Poetry

Everybody's excited.

It's summer, after all.

I lie in my room, terrified of the pool parties,

The farmers markets,

The ice cream,

The fun,

The outside,

The friends,

The library.

They call it “the hood.”

We call it family.

They call it “ghetto.”

We call it culture.

It’s loud — but it’s home.

The ice cream truck rings at the same time every day.

I can't believe it

I've never mentioned it for almost a year now

it turns out that I really can keep secrets for this long

from even myself

from the universe

from everyone else

from my confidants.

Look at me.

Again.

Sitting in a wreckage

I made with my own two hands.

Hours—

gone.

Dreams—

I screwed up.

Again.

Same damn wound, reopened—

blood and shame mixing,

staining every step I take.

I'm tired of putting on a show 

I will learn this time.

I am stuck, really, 

Her anger spilled in cruel phrases.

Silence after screaming was even worse.

I stare down at my hands.

They seem so distant.

Nothing is real 

She smiles

Like she doesn’t feel

The weight of

Expectations 

On her shoulders

She smiles

As if she didn’t 

Spend last night

Crying in her room

Slowly breaking

I email you, to feel the elation when you respond.

I didn't think you would.

When you did I felt hope

For the first time in years.

Back and forth, once.

Flipping through pages upon pages,

Memories, but most of other people.

Our yearbook committee has been infiltrated,

And you can tell.

I am not represented here.

None of us are.

Once upon a time you were the girl with too much passion. 

You tried your very hardest to be in love with the world,

and it made you beautiful. 

But you lost that person to love,