i think we are window shopping because
i don’t have much to offer and
you might not want to remember this place
after we leave it
i bought you a snow-globe of us in the rain
you shake it to be transported when i’m not there

and every grasp of your hand
every kiss
every text message at dusk when i’m supposed to be busy
every poem
is a way of saying,
i don’t want to be just a souvenir this time 



time doesn’t change anything.

at thirteen,
i was full of untamed anger
and i didn’t know why yet
i took my aggression out on unsuspecting
pages of my diary
boys were unattainable creatures
who gawked in the distance
i picked out movies
my mother told me not to watch

at sixteen,
i found myself dying
drowning in seas of emotions
the hands of fate
sweeping me away in an under toe
i can never escape
boys flirted and flirted back
i used language
my mother told me was unladylike

 at eighteen i find myself still in the hands of fate. 

and i clench my fists and write my poetry to control the anger. 

cruel jokes.

i will be alright someday. she whispers that under the cloudy violet skies. her friends are dancing to the pop tracks and she’s desperately trying–she escapes to the bathroom–

finds her reflection and stares at her intently

she softly touches the glass wishing this was a dream.

reality is a cruel joke. 


conception: me, with my hair short and with a tattoo on my ankle. drinking tea on a summer morning, and the birds are talking with one another.

a small apartment shared with one other person, and we hung posters/art all over the walls. we bought lots of vases and filled them with wildflowers. we cook dinner and dance about the living room, because we couldn’t afford lots of furniture.

we go to see $15 concerts on lawns, and paint our nails black. we tell each other about our days, and we laugh at our boyfriends (if we have those…)

and, we’re free.



strip away this girl.

give her pink nail polish, instead of black.

let her read magazines instead of philosophies.

give her coffee with cream and two sugars; black seems too bitter.

let her bury herself between rose fragrances and blush eyeshadows.

give her hope that sweet will cut the bitterness. even though we know, bitter starts at a young age, when someone decided you weren’t too young to learn adult-things. 

trade in the clash for radio hits.

laugh, smile, laugh, smile…just get used to it.

trade in her poetry journal entries for the ridiculous journals in the stores that say, you’ve got this or boss. 

…you’ll get used to this.

give her hope this hole in her heart, six feet deeper every year, can be fixed by brainwashing herself to be happy. 




we’re all human.

I told him how far I had fallen,

held my breath for the goodbye

for him to leave

but he just said,

 I’m not mad, we’re all human, love 

and, what would I do without you?

making me feel new when I have messed up


I called her, admitting things

I had been afraid to say

sobbing, crying, ashamed

and she just said

we’re all human, I could never judge you

and, the earth stopped shaking

when she chose to love me not hate me.