IceGalaxy

i sit on my bed,
a pencil in hand, 
a notebook balanced carefully between my legs,
not a single idea about what i should write.
i can't think of anything.
the pencil won't write the
words in my brain that i 

i'm standing on a rock
staring down at the world and
i feel like i could destroy everything
with a simple flick of the wrist. 
off with his head!
the wind throws my hair over my face,
inviting me to jump and

They all think they know me.
They think they know the kind of music I like (punk/rock/metal).
They think they know the kind of books I read (horror/mystery/Ellen Hopkins).
They think they know my gender and sexuality (cis and straight).

It takes two hours to hike to the top,
provided you don't stop along the way.
For the first hour and a half,
all you see is brown.
I hate the color brown, unless it's a
soft shade of mahogany. The last half hour

I don't watch the news anymore.
I can't, because
every single time I turn the TV on, 
there's either a story about a 
rape,
kidnapping, 
drug abuse,
fraud, or
shootings.
I don't feel safe anymore.

my grandmother owns a farm out in
southern virginia, which is
redneck land and
Trump/Pence 2020 land. 
i feel insecure when i'm down there;
nearly everyone who lives in the area
wants things to stay the same.