Poetry

There is nothing like the floating feeling of trying to do pilates in socks and listening to Cigarettes After Sex as your knees scrape against the carpeted floor and the almost-black almost-night clings to the windows. 

My mom says I have a strange way

Of connecting deeply with everyone

And it’s hard to say goodbye

This time

I knew the goodbye was coming

So I could leave one morning with peace in my mind

But you

Sectionals

is the equivalent of a curse word.

He warned us not to complain

I did anyway.

It's chaos

no one listens

nothing gets done

unproductive

I hate being useless.

something hits me differently

when the asphalt is wet from the rain,

and my music is turned up all the way.

my sky blue converse stained with the tears of the clouds...

i can't ever think straight.

“A kind gesture can reach a wound that only compassion can heal.” — Steve Maraboli 

You called me ugly today,

Asked me why I was still here.

Capitulate:

To surrender, admit defeat.

Monday 10:38 am

You finally talk to me after two months. 

Young and dumb,

That’s what they say.

Instead my naivety was in the way.

Engine revving like a hum;

My reminder I could go anywhere.

All I had to do was drive without a care.
 

Limerence:
A strong infatuation with the desire for reciprocation of one’s feelings.

I can't breathe

My heads against the

Stall wall

The coldness keeping me

From passing out

My feet are on the

Gross ground

Trembling

I can barely tell

That the floor is solid

Music lives here.

I can feel the rain unleashing behind my eyes

thunderstorms building beneath the keys

lightning strikes with each hit of the timpani.

Music lives here.

I don’t remember 

Was it real life or a dream?

Looked back; I was gone

Inseparable.

There was this girl; she and I had been friends since diapers. Teachers would ask where the other was when one wasn’t there. We were often mistaken for twins, our family sharing such a close bond.