you are here because
you come and go.
like a tide pool, she said.
the waterbottles have gone warm
and you don’t mind.
by the ocean you already understand
that you cannot know everything.
there will always be people
who decorate sidewalks
in a sleepy slaughter,
stepping on berries
they don’t even know
the name of.

and you remember that program
you stopped on while she was out
fetching the mail. the camera locked on
to people painting their bodies
with the seeds of fruit.

the moon and your candles,
that night.
washing you both
in a pineapple glow.

you are here because
you come and go.
it must hurt, to have a body
nineteen years young, she said.
crawl out of the cave
and listen closely, now.
the ghosts on the shore
are here to tell you
a sad thing.

love is no longer
the summer solstice
you dreamt of once.

Fall break came at the perfect time. And it's a memory I'll cherish forever -- waterfalls and falling leaves and sunshine and cold waterbottles and plaid flannel shirts named Rufus and milk bottles and miles of blue sky. Monday. Rain on my umbrella, smile for the camera. Tuesday. And then like waking up from a magical dream, blue carpets and textbooks and shifty-eyed girls in Ugg boots and my anxiety. Wednesday. Back to studying for midterms and I'll throw in a pair of borrowed shoes.

I've got hours to wait, so I went outside and Ron said "it's people like me and you who give a **** that'll get A's." Then I went back in and found a side hallway. I wrote down what he said and listened to the janitorial staff. She opened the supply closet and told her friend "come into my office" with a laugh. Five minutes later they came back out talking about how Jamie was ******* about them at nights but it looked to me that they were more ******* about Jamie, and whoever she is, she's apparently worthless. And I wonder if this is how to make friends, by chilling with the cleaning ladies. Actually, that would be a family tradition. Is this how you find your niche?

Now they've moved from talking about Jamie to school shootings and all the good cleaning closets to hide in. And I wonder if this is why I spent 17 years "sheltered", because I'd rather be safe than normal. I'm writing all of this in the back of my science notebook because when I write my fingers don't feel the need to pull at my scalp. Rifle my hair, maybe, but no snapping. And I have 45 minutes before I get another hour to wait.

Sometimes I walk by the art department and I always want to go in, but what would someone like me be doing there? I'm not an artist by any sketch of the imagination. But it's always dark in there and I wonder what goes on in that back hallway. Like this back hallway where I'm sitting with these collegiate white cinderblock walls. How much misery from the cleaning crews have they heard?

Everyone says I'll find my niche, but it's looking to me like all I'll ever find is empty corners and solitary benches. People are okay, but the only person I really have to fall back on seems to be myself.

a grassy path beside a road, illuminated by the fleeting glow of a flashlight
the sky, a whorl of deep, royal purple, flecked with stars, so clear, the image you would get if you googled 'milky way'
small animals responding to the light of a lamp, 7 dollars from the local store
cicadas chirping, deafening
a brick wall, mottled, like a piece of raisin toast
a water tank, 8 waterbottles in my arms, filling them one by one
the plastic taste of mosquito repellent in the back of my throat, delirious
COVID tests strewn out in front of me, desperately praying for the second line
a clock hanging over my bed, my only hope, the only thing anchoring me to this world

it says:
4:23 am

3 more hours

i want to go home
but where?