Poetry

The stars are reflected in the glimmer of the headlamp's light on the snow

And the air is frozen-- it feels like the sensation of holding your hand under water so burning hot that

it begins to feel cold

somehow.

There’s a lot I wanted to do,

but somehow my feet stayed still.

Days slipped through my fingers

like sand I forgot to hold.

People ask where I’ve been—

I tell them I’m “fine,”

living in a city I built

I never like the face I meet

when morning drags me from my sheets.

The mirror shows a version

that I swear I never chose—

tired eyes, heavy lines,

a stranger wearing all my clothes.

Peering through my window 

is someone peering back at me 

But do not fret, for it’s no man,

It’s Mrs. Chickadee -

And - i think She wants some seeds

Our world is filled with such

Delicate things, such

Beautiful little lights we

Find glittering in our eyes and

Try to tuck

you’re perfect.

all of you.

and i don’t need to say more

but i will

because i want to write about every one of you

Deft

Finicky

Supercilious

Pulchritudinous

Cassock

Dianthus

Diffident

Omnipotent

Ebullient

Jaunty

For my friend, who 

sent me a letter in the mail even though 

we see each other every day, just 

so she could gift me a card and 

a lovely little poem; 

I would feel -

relaxed if I were

on an island by myself.

I could forget about

my life

forget about overdue math

and whether I'm behind or not

doing the right thing is always wrong

I pick at my face

on a daily basis.

Rub my fingers over

my acne scars and oily skin,

every unwanted mark

that supposedly makes 

me beautiful.

I try to convince myself

Night loved Day so much, 

she folded back her dark, starlit cloak 

to make more room for Day’s light to bloom 

and spill gold over the World. 

I hate it 

when people say

 it'll be okay,

 and that they understand.

 But they don't. 

They don't understand, 

because they aren't me.