I.
I painted my nails but it chipped and peeled off within days, so what was the point? I gave you my heart, my laugh, all those endless summer afternoons lying between tall grass, and then you handed it all back battered and torn, so what was the point? I cry on the floor of a sunny bedroom between all those sheets of paper, all the poems I wrote when I was a better person, back when I knew myself. Winter's almost here, I can tell. My words turn darker, though my smile stays plastered to my face. Everyone thinks I'm fine, but inside, I am a glowing ember, ready to erupt. I write and I sing and I try to get all my thoughts out, let them leave my body. But I can't help thinking that I don't belong here. Everyone else can hit better notes, write better poems, and sometimes I feel like a fraud. Like I've tricked my way into getting friends and accomplishing things and one day it will all come crashing down on me.
II.
Spring arrives, a new orange-pink dawn on the horizon. Things start to look up. I paint my nails for the fun of it, and this time they don't chip so soon. I wake up with the sun shining through my left window and fall asleep with it shining though my right. I go to New York City and stare out at the skyline and inhale, exhale. I write poems about hope, possibility. I meet new friends and almost cry when they hug me. I don't want this fragile life to go away. I still cry sometimes, truly cry, but not as much. I sing my heart out in the middle of a chorus and believe that I can do this. It doesn't all come immediately, but the inescapable fear is leaving and happiness is leaking in. I wear a green dress and white Converse to school one day, then a black plaid skirt the next, then thrifted clothes the next, and realize people don't care as much about how I look as I thought they did. Maybe I'm okay. Just inhale, exhale, and summer will come. This summer, I will just be.
III.
Summer spreads its wings; pink turns to green, and there everything is: the lake, the trees, the beauty that swallows me whole. Four days until I go to camp; I write a poem about it; it's surreal. I have so many friends now, and I don't cry as much (but I do, at the right times, when I need it). My voice soars through the sky and past the clouds--finally, I write and I sing and I am heard. It is liberating. I don't paint my nails. They'll chip anyway, and who has that time these days? I wait for the happiness to end, but it doesn't. And then I'm at camp, where everything is magical and sun-kissed and where I laugh and sing and dance on dirt paths, sleep inside dark cabins, cry when I need to--when my cabinmate tells me she loves all of us to death. It's the last day of camp and I don't want to leave. But then I remember my friends, everything at home that I've missed beyond belief, and so I take some deep breaths and pack my bags and go back to New Hampshire. This summer, I have lived, I have set myself free, I am alight, I am a forest fire. I can't stay this way forever, but I know I will try.
I painted my nails but it chipped and peeled off within days, so what was the point? I gave you my heart, my laugh, all those endless summer afternoons lying between tall grass, and then you handed it all back battered and torn, so what was the point? I cry on the floor of a sunny bedroom between all those sheets of paper, all the poems I wrote when I was a better person, back when I knew myself. Winter's almost here, I can tell. My words turn darker, though my smile stays plastered to my face. Everyone thinks I'm fine, but inside, I am a glowing ember, ready to erupt. I write and I sing and I try to get all my thoughts out, let them leave my body. But I can't help thinking that I don't belong here. Everyone else can hit better notes, write better poems, and sometimes I feel like a fraud. Like I've tricked my way into getting friends and accomplishing things and one day it will all come crashing down on me.
II.
Spring arrives, a new orange-pink dawn on the horizon. Things start to look up. I paint my nails for the fun of it, and this time they don't chip so soon. I wake up with the sun shining through my left window and fall asleep with it shining though my right. I go to New York City and stare out at the skyline and inhale, exhale. I write poems about hope, possibility. I meet new friends and almost cry when they hug me. I don't want this fragile life to go away. I still cry sometimes, truly cry, but not as much. I sing my heart out in the middle of a chorus and believe that I can do this. It doesn't all come immediately, but the inescapable fear is leaving and happiness is leaking in. I wear a green dress and white Converse to school one day, then a black plaid skirt the next, then thrifted clothes the next, and realize people don't care as much about how I look as I thought they did. Maybe I'm okay. Just inhale, exhale, and summer will come. This summer, I will just be.
III.
Summer spreads its wings; pink turns to green, and there everything is: the lake, the trees, the beauty that swallows me whole. Four days until I go to camp; I write a poem about it; it's surreal. I have so many friends now, and I don't cry as much (but I do, at the right times, when I need it). My voice soars through the sky and past the clouds--finally, I write and I sing and I am heard. It is liberating. I don't paint my nails. They'll chip anyway, and who has that time these days? I wait for the happiness to end, but it doesn't. And then I'm at camp, where everything is magical and sun-kissed and where I laugh and sing and dance on dirt paths, sleep inside dark cabins, cry when I need to--when my cabinmate tells me she loves all of us to death. It's the last day of camp and I don't want to leave. But then I remember my friends, everything at home that I've missed beyond belief, and so I take some deep breaths and pack my bags and go back to New Hampshire. This summer, I have lived, I have set myself free, I am alight, I am a forest fire. I can't stay this way forever, but I know I will try.
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