Hi everyone!
I am starting a YWP podcast and I'm looking for writers to collaborate with. You would read one of your poems and then we would talk about the inspiration behind it, what it means, and an overall analysis. I think that it will be a really fun way to learn more about YWPers and their writing. 
Let me know if you're interested!
-Iris

i know where you like to hide.
i know that your fingernails like to
tap along the wall of a blue whale heart,
i know that you like to see how small
your body can become inside an artery.
 
i know you prefer human hearts on occasions-
when the blue whale heart becomes
too stiflingly large,
too anonymous, not nearly enough control.
 
i know you hate anything that stands before you,
i know your mittens are often looped together like handcuffs
and your scarf appears like a noose.
 
i know you like to shimmy into veins,
swim in the dark dangerous blood,
stain the bones with despair,
blame it on chicken pox and be on with your life.
 
i know your type-
staying just long enough to make a difference
and leave a footprint on my chest,
but i know that your feet are too small
to have any weight,
and the prints left on me are self-made.
 

I wonder where you will be in a few years
 
if you will read this poem and roll your eyes
at the way I idealized everything, the way
the ferocious teenager writing this poem
is so desperate to become a version of herself
that isn’t fully formed yet;
to become someone who is sophistication and
selflessness personified.
 
if you’re reading this and trying to remember
who you were at sixteen years old,
you should probably ask yourself first:
am I still that teenager, still the one with blue eyeliner
and a curling iron, and poems enough to fill
the heart of a blue whale with room to spare,
am I still that girl?
am I still the one who counts her publications-
I think it was 37, but maybe 38, but maybe it doesn’t matter,
but maybe my worth does not depend on reading my poems
in the back section of the newspaper on Friday mornings.
maybe my poems are extra-

I am me; imagination, creativity, and big plans in an even bigger world. I am me; a girl with glasses and dreams and a restless feeling in my heart to be someone.

I’m clumsy and I laugh a lot, and sometimes I forget what I’m saying in the middle of a sentence. I’m short and think my nose would look better on a hawk. I only paint my nails when I want to be glamorous, then I peel off the polish because I don’t recognize my hands when I look at them. I don’t forgive people easily and I’m a professional at holding onto grudges.

we evolved
the wings that once sprouted from our shoulder blades

disappeared
they couldn’t stay-

humans aren’t supposed to fly
we never should have learned how to be in the sky

because once you love something so impossible

you can never let it go
so on that day forever ago

amid the thrashing landscapes and the tepid waterfalls

the humans stood-
gathered like the monarchs before migration, 

they stood like us today

in a sort of unity that we do not understand anymore
and as the waves slowly licked the rocky shore

our feathered wings molted away from our bodies 

and were ground, by the wind, the air, the rain, 

into the grass
we evolved

because our bodies know it isn’t healthy 

to give humans the power to fly
 

I created you. 
I fed you spoonfuls of ink dipped in 
kerosene, 
I made you who you are. 
I covered you in soft metaphors, 
made sure the similes were tucked
tight under your chin. 
I sang you a lullaby that made no
sense but you repeated it back
perfectly. 
I walked with you through the 
years, your silhouette shadowing 
me at all times. 
I gave you life. You cannot say that 
you were never mine. 
But then. 
Then you were not mine, when I 
wrote you all over paper and
showed pictures of you to everyone
else. 
I just wanted to share. I didn't think
it would feel like I was betraying 
myself. 
So the covered parts, the parts of 
you and I that aren't often revealed, 
were on display. 
The museum tickets were free and 
everyone came to see what you 
were. 
Like a zoo animal they watched
you. 
Those little metaphors I handled so 

also, i don't think you should
leave me here in the icicle 
darkness, with a folding chair
and audience of imaginary friends 
as company. 

also, i'm not done telling you 
everything i have to say-
there's more about how much you
hurt me, there's more about the 
invisible violet spots on my collarbone. 

also, i think you should know
that i will never have enough words-
if i could i would let them spill
out like slashed guts, but my ink
would run over the edges
and the words would get lost
somewhere in the Pacific. 

also, i don't like how you've stopped ignoring me-
i think you should go back to pretending
i don't exist- i especially think that
you should let a deranged possum have a 
sleepover with you-

also. i'm not really looking for revenge. 
i'm not here to be an attacker or all-powerful monarch. 
i'm not here to control you. 

Pick a card, any card.
Cheap tricks are your 
specialty, anyway. 
I'd like a disappearing act-
maybe this time 
I'll know not to 
wait for you to come back. 
Maybe this time I 
won't search for you like a key-
the only lock you have is
somewhere down in 
Hades' land. 
Show me your best poker face-
I'll see the lies
creasing near your nose, 
and maybe this time 
I'll know not to chase after
you on the pavement. 
Pull a rabbit from your hat-
better yet, pull 
an apology from your mouth.
Sealed. 
Possibly containing a typo. 
Maybe this time 
I'll see that the worst thing 
I can say is, 
"Okay."
So go on now, 
do your tricks. 
Find whatever you need 
in the applause. Filter
out the boo's. 
Laugh, maybe. Smile to 
yourself. Above all, 
do whatever you do 
that makes you 
forget I was ever more 

It drives me crazy, getting old. 
Somewhere when we were young
dozens of memories were buried-
good sticking to them like flower nectar, 
bad insisting on staying 
like an unloved, unwelcome uncle-
and still in the deep sand they sit, 
growing gritty and rough, 
aging faster than we can keep up with. 
If we were to find them,
buried like pirate treasure, 
the sand would sear our feet,
grilling the soles of our younger selves. 
I could let each grain of memory
sift through my body like an hourglass, 
and pick the ivory-colored moments
that nestle into the grooves of my 
palm perfectly. 
But that would do nothing
to the slow insanity developing
within me-
it drives me crazy, getting old. 

Before the performance, the stage is set: a giant 6-foot tall ramp specifically designed for the group, with two wheelchairs stacked atop each other like orbs. The background is dark, with dozens of stars and comets. It feels like the audience is staring straight at the Milky Way. The performance begins and the audience is confused. The performance is about two dancers who use wheelchairs- we had expected them to be in the wheelchairs the whole time, and move around with them. Instead, the dancers start without the chairs. They move around on the ramp, rolling, tumbling, sometimes perching on their knees or feet lightly. Their arm movements are the most expressive- wide, lyrical, sad and otherworldly. 

The background gives the feeling that the story takes place somewhere between, or in, the star-filled sky and ebbing waves.