I am from
        waking up at 5 a.m.
        and making my dad pour me a glass
        of chocolate milk and put in
        the Tom & Jerry VCR tape.
I am from
        the years spent on stage
        performing, acting, dancing,
        making music from the keys and strings of instruments
        that I have since abandoned.
I am from
        the technology that shaped me,
        which I cannot live without-
        the shows and movies and games; staying up,
        the bright screen of my laptop glaring against the darkness of my room.
I am from
        crying until my eyes are red and raw,
        happy and sad and laughing tears
        from the deaths and lives and breakups and reunions
        of the characters and shows I will never forget.
I am from
        lying in my bed
        listening to the music that has healed me,
        blaring in my ears
        and against the four walls that enclose me.
I am from
        the places I’ve been-
        from La Jolla to Lancaster to Boston and Nanjing,
        to the places I wish to go-
        from Sydney to Quebec to Venice and Chicago.
I am from
        homework and studying and tests,
        and homework and studying and tests.
        Yearning for college since middle school,
         to be around people who crave knowledge, too.
I am from
        Modus Ponens and Modus Tollens and Disjunctive Syllogism,
        and memorizing fallacies and philosophy arguments at 8 a.m.,
        the course that challenged me beyond my limits,
        the course that introduced me to my favorite place in the world.
I am from
        my home away from home-
        lying on the grass of the quad,
        dancing beneath the stars
        to the Canon, the soundtrack of my youth.
I am from
        the memories I hold
        within polaroids and photos behind screens,
        within songs and books and between the lines
        of the poems that I have bled from my heart onto paper.
I am from
        my previous and continuing attempts to escape this town,
        and the meaningless interactions within the cold halls of highschool;
        trying to find the people who will become my people
        and the places I will call home.


                                                         ­                                j.z.

At age six,
she was scared of the the monsters under her bed.

At age ten,
she was scared that she wouldn't fit in.

At age fourteen,
she was scared of the monsters in her head.

At age sixteen,
she was scared that the boy she “loved” didn’t love her back.

At age eighteen,
she was scared that she wouldn't get into college.

At age twenty-two,
she was scared that she couldn't pay her bills.

And at age twenty-six,
she was scared that she had finally grown up.


                                                               j.z.

Realization.
That I don’t belong,
here in the town
          with these people.

I used to dread the thought of leaving,
I used to not be able to let go.
But now,
I don’t care.
I’ll leave
          anyday
               anytime.

They won't care,
none of them will.
Maybe a “bye, I'll miss you”
       or a “come visit soon”
                here and there.

But soon I'll fade from their minds,
and they'll forget about me.
Like I was never even here.
But I don't care.

Realization.
Of how much
I hate this town
          and these people.

Realization.
That they don't care about me
                        never did
                        never will.

If I leave,
or if I stay.
So maybe I'll go,
        to Boston,
                or New York
                        or Tennessee
                                or even California.
                                                                        
    
                                                                  j.z.

If you’re happy,
then you're the lucky ones.

If you don’t think of death day after day,
then you're the lucky ones.

If you have someone that loves you back,
then you're the lucky ones.

If you can feel your heartbeat inside your chest,
then you're the lucky ones.

Because the rest of us,
we’re dead inside.

We’re the sad ones
and the lonely ones.

We're the ones
that cry ourselves to sleep at night.

We're the ones
that dread life day after day.

We're the ones that watch you,
jealous that you're not us.


                                    j.z.

Do I want to know,
the things you think
and the things you say about me?

                do you ever miss me,
                            or do you not even care?

Do I want to know,
if you hate me
or if you even like me?

                have you ever wanted me,
                            or was I nothing to you?

Do I want to know,
the thoughts you think
in bed at night?

                are they dark and painful
                           or do you rest peacefully?

Do I want to know,
what is going on
in that mind of yours?

                that complicated,
                            beautiful,
                                mind of yours?
          

                                              ­          j.z.