Writing

It's cold here, I reply to my grandparents when they ask how our week's going. It's cold, and wet, and already I am helping my friends put up Christmas decorations and string LEDs across their rooms, playing holiday music to try

The clouds, they

Whip my cheeks 

With their surprising iciness

Turning them raw and rosy.

My nose is running,

But that sickeningly pleasant

I'm not very good at empathy.

I can't read the room and feel what nobody has spoken of.

I can see when somebody is sad,

but it's not like I can feel it.

Of course, I can try. 

I can’t tell what’s heavier on my shoulders 

The weight of my backpack 

Or the weight of the expectations

I don’t know what’s harder

Falling asleep at night

apology to the mirror

 i say sorry to the mirror
 for looking away too fast.
 for calling her names
 that no one deserves.

They say that women don’t need men, and I believe that to be true. We don’t need men. But, by whatever powers may exist, does my young heart lie awake late at night and long to feel what it has never felt.