i'd do anything you asked me to
because i know
you'd never ask of me anything that would hurt me

if i could do anything
be anything

you'd find me way up with the clouds
i'd be a fearsome sight!
all tawny-brown, white-speckled feathers backlit by a rising sun
oh yes, the dream of my childhood
was to have wings
was to fly

unstoppable, i'd
soar in a low-pressure sea of blue
my wingtips carving clouds
into the most beautiful sculptures

adrenalin, epinephrine
sixty miles an hour
rising,
              diving,
rising,
              diving,
loop-de-loops and barrel rolls
death-defying stunts
blink and you'll miss me

i'd drift so gently
so effortlessly
free to move
with the stratosphere as my stage
each powerful beat of my wings
lofting me higher, faster, higher

looking down,
everything so small below my
dangling feet
giant leaps
from treetop to roof to treetop
wings casting the prettiest of shadows
long feathers feeling the wind ebb and flow

my back aches with longing, sometimes.
you can never really be rid
of the dreams you conceive at twilight
the dreams you imagine with a young mind
in my dreams, i can fly.

i wish i could describe
the feeling of standing in a large, open building
while a storm rages outside

the roof is a million miles away
something in your soul /feels/ the open space around you
the emptiness, not a bad emptiness
simply /there/, simply powerful
if you had wings, they would fill the space
it's the feeling of potential
at once the potential for the space to be filled
and the electricity that fills it

the storm is above your head
and around your body
and deep in your chest
all that open space between you and the storm
it's surreal.
you're both acutely aware of your fragility
and aware that this torm
won't even touch you.
you feel small
and also like this moment,
the present,
is just an old memory, locked away
from years ago, that you stumbled upon
in the manner one does, when time is simply not a concept.

standing in a large building with a storm raging outside
is humanity.

dear,

i forgive you
for the stakes you drove into my chest
for the afternoons of raised voices
for the tears i couldn't stop

i forgive you
for never showing me what a soft hand looks like
for never guiding me through the stormy seas of my own emotions
for never comforting me like i longed to be
(for never holding me when i cried)

i forgive you
for giving me the words i wielded
against myself in the privacy of my solitude
for teaching me promises are meant to be broken
for making me think my own memory was failing me

i forgive you
for letting me trust you
for telling me to trust you
for breaking my heart

i forgive you
because it's finally stopped hurting
to do so

dear twelve-year-old me,
i could tell you ten million things;
cheer up
don't be so sad
stop hurting yourself
it'll be okay
just breathe deep
but i know you wouldn't listen
you don't believe yourself,
you don't trust yourself,
after all.

dear twelve-year-old me,
i could tell you ten billion things
but you only need to hear one;
just hold on, sweetheart
help's coming.
you can't see it now,
you can't feel it now,
but it'll come.
your hope will survive
you'll continue to breathe
you can still love
you're broken
you're *****
you're fractured
but wounds heal
scars form
water cleans

hold on,
hold on tight,
survive
and one day,
someday,
you might
just
live.

sometimes
my life feels like
it is reduced to the sum
of the plates i'm spinning.

growth is charcoal-smudged fingers
and the rustle of papers

growth is smiles with a little less pain
but also a little less innocence

growth is stopping to gaze up at the stars
when it's three am and the whole world is asleep

growth is breaking and healing and breaking
the shards of your thoughts cupped gently in your shaking hands

growth is accepting distance
and demanding closeness

growth is forgiveness,
and growth is pain,
and growth is hope,
but growth is always
good

freckles are sweet constellations
dying chocolate stars
on a universe of cream

i wish i could
touch the dying stars
and lose myself
in the universe of your face.

do you ever
mourn the stories you deleted
or the words you cast away?
do you ever
long for the worlds you created
and threw aside foolishly?
do you ever
miss the way you strung together sentences
before your world tilted?
do you want again
to read the paragraphs you once crafted?
do you regret emptying your recycle bin
until you had nothing left except
all the words you would write in the future?

the problem is
we decided beautiful is good.
beautiful is pure.
beautiful is normal.
we chose not to see
the beauty in a man's last breath
after he's been shot three times.
we chose not to see the beauty
in the death of a garden.
we chose not to see the beauty
in manipulative phrases.
we chose not to see the beauty
in the things that harm us,
when in fact beauty
can be as deadly and objective
as a knife, loosely grasped in someone's hand.

we both like hugs and cats
we're pretty much the same person!
she makes my mornings so much easier,
this friend of mine.

last year,
i didn't know her very well.
(i didn't know anyone very well;
a new school district, if you will.)
but she's the loud to my quiet
the pretty to my clumsy
and the fight to my meekness,
this friend of mine.

this year,
we hold hands,
and hug,
and laugh,
and i'm very glad to have her,
this friend of mine.

we're driving home.
it's raining and
car lights shine through rain-splattered windshields
like angry neon brushstrokes.

sometimes i think i can see
every single color of the rainbow
when i stare at white streetlights.
sometimes those chromatic hallucinations
make me think
of all the beauty trapped
under our skins.

water splashes under the car's tires.
the sound lulls me to drowsiness.
how long has it been, i wonder,
since i last fell asleep in a car seat
unaware and unworried.

the sky is dark.
it darkened hours ago.
i can still feel its warmth on my skin,
if i close my eyes, and think of noon.

if i breathe in,
moisture fills my throat and my lungs
and everything becomes just a little clearer.

i live for rainy days.

whispers are just words in black and white,
so let your voice fill my ear with sepia-tone
paint my skin monochrome
let your words tint my blood with white-out
and my skin with ink.

touch my hair
and rub the colors of your heart
onto my split ends
like hair dye from a discount store,
stain my face
press your dyed fingertips
into the hollows of my cheeks,
because they lack color.

let your gaze
cast honeyed light on my shoulders
let it warm my freezing fingers
let it thaw my frostbitten lungs,
make my elbows lighten
with the heat of your palms
imprint the spaces between my ribs
with the marks of your fingers
like puzzle pieces, meant to fit together.

the lights of your eyes
brown-gold-copper, like an
oncoming sunset
i would know them anywhere.

i'm drawn to your eyes;
your eyes of kindness
of consideration
of the way they crinkle
when you smile;
you always think of others.
do you remember to think of yourself?

your eyes
they're soft.
i'm safe when i look at you.
i'm safe when your eyes meet mine.
i know your eyes;
i know you.

your eyes
are my favorite eyes
because
they are your soul.

gentle
is a word that could
describe me.
maybe if you knew me.

but do not take
my quiet voice
my soft eyes
my drifting hair
my light fingertips

for weakness.

you took your thumbs
and brushed them over
the bruises nestled above my cheekbones

my eyes, half-closed, but so bright
because the warmth of your palms on my face
kept me from losing my mind

i'm so tired
my fingers, my brain, my soul
i'm so tired but you still hold me

it squeezes
the meaty flesh
between my lungs.

that *****
that tissue
those cells
electric with these
waves of nervousness
wrapping their tendrils
and gripping, too tightly.

is it nervousness?
when i am nervous,
i know what to do with it.
i know how to use it.
this is not nervousness.

anxiety took root in my heart
years ago
and it still clutches
at the space where i
imagine my soul to be.

i hope you're happy with her,
i hope her hands fit perfectly in yours
i hope it's everything you ever dreamed it to be,
i hope her smile makes your dreams come true, i
hope, i
hope, i
hope
that every cliché i see
when i think of you,
you can find in her

music soft like honey
notes drops of nectar on the skin of your wrist
the bass is your heartbeat
and the warmth of my hands on your cheeks

could we stay here forever?
you and me and the ferns
sunlight drifting in
you and me and our greenhouse
this moment is a thousand years
or, i wish it was

i can see us in my mind
dancing to music
that's been stuck in my head
for years
you are my daydreams
and i am the whispers
exchanged between us,
two souls in a glass house

my fingers find yours
you fill the negative space of my body
i reach up to touch your face
you smile gently, and i feel it

the melody of our song is
the rush of blood in my veins
when i hold your hand
you press my hands to your chest
and i feel the bass of your heart

you have no idea.
it's funny to me
how you have no idea.

i've spent exactly five hundred and ninety-nine days
denying any semblance of romantic notions.
i've spent exactly one year, seven months, three weeks, and a day
with a fragment of my soul
in love with you.

five hundred and ninety-nine days ago,
i had no idea.
(much like how you have no idea, even now)
i didn't even think
i just knew-
i wanted to know you.
i wanted to be your friend.
i wanted to be near you.
a crush never occurred to me!
but that fragment of my soul;
something tells me it knew this whole time.
it knew and it wanted to reach out to you.
so i've followed you
i've sought you out from crowds
(not really knowing that i was searching
for you, specifically)
this whole time.

maybe i should clarify but
when i speak of denial
i speak of mine.
i spent these eighty-one weeks and a day
telling myself i only wanted to be your friend.
there was simply no way, in my mind
that i wanted to hold you
kiss you
love you.

i still don't want to kiss you.
not right now.
but i would love to lean into your side,
and curl an arm around your waist
and hide my face in your neck.

my heart is a violin
with too many strings

play my heartstrings
let your fingers pull my emotions
rest your hand on the back of my neck
i cannot make anything beautiful on my own
but sweetheart you can make me sing so softly

hold me close
dear i'll always love you
feel my skin, polished-smooth
warm under your hands
and know i'm yours

calm my frazzled strings
soothe my worn-out pegs,
drawn tighter and tighter and tighter
straining so deeply to hold
the strings in place
let me cling to you
let me take solace and peace
for but a few moments

my heart is a violin with too many strings,
played by too many people
my strings have been drawn taught
my body has grown tired
my music has grown dull
but with your gentle hands
encompassing the surface of my heart
i can learn to trust again
i can learn to sing again
and sweetheart i can sing so sweetly
for you

when you get mad,
angry,
furious,
i know it's because you want to prepare me
you want me to be ready for the real world
you want me to grow up
and be your perfection

oh, i'll be ready,
but not for the reasons you think
i'll be ready
because no one
could ever hurt me more than you have
and i could never hate
anything more than what you've said to me

i've walked around
with an open wound in my chest
for years.

i've been ever so careful
to wipe up the puddles
of blood i
leave in my wake.
i have to.

this wound,
this open wound,
has been festering
for years.

it was wrought first
by a wooden stake,
dripping with grass-green poison,
when i was still too young
to know that
this open wound
shouldn't have been there
at all.
i don't quite remember
the first time i looked
down at my own chest
and saw my own heart,
beating and dripping blood
peeking through an open wound.

it hurt.
it hurt IT HURT it hurt.
it hurt so, so badly.

as the years passed,
and this wound
was inflicted
again and
again and
again and
again and
again and
again and
again and
again and
again and
again.
it was torn open day after day
rotted and infected
it exposed my ribs
it exposed my lungs
it exposed my heart
it exposed my soul.

but. now.
today's the first day
that instead of letting it be torn deeper
i put on a band-aid.

this open wound,
i've never felt it heal.
and now that i am starting to,
it seems more painful
and sore
than ever.

so much of my
life has been
struggling
with what happiness
means to me.

so many of my
thoughts have been
struggling
with how i
could ever deserve it
could ever find it.

it's been living
under my skin
this whole time.
i just needed
to realize;
being happy isn't like
in the movies.

happiness isn't
a magical serendipitous revelation
that happens
and suddenly
nothing ever goes wrong again.

happiness is
those moments
where you are peaceful
where you are content
where you are in
close proximity to
something you love.

if we could make
the idea of happiness
that much simpler,
we could make
life
that much simpler.

windows in train cars
full of grime and stray fingerprints
we exchange glances
via our reflections
distorted through glass
and our own warped perceptions
of those around us

no words are spoken
the silence revered

we exist in bubbles;
no, not bubbles
we are trees
we whisper quietly
words of no meaning
and we reach so silently
for each other
but cannot move

someday
you and me
we'll sit together
and i'll draw
galaxies
in the constellations
of your freckles

someday
you and me
we'll sit together
exhanging whispered words
and hushed laughs and earbuds
and history notes

i hate history class
but i love you

i search out
glimpses of you,
passing moments,
stills of a life
in which you always smile at me

i see you every morning.
you always sit in the same spot.
i always sit in the same spot -
next to you.

when you smile at me,
i don't feel something
sour with nervousness
grip my heart
like i did
before i had met you
and i loved others.

when you smile at me,
it's something familiar.
no one smiles like you do.
no one smiles at me like you do.

one time,
we were swapping songs,
sharing earbuds.
at the time,
i was in love with this one song;
i played it over three times
before you laughed,
and asked me if i knew
a certain song.
i said no, too focused
on my science homework
to see your face.
(i wish i had seen it,
just to know what you were thinking
and just because i love
the way you smile at me.)
you played me three songs-
three songs i hadn't heard before.
each one
was
a love song

and i couldn't help
but wonder
if that was
your love song for me.

sometimes
in the darkest moments
of the darkest nights,
i forget You can hear me.

sometimes
in the brightest moments
of the brightest days
i forget i need You.

i forget the feel of your voice
i forget how it slipped
into the ridged fingerprint
of my soul.
i forget the whisper of your love
i forget how it sounded
when You spoke the truth
and i ignored it.

i forget that
all the static
of my failures
should not overcome
the melody of Your Spirit.
i forget how to listen
and believe
because i am so used to lying to myself
that the truth seems impossible;
just out of my undeserving reach.

oh Lord, i am undeserving
my hands have dirt and filth and blood
caked under the fingernails
and painted in the creases of my palms.
my skin is tainted. i am not whole.
but i am also undeserving
of the things i have whispered
to myself
in the shadows of my depression.

You tell me things that i don't think
i need to hear.
for years, i've refused.
i've so foolishly claimed
my own wisdom.
i am not wise.
i am not deserving.

But i am Yours.

in the stillest moments of the night,
when the only company i have
are broken pencils and broken thoughts
and the only light in my vision
is my laptop, the blankness
taunting me,
i have an indescribable urge
to prove myself.

my soul, that space in my chest,
tells me to fight.
fight what? where? i ask,
wisps of my hair twining
between my tired fingers.

(my fingers are tired; of writing, of
those moments when
you can't envision your future
so you assume it's dead.)

that space in my chest replies,
quiet and determined:
fight the voices
in your ear,
telling you each and every way
you'll amount to nothing.
fight them, and win
simply because
you can.
fight expectations
prove those who
told you each and every way
you'll amount to nothing
wrong.
come out on top.
laugh in their faces.
prove you can fight. prove you can last.

prove you can win.

i miss the days when
i was content with what we shared
when i had hope we could be more
but didn't want it

i miss the days when
your smile, i thought, could be for me
when we were simpler
and feelings easier

i miss the days when
we were younger and closer
when i knew you better
when i knew me better

but you feel different, and not quite so close
and i want more
and oh, i wish i didn't
because when it was just you and me,
i was content

i remember the grit of the rocks under my feet,
the tug of tiny waves at my toes,
the smudges of mud on your cheeks,
we were so small.

the grass was dead and the air cold
and you knew exactly why,
always smarter than me
but how could I ever even think
of holding that against you?

we never made promises,
but even death couldn't do us part
blood is thicker than water, isn't it?
i hate that phrase,
hate everything it means
and everything it's done to me
but you are my closest
and maybe it is the blood
running through our veins
and dripping from our noses

sometimes an acrid heat
rises in my vocal cords
it tells me to do things
i don't want to do
but i do want it
i just wish i didn't.

it steals my voice
it masquerades as honor
it whispers justifications
it reveals itself to me
in a way i can't refuse

it tells me
it reminds me
how sweetly it stings
when i drag my fingers
against my skin
how could i say no?
i am weak

it wants me to hurt
i want to hurt
it wants me to hurt
i want to hurt
i(t) want(s me) to hurt
because it never was anything
but my own desires
i just didn't want them
to be mine

i'm so glad i'm still here-

there are so many people
(genuinely good people)
that i've met

that i have yet to meet

Marker stains like bloodied knuckles
Red ink blooming on purple skin
False pain, seen but not felt
Beautiful, twisted
I wanted to feel it.

Those stray marks were so inconsequential,
But they captivated me
For the rest of the day.
They were so beautiful, and they looked real.
I wanted them to be real.

The tip of the pen dragged
Across a pale canvas
And constellations of angry red scratches.
My fingers dug into soft flesh
Nails sharp, skin dry.
That pain I felt.
That pain I controlled.

(I never made myself bleed
Part of me was proud
But a small part of me,
The part fascinated by the beauty of a broken body
Wanted to see blood,
My blood,
Beading on a pale canvas.)

A mess of bruises
Sprawling the territory of my right wrist,
Born of the moments
I hated myself most.
Flashes of anger birthed
A pain I felt.
A pain I controlled.

I still remember the days
When the scars on my skin
Could be erased.
When I painted my body with false wounds
Haphazard and messily beautiful
Like a classroom art project began at three AM.

Like pastels smeared beyond recognition,
I did not see myself
In the curves of my wrists
In the folds of my skin
In the ***** of my neck
Or in the line of my back.

I did not see myself
In the kid who cried easily
Who broke easily
Who crumbled at a raised voice
Who felt the very things they hated.

I did not see myself
In the anger
Or the hatred
Or the lies.

So I took the false pain,
The classroom art project of my body
The watercolor bruises
And the marker-ink scrapes
And I made them real.

I did not see myself
So I took my beautiful art project
My creativity, my life's work
And I blinded myself with pain
So I could not see at all.

everyone's soul
has that one space,
that one territory
where it unquestionably
undeniably
belongs.

mine is simply the stage.
nothing can stir my heart
quite like the way
the warmth of the stage lights
the scent of paint and sawdust
the rustle of velvet curtains
the rolling murmur of the audience
the firmness of the stage, tacky with masking tape
can.

i was made for the stage.
only there am i certain.
missteps? mistakes? you ask
i laugh, a private laugh.
no, i reply. improv. adaptability.
no matter if my tongue, if my foot, if my face slips
i am standing on a stage.
this is my territory.

you would do best
to not challenge
underestimate
my power
when
i
stand
on my stage.

summer is sunlight warming your jeans
chlorine up your nose
mosquito bites on the back of your knee
sweat pooling behind your ears
late nights and late mornings
scalding stone walkways under bare feet
dry grass crumbling between your fingertips
burrs in your socks
sunscreen dotting your nose
air conditioner whirring to life
fans spinning so hard they shake the room
car rides over hours of half-melted tar
lake water soaking your tennis shoes
afternoons spent at home

afternoons spent wishing you were somewhere else

when i bare my neck at you
i'm not trusting you to not hurt me
i'm trusting you to protect me
from those who might

i found love
in the burn in your throat
from wanting to cry,
in the breath of air after a lie,
in the space between heartbeats,
and in the chill of broken air-conditioning
in an empty room

i found love
in the dripping of a tap
left on and abandoned,
in the echo of voices in a canyon,
in footprints dried in years-old mud,
and in the negative spaces of my hands
where yours used to rest

my skin is blue with depression
my breaths are yellow with anxiety
i bleed red from anger
and my heart is grey with apathy

i love in chocolate browns
i hurt in deep maroons
i sleep with the deepest of blacks
i speak with the quietest of greens

my shame is pale orange
a sickly, strange color
it coats my fingertips
and it hurts to look at

my fear is a midnight blue
soothing in its constancy
it sings to me in the ruddy moments
it calms me during the greyest of days

my loneliness is a royal purple
in the paintings of my youth
it stands out
it overpowers all other colors

i live in shades of colors
together they paint a picture
of a person
or, a palette

it's one in the morning
and i have so many emotions
swelling in the space between
my lungs

the space where
i imagine my soul
resides

i don't know
why, but i feel
i know
that my soul is a tangible
expanding, moving
thing
trapped in my ribcage
my fragile bones are
a birdcage for
the paper bird that is my soul

it really does feel
like it can fly
sometimes,
like now
the darkest hour of the night
or when
i let certain songs
permeate my skin
and sink into my bones

my soul is an *****
visceral, necessary
for my very survival.
a comforting weight
in the space between my lungs
when i lose my grip
or my breath
i can feel it, always there
it grounds me.

how different am i,
that you can no longer love me?
i swear not very long ago,
or maybe yesterday,
or maybe tomorrow,
i smiled, smile, will smile at you
it is the same smile, on the same face
you just haven't seen it
in quite some time

you ask me if i am the same,
you ask if i am still me,
and i answer of course,
because i am more me than ever
and maybe that is why you're so scared
that i've changed