months of meeting me
all that alone time to fall in love with
1 version of me
tall blonde boy w a tinge of spanish roots
the coquí
that sung too much y me cansé

I attribute being a grown mad scientist
linkedin with tacit approval of parents
(both long gone to the smoky afterlife),
and donned wizard trumpeting magic spells
while dark and stormy night
(one week before Halloween),
which usher nostalgic memories
encapsulated within the following poem
initially drafted quite some years ago.

Both parents possessed pedigreed panache
(but especially my father – renown Chemist
B.B. Harris and to slightly lesser extent
late culinary cuisine queen Harmit Harms
Kuritsky - gal whose troth thy then still
livingsocial octogenarian widower papa
pledged, while holding some bubbling
sinister looking flask in hand while both
donned trumpeting finessed affianced
doctored formula to marry, when both
partook of blind date.

This combustible transunion link analogous
to their representative first electric kool aid
basic laboratory litmus test date), which
took place without a hitch, and telepathically
encouraged begetting retinue of revered
sons and daughters, whose ken hopefully
burned with passion KRISPR incubated,
inculcated, and incurred genetic outlook
ideally transmitted to prolific brood
of begotten babes.

This kid felt embers crackling, popping,
and snapping with yen that burned from
within and without buns sin burner of this
cingular earthlinked son.

No matter a bit tentative to experiment
*****-nilly (wonka like) with rather
explosive materiel, I received truckloads
of ammunition (in tandem with benevolent
benediction) to foster dare devil and
derelict pyromaniac precocity.

Those initial awkward formative forays
assaying, assessing and carefully calibrating
this, that or other liquid or powdery substance
found me meticulously measuring and
weighing the substances using kitchen
midden malodorous kid gloves.

Frequent disappointment arose from
yours truly as well as momma and papa
when net result (of these early attempts
to blend powders and/or liquids) merely
fizzled and self extinguished
into near inaudible ****.

Continual daily practice (would lead way
for me to enter Carnegie – Mellon ---- Hall)
after countless travails, trials and trolls i.e.
uber vaporous wisps to lyft yawping banshee
like holograms, or equivalent of 10,000 maniacs)
eventually bore successful fruit in the form
of near perfect results.

Success in hotly contested field Pyrotechnics
requires striking resemblance
to any other vocation.

One must be able, eager, ready and willing
to maintain burning passion no matter any
unforeseen setbacks or heat from an
objectionable source.

Yes, there would be an errant conflagration
(sometimes set purposely by adjunct professor)
as object lesson to master usage of fire
extinguisher/fighter, a vital piece of equipment
and evenhandedness for getting hold
instantaneously jetting kickstarter live matches)
to contain any runaway flame.

I do sheepishly admit to (ahem) you
on occasion the outcome went awry.

Nonetheless, they prided their potential
fire branded wizard in the making with
kudos and praise with DYNAMITE.

Practice from indiscriminately creating
unpredictable concoctions, these lethally
marshaled nonchalant opportunities
provided quintessentially random results
though usually very wimpy in tandem
with totally tubular nerdy, geeky, freaky,
and dorky beastie boy.

As proof positive and proud testimony, they
proudly pointed (upward) to the kitchen ceiling.

There such handiworks practically covered
entire ceiling with variegated splotches.
These scorch marks keepsake frescoes to show
kith and kin unspecified years into smoky future.

Quite accurate to assume
father and mother coached,
goaded, and nurtured
exploratory ambitions and
tried not to stifle
(at least consciously or deliberately)
my early stage ambition
toward scientific artiste bent.

As homeschooled and to some extent self taught
chemically romanced muralist, I grew up (not
surprisingly) in Unitarian household paid
close attention also adhered to the pioneer spirit.

The near limitless boundaries of life, liberty and
pursuit of understanding
an underlying credo, which
allowed, enabled and provided near endless
experimentation even at the risk of life and limb.

Aside talking head
nearly burning down the house
amidst talking heads practically in dire straits,
an instinctive reflex found me immolating myself,
occasionally singeing the canine fur of Lady,
Schultz, or Socrates, et cetera no frightful
catastrophic outcomes occurred thru milieu
of mixing deceptively harmless looking
inert raw materials.

Trial and error (quite successful with latter)
via blithely cooking dicey elements forming
goulash hiccupping laboratory mishmash
practically eliminated any pained regret to take
daring risks (such as getting married – ha)
in later life.

Despite favorable and lovable upbringing,
my mother (ever the protector and/or proctor
of our family and an excellent chef boyardee
to boot) still managed to insinuate (gently
as possible) the necessity to be careful when
igniting flammable materials lest
some uncontrollable conflagration ensue.

She (mom) did frequently confess to feeling
ever so slightly jittery and uneasy with my
slapdash amateurish homebrewed pyrotechnics
and much preferred to steer my attention toward
safer hobby such as the edible objets d’arts i.e.,
the much more drab field per how to present
and aesthetically appealing and nutritious meal.

Fondness to prepare food and pretend to be
faux renowned cook (this confession admitted
rather baldly and obviously deduced) actually
competed for my most favorite avocation activity
and spare leisure time.

In other words, this chap did relish designing
his own recipes mainly from leftovers in tandem
with unpronounceable multisyllabic organic
compounds filled numerous sized dishes
and aged apothecary bottles respectively.

Without question though, the passion plus
less riskier factor to combine and potchka
dry and wet ingredients together did rank
as considerably safer medium that still
allowed, enabled and provided me an equal
opportunity to test reactions, than those
earlier iterated potentially explosive hazards.

Nonetheless, my cavalier crusading overactive
appetite, hunger and thirst to discover causative
outcomes (even with purportedly innocuous
looking household cleaning supplies or easily
acquired inert materiel) nearly witnessed an
apocalypse at three two four Level Road
on one particular nasty occasion.

I anticipated our domicile would become
rent asunder, and reduced into a black
and decker ashen funeral pyre, yet for
grace of some divine force no family
members nor pets succumbed
nor got asphyxiated from choking acrid air.

Unsure about this one
Many before have come
And it not just me hurting when they leave
The first gave me my son
Then he left
The second took advantage of my son and me
The third couldn’t stand up
For my son or me
The fourth had kids
But the anger drove me off
One girl didn’t want to leave
The “Beast” or “Monster” as she called him
It was too scary when he was angry
I took her in
I share her with her father and mother
But now she doesn’t want to leave me
Then there is the fifth one
Much different from the rest
No children, from what I can gather
And beforehand, I was quick to bring my children
But I can see the damage on their faces
When the past comes up
This man makes promises
But I have been made a fool
Too much for my liking
I ask how much is real
And how much is wishful thinking
I am not easy
My life is not easy
And neither are my children
Middle schoolers now
Homeschooled because of the animals
And the training’s
The events interfered too much beforehand
This man said he understands
But how much can I trust
How much is true
In a world full of pain and lies?

I attribute being a grown mad scientist
linkedin with tacit approval of parents
(both long gone to the smoky afterlife),
and donned wizard trumpeting magic spells
while dark and stormy night
(one week before Halloween),
which usher nostalgic memories
encapsulated within the following poem
initially drafted quite some years ago.

Both parents possessed pedigreed panache
(but especially my father – renown Chemist
B.B. Harris and to slightly lesser extent
late culinary cuisine queen Harmit Harms
Kuritsky - gal whose troth thy then still
livingsocial nonagenarian widower papa
pledged, while holding some bubbling
sinister looking flask in hand while both
donned trumpeting finessed affianced
doctored formula to marry, when both
partook of blind date.

This combustible transunion link analogous
to their representative first electric kool aid
basic laboratory litmus test date), which
took place without a hitch, and telepathically
encouraged begetting retinue of revered
sons and daughters, whose ken hopefully
burned with passion KRISPR incubated,
inculcated, and incurred genetic outlook
ideally transmitted to prolific brood
of begotten babes.

This kid felt embers crackling, popping,
and snapping with yen that burned from
within and without buns sin burner of this
cingular earthlinked son.

No matter a bit tentative to experiment
*****-nilly (wonka like) with rather
explosive materiel, I received truckloads
of ammunition (in tandem with benevolent
benediction) to foster dare devil and
derelict pyromaniac precocity.

Those initial awkward formative forays
assaying, assessing and carefully calibrating
this, that or other liquid or powdery substance
found me meticulously measuring and
weighing the substances using kitchen
midden malodorous kid gloves.

Frequent disappointment arose from
yours truly as well as momma and papa
when net result (of these early attempts
to blend powders and/or liquids) merely
fizzled and self extinguished
into near inaudible ****.

Continual daily practice (would lead way
for me to enter Carnegie – Mellon ---- Hall)
after countless travails, trials and trolls i.e.
uber vaporous wisps to lyft yawping banshee
like holograms, or equivalent of 10,000 maniacs)
eventually bore successful fruit in the form
of near perfect results.

Success in hotly contested field Pyrotechnics
requires striking resemblance
to any other vocation.

One must be able, eager, ready and willing
to maintain burning passion no matter any
unforeseen setbacks or heat from an
objectionable source.

Yes, there would be an errant conflagration
(sometimes set purposely by adjunct professor)
as object lesson to master usage of fire
extinguisher/fighter, a vital piece of equipment
and evenhandedness for getting hold
instantaneously jetting kickstarter live matches)
to contain any runaway flame.

I do sheepishly admit to (ahem) you
on occasion the outcome went awry.

Nonetheless, they prided their potential
fire branded wizard in the making with
kudos and praise with DYNAMITE.

Practice from indiscriminately creating
unpredictable concoctions, these lethally
marshaled nonchalant opportunities
provided quintessentially random results
though usually very wimpy in tandem
with totally tubular nerdy, geeky, freaky,
and dorky beastie boy.

As proof positive and proud testimony, they
proudly pointed (upward) to the kitchen ceiling.

There such handiworks practically covered
entire ceiling with variegated splotches.
These scorch marks keepsake frescoes to show
kith and kin unspecified years into smoky future.

Quite accurate to assume
father and mother coached,
goaded, and nurtured
exploratory ambitions and
tried not to stifle
(at least consciously or deliberately)
my early stage ambition
toward scientific artiste bent.

As homeschooled and to some extent self taught
chemically romanced muralist, I grew up (not
surprisingly) in Unitarian household paid
close attention also adhered to the pioneer spirit.

The near limitless boundaries of life, liberty and
pursuit of understanding
an underlying credo, which
allowed, enabled and provided near endless
experimentation even at the risk of life and limb.

Aside talking head
nearly burning down the house
amidst talking heads practically in dire straits,
an instinctive reflex found me immolating myself,
occasionally singeing the canine fur of Lady,
Schultz, or Socrates, et cetera no frightful
catastrophic outcomes occurred thru milieu
of mixing deceptively harmless looking
inert raw materials.

Trial and error (quite successful with latter)
via blithely cooking dicey elements forming
goulash hiccupping laboratory mishmash
practically eliminated any pained regret to take
daring risks (such as getting married – ha)
in later life.

Despite favorable and lovable upbringing,
my mother (ever the protector and/or proctor
of our family and an excellent chef boyardee
to boot) still managed to insinuate (gently
as possible) the necessity to be careful when
igniting flammable materials lest
some uncontrollable conflagration ensue.

She (mom) did frequently confess to feeling
ever so slightly jittery and uneasy with my
slapdash amateurish homebrewed pyrotechnics
and much preferred to steer my attention toward
safer hobby such as the edible objets d’arts i.e.,
the much more drab field per how to present
and aesthetically appealing and nutritious meal.

Fondness to prepare food and pretend to be
faux renowned cook (this confession admitted
rather baldly and obviously deduced) actually
competed for my most favorite avocation activity
and spare leisure time.

In other words, this chap did relish designing
his own recipes mainly from leftovers in tandem
with unpronounceable multisyllabic organic
compounds filled numerous sized dishes
and aged apothecary bottles respectively.

Without question though, the passion plus
less riskier factor to combine and potchka
dry and wet ingredients together did rank
as considerably safer medium that still
allowed, enabled and provided me an equal
opportunity to test reactions, than those
earlier iterated potentially explosive hazards.

Nonetheless, my cavalier crusading overactive
appetite, hunger and thirst to discover causative
outcomes (even with purportedly innocuous
looking household cleaning supplies or easily
acquired inert materiel) nearly witnessed an
apocalypse at three two four Level Road
on one particular nasty occasion.

I anticipated our domicile would become
rent asunder, and reduced into a black
and decker ashen funeral pyre, yet for
grace of some divine force no family
members nor pets succumbed
nor got asphyxiated from choking acrid air.