Dreams. I Can Do It With a Broken Heart. Ocean. Stand Out Fit In. Everywhere, Everything. Maine. Stand By You. This Is Me. I DO ME. this is me trying. Small girl. You're Gonna Go Far. All My Love. Dear Reader. Golden Hour. ok with it.
I thought I had gotten better
Thought I had everything under control
I have everything under control
Right?
I thought they were gone
But they're right there
Sitting behind me
Breathing into my ear
A ton of songs -
Over fifty -
I love them all,
But fade so quickly.
My interest dies
By the tenth repetition,
And so I move on
To a cooler mission.
This beat, this soundtrack
On a loop.
Music turn-in day
Is tomorrow.
While really it's just
Placing the papers in piles
According to instrument and part
Trying to organize everything
And hoping nothing's wrinkled
for one more time
i will sit in the same place
as I have for so long
for one more time
i will be the people
i've grown to know
love and hate
The party ends the dancing
begins
beautiful mutual
agreement that social-ness
is exhausting.
Bouncing spinning laughing
hair in high pony tails
we're models singers dancers
this president can turn even the solemnest of holidays into an opportunity to say whatever he wants. the gravestones crumble in their fields of poppies listening to him speak. all uppercase. all lies.
Planning
Every day
Every chance that is given
Scheduling
Organizing RSVPs
Bugging people to respond.
Talking to the caterer -
We can have bourekas after all -
And studying
I want to write something beautiful
but I don't have anything beautiful inside me.
This spring it has been cloudy and rainy almost everyday,
but oh...those sunny days.
I am convinced that me being alive is to also die at the exact same time
I watch the girl in the mirror decaying
She's replaying every word she's heard
The world saying
About her eyes
Her Lips
One day, we will live a life that is actually free
One day, we will be able to be ourselves without being afraid
One day, we will be able to speak our minds
One day, we will decide our own futures
But
wrap your laced-up fingers around my throat like you don’t want to breathe,
hold my pupils in your palms. do you want to smile?
amnesia. the brain doesn’t like the watercolour poem of my skeletal frame,