Some things in the world
just click,
they just fit together
as one half of a pie
would with the other.
They get tossed
and turned
and thrown around the world,
until they find their place.
Sitting on my small,
dainty bed,
I listen to song after song,
piece after piece,
on my bottomless playlist,
and when I hear this one,
something about it turns a switch inside me.
Just when that perfect moment hits,
that flawless key change,
its tunes grow arms,
grow vines,
that break the brick wall of my skin
and reach, 
spiraling,
deep down into the maze of my chest,
searching for the lock
because that one key change
holds the key.
And when it finds it,
my heart explodes.
It erupts,
sending shockwaves of 
electricity 
and power
and something so unbelievably real
throughout me,
throughout the air surrounding me.

There are moments 
when words don't reach my tongue.
They follow the map of my body,
surviving the trek,
increasing in speed,
in power,
just to get caught in my throat,
scratching,
grasping for the freedom
that one might wish for as they age. 
Just say it,
my mind tells me.
But even though 
my mind can speak
doesn't mean my lips can.
I have an entire speech written,
for the day I am brave enough,
for the day I am angry enough
to say these words.
But for now,
as they are not 
blowing through my teeth,
a gust of hot,
burning,
flaming air,
I suppose I am not yet able 
to just
say it. 
 

I used to get excited for being older. 
I looked forward to having my own bank account,
to having my own phone. 
And now that I have these things,
my excitement has faltered. 
After school,
my friends and I tread down to the bus stop,
where dozens of exhausted students will file onto the bus,
creating the messy formation that always seems to work,
that always seems to click. 
We will slump into the unusually comfortable seats,
while the face of maturity,
the face of responsibility,
masks the playful skeleton that 
has been temporarily buried
beneath our skin. 
I will sit with my head against the chilled window,
listening to the murmur of upcoming school dances,
hearing of the places people will go over winter break,
feeling my friend's breath on my cheek as she 
complains about the three tests our teachers have somehow,
somehow coincidentally planned on the same day 

One day,
I drive,
for the very first time. 
I step out of my house,
jitters.
I linger through my driveway,
jitters, jitters.
I walk to the driver side door,
so 
so 
so many jitters.
My hands feel as though they hold no weight, 
as though they would float away
if they weren't attached to the rest of me. 
When I climb into the car,
when I feel the presence of my father on my right,
my sister in the back,
the tremble in my fingers calms. 
I place my hands at 9 and 3,
I picture SMILE in my mind.
Oh no, what is S?
What in the world is S?
"Seatbelt." Papa tells me with a dead-serious expression on his face.
My sister snickers. 
And the block in my mind breaks. 
M, mirrors.
I, ignition.
L, lights.
E, engine. 
My face warms with the soft blow of heat,
keeping the shivers away 
and out of this little capsule I soon control. 

Summer comes in my mind,
and I relax with my family,
playing board games
and listening to The Beatles
in our cozy little
living room.
In my mind,
I hang out with friends,
on a beach,
getting tan 
and soaking up whatever long freedom
we have left.
Who knew,
that these things don't always happen.
Who knew, 
that parents work in the summer,
that we lie in bed,
we sit on the couch,
recharging.
Winter comes in my mind,
and I dance The Nutcracker, 
I wake up to darkness on Christmas morning,
with nothing but the tree lights shining  
against our old crocheted carpet.
I smile my way through December,
with a perfect life,
with a perfect day-to-day.
But who knew
that life can never be perfect.
Who knew 
about the homework,
the violin practice,
the drumset,
the dance,
the writing,
the reading,

Sitting alone, typing away, at 7 p.m. 
This is the most perfect way
to spend a Sunday night. 
The air outside grows colder,
whipping away,
whispering,
howling
to me. 
The wind tells me to write,
the wind tells me
not to feel down,
on the day leading me,
leaving me,
to Monday. 
Monday, 
the start of everything,
the start of a trek
from one side of the globe
to the other. 
From one side of life,
perhaps,
to the other. 
So many things
can happen
starting on Monday.
But when I finally,
finally make my way to Friday,
dragging feet and twitching eyes,
I look back and I wonder,
what happened to Monday?
I thought it was behind me
all this time. 
The days start to mix,
and a week,
eventually,
seems to me as just one day. 
Where has all the time gone?
And so I sit here, alone,

I am young.
I am still a teenager.
I still have time to make choices.
I still have time to figure out my future.
I still have time to do what I want to do.
But there are now things that have been taken away from me,
rights
that have been taken away from me,
that impact my youth,
my life,
​just like many others'. 
I used to be able to live anywhere in this country,
anywhere I want,
and be able to make mistakes
without being punished for them,
without being met with consequence.
As if writing with a pencil,
I could erase if I wanted to,
if I needed to.
Now,
as the right to have an abortion has been taken away
in many places,
that pencil has been rid of its eraser. 
Now, 
that pencil can only write.
Now, 
whoever writes with that pencil,
whoever was born a female,
cannot make mistakes,
cannot change decisions. 
Now,

Days are endless,
they are endless
pieces of time
that are organized 
into hours,
minutes,
seconds.
Most wake up 
in the morning,
we eat at noon,
we go to sleep
when the sky
is dark. 
We have a schedule,
for school,
for work.
But what happens 
when there is no
schedule anymore?
For a student,
what happens when 
summer arrives?
Do we manage our time,
our actions?
Do we wait 
for something
different to happen?
Or do the days become 
one day,
do the colors of each defining hour,
each defining minute,
blend?
In summer,
we don't know when it's time to sleep,
we don't know what the date is without a calendar,
we don't know what
to do
when there is nothing 
to
do. 
Each hour passes by at differing paces,
sometimes leaving you waiting and waiting,
while other times,

My eyes,
they hold my experiences.
My lips,
they hold my words.
My ears,
they hold the sounds that have helped,
and the ones that have harmed.
My fingertips,
they contain the slight callouses 
built up by the hours of violin.
My feet,
torn and blistered,
dancing for me. 
And my mind,
consisting of memories,
consisting of knowledge,
consisting of everything that makes me
me. 
I have a name,
but that is not what defines me.
My name is not what my friends 
choose to laugh with.
My name is not what my family 
chooses to love. 
My name is not who I am,
although it can be a part of me,
and it is. 
But it is not all of me.