new year.

2017, the girl is changed

 

winter

fought my way through depression and anxiety

found out the underlying roots, and scared me. it’s hard to face the things that made you.

almost took my life. gritted my teeth, and prayed for spring to bring regrowth.

harassed by a boy. and, I let him…

the only thing good that came of winter was finding a friend after losing her for so long.

 

spring.

the flowers are blooming, and the poetry vein reopened.

somehow, the air is still murky. scars are appearing outwardly.

here comes medication.

here comes healing.

I spend hours journaling away my pain, pushing it away, fighting,

fight, fight, poisoning it with ink

wondering, will it ever end? 

 

summer.

a smile. a spark. a flitter. a little bit of glitter.

I hid my scars as the new skin grew over.

confident, I hadn’t felt confident in years.

traveling, catching memories, feeling the air clear.

freedom.

and, at the end…a pair of ocean eyes…

 

fall. (what a coincidence, falling leaves, falling in love.)

he fell in love with my music taste, my smile, and the way I wrote him poetry.

I fell in love with the way he talked, how much we had in common, and how he was different.

we weren’t perfect. far from it. but, we were made for each other.

and, he was taken away from me.

then my friend and I fell apart. she and I were too stubborn, too stuck in our ways, and I wish I avoided the petty conflict.

my best friend far, far away held me together. encouraging me. feeding me love.

somehow, I kept smiling. I was determined to never sink down to where I had been.

 

winter II.

running away. (or trying.)

planning. counting days. wanting to make something out of myself

writing. and, collecting my poetry in a volume.

determined to make a path for myself. ablaze, and so people will see the girl so close to crumbling, rose from her ashes.

loving everyone. though they wrong me. though they hate me. I accept what happens, happens for a reason.

 

2018.

stick around. the girl is planning great things.

(a book is coming this way…)

college. jobs. travel.

I’ll be busy.

learning. growing. and, finding myself after wasting two years.

here we go. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

do what you love.

Do what you love…bake burnt-ish cookies, write fragmented poetry and unfinished stories, sing a little off-key, play the guitar slowly and clumsily, and braid your hair (forgetting a few strands.)

Because, life is for enjoying, not perfecting.

Wear what you want. Graphic tees or long skirts. Blazers or high heels. Dresses or jeans or sweat pants. That shade of red lipstick that makes you feel empowered. That headband you’ve had since you can remember.

Because, life isn’t about fashion trends all the time.

Learn about what interests you. Famous celebrities, the capitals of the world, economic growth, or the Guinness world records. Learn about Joan of Arc, or Mayan civilization. Learn how to dance the waltz, or how to make a arrangement of flowers. Learn how to file paperwork, or how some stars are farther away.

Because, the unconventional things are worth your time.

Be yourself, heavenly and devilish.

 

 

 

 

approval.

no one ever approves,

everyone shakes their head, and gives their reasons,

never listens to yours, doesn’t validate your feelings,

too young. too dumb. too naïve.

blind girl, with your head in the clouds,

snap out of it.

to hell with you, i love the clouds.

and, i swear i will touch the sky one day.

i don’t need your approval.

i have my own.

it took me seventeen years to learn that,

it took me years of fighting for it, and never receiving it,

to realize, i am my own human being. i am not owned.

 

picket-fence girl.

Picket fence girl.

Board straight, with your heart in a tangle,

your boy is saying he loves you, and you’re happy aren’t you?

you’re high school sweet hearts, stuck in a rut,

thinking this is as good as it gets, optimistically.

 

You’re marking the days off your calendar,

waiting for date in particular, but knowing someday you’ll get away.

You were grown here, a white picket fenced house,

and you always wanted more than this.

 

Discouraged, aren’t you picket fence girl?

That boy says he loves you, but doesn’t ask you how you are,

and your high school love that was so sweet, tastes sour now.

You look at the road, and say the city seems awfully far…

 

That boy is on one knee, a frown set in his face,

asking you to settle down in your own picket fence yard.

It’s like he never listened to your dreams, to your wide-eyes fascination,

and you look in his dead eyes, that you must’ve loved at one point,

and you just nod, yes because this must be as good as it gets.

 

You stop marking days off the calendar,

and that boy doesn’t even tell you he loves you anymore,

and you’re sitting on your picket fence,

board straight and heart in a twist, wondering

how far the city is again, and there must be something better than this.

 

 

 

counting the stars.

Mom drives the rental car on a midnight Saturday. I lean my head out an open window, and count the stars,

one, where are you,

two, the stars are brighter here,

three, is that Orion, or is that you?

We sped along, and I gaped at Orion. I traced his belt with my hand, and I wondered if you even knew that Orion existed.

To many, he must be stars, but someone drew him in the sky one night, and called him a constellation.

four, do you love the stars?

five, do you love me?

six, are you wondering where I am?

My face is numb, the way I like it. It helps with the pain of missed calls, loose promises, and the feeling of someone slipping away.

Orion is fighting Taurus. My zodiac sign. She’s bucking her horns, and you’re telling her to stop being so stubborn.

seven, Orion is leaving,

eight, Taurus is crying,

nine, the other stars are laughing,

and then,

ten, the stars split and stop being controlled by me.

 

A fictional short story…

 

you, me, and the beach.

I look over at him, his kakis rolled up, his hair messy and his eyes awash with sleepiness.

He is knee-deep in his socks, wading in the ocean. I’m sitting in the sand, watching the horizon and him acting like a fool.

The beach is lonely without us; no one comes to visit her here in the midnight. The tide is low, and I draw our names in the sand,

you, me, and the beach,

he’s laughing like a child, as he runs in the sand,

I’m playing with the ring on my finger, sliding it off and on,

off and on,

I like it better when it’s on, like a security blanket, like a promise.

Promises. He’s promising me he’s not leaving, and we’re young again.

And, he’s far, far,

far away,

drifting in and out with the tide.

I caught glimpses at times, and I kept up faith. I watched the horizon for him,

waiting, waiting,

for him to show.

He came, and it was like we planned.

It was him, and I, and the beach.

 

…a short story…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a warm memory.

Everyone asks what happened to you…where you’ve been…weren’t you best friends?

I smile. Yes, we were. My heart sinks.

We were, weren’t we? I can’t hide the past, even though it hurts sometimes.

I still drink out of coffee cup, have the prom photos hung up in my room, and the letters you wrote me for my birthday. I couldn’t get rid of them.

You are apart of me. Fall days full of painting gourds, trips to gas stations, and laughing until our stomachs hurt. And, as it grow colder, I can feel my memories and nostalgia taking the place of you.

You’re a warm memory now. The apple cider. The sweater I’m wearing to keep out the wind.

 

 

 

 

 

emotional wreck.

“I am an emotional wreck,”

I said when my life felt it was falling into pieces.

Nothing seemed right.

My emotions were rampant, and I didn’t know

if I was feeling one without feeling another.

My emotional wreck.” He responded.

I knew he didn’t know the half it;

that he didn’t understand the fractures and

how I reset my emotions and they still came out of place sometimes.

I knew he didn’t understand the wreck, the past,

and why I couldn’t snap out of it at times.

That was the beauty of it, I was his emotional wreck,

and he didn’t care if I was wreck,

because I was his.

 

 

 

 

we’ll be poetry.

I get tipsy off tea samples, and you don’t mind at all.

I sang along to the song in the car, and you laughed at my dramatic reenactment.

I am raw at midnight, and we sit and talk on the couch.

I communicate with you through glances, smiles, and winks.

Someday, we’ll drive to the best place to watch the sunrise, and order cappuccinos at a drive thru.

We’ll name the stars, and you’ll paint the sun coming over us.

We’ll forever be set in poetry.