I saw a post on Pinterest today about how they want people to love the mundane things about them, and I crave that from deep in some cavernous region in my heart.

I want someone to notice how I only wear makeup when I have energy, how I doodle on my lecture paper, giving Andrew Jackson higher cheekbones, and how I say I love reading but haven’t finished a book in a while. How my music taste ranges from Arctic Monkeys to Stray Kids to Wasia Project, but sometimes I can't find anything to listen to. How I want to move to a different state but realistically couldn’t handle anything other than California weather.

I want someone to notice when I am hurting, look in my eyes and see what is wrong. I want someone to notice when I am awkward, fidgeting with my sleeves or my hands or my hair, and tell me that it’s all right. It's all going to be okay. I need someone to notice this, because my skin just isn’t thick enough for all the interruptions and indifferent reactions that I have tried to block out.

Because if they noticed, that means they really took the time to care. Cancel out all the other noise and notice me. 

The stars are reflected in the glimmer of the headlamp's light on the snow

And the air is frozen-- it feels like the sensation of holding your hand under water so burning hot that

it begins to feel cold

somehow.

Nothing could be more perfect than feeling air rush in and out of lungs, feeling alive when all is still

I am alive.

Our world is filled with such

Delicate things, such

Beautiful little lights we

Find glittering in our eyes and

Try to tuck

Into pages of torn-out notebook paper we

Fold into our pockets and the creases

In our palms;

There’s a boy in my grade who

Plays the piano so beautifully, whose

Fingers dance across the keys and

You can tell each careful note flows

With the dreams of his heart and

A labor of love, one

That flows so smoothly, even though

He probably stumbled at first;

It doesn’t sound like it, though, as

He plays a song, so sweet, for

A group of girls to dance to, the

Sparkling wings of their act fanned out

Around their shoulders, slow and

Graceful and

Absolutely beautiful;

In our show is another boy, an

Actor and singer whose accent

Makes his words all the prettier, and

Who once told us all to thank

One another

For the kindness that lingers

All around us; he

Smiles so genuinely, and

You can see his dreams as they shimmer

All around him;

Those dreams (of

The piano and the firefly wings, and

Of the boy who carries stars

Everywhere he goes)

Are ones I’ll fold over and over and

Over into tissue paper whose creases

Mirror the ones on my palms.

you’re perfect.

all of you.

and i don’t need to say more

but i will

because i want to write about every one of you

although you might not want to hear it.

so i’ll keep it short. here you go.

this is an ode for the girls in seventh grade.

for the girls at the lockers, in my classes, on the buses,

dressed in hoodies and jeans and leggings and sweatpants

and all so pretty. 

please don’t tell me you’re not pretty

because i am the one who passes you in the halls

every day and compliments you in my head. even if i

don’t have breath to speak you still should know you’re beautiful.

this is an ode for the girls in seventh grade.

for the girls staring out the glass while the world 

slips by, chin in your hand, eyes sparkly with dreams.

maybe you are thinking about poetry or album covers 

or nothing besides the shaking

of the branches in the wind. you

are lost in the painted ocean of your head and my voice

startles you gently out of the sea.

this is an ode for the girls in seventh grade.

for the girls who walk in clusters,

pulled together like planets

in orbits that somehow align;

and for the girls who trail their fingers along the walls

& walk alone, who can carry their own galaxies.

i brush past and wish upon all of your stars.

this is an ode for the girls in seventh grade.

for the notebook doodles,

the smiley faces, the hearts,

the stories you tell in the margins

of your notes, prettier by far

than paying attention. you bite your lip

when you’re called on and look my way

with a hopeful spark caught in your eyes. 

i think you’ve caught on by now; it doesn’t take much to win me over.

this is an ode for the girls in seventh grade.

for every time you seem to appear,

to materialize amidst the neon lights

& flash a thumbs-up, a grin, a heart

cupped in your curved fingers, your outstretched hand.

it makes my day,

did you know? my mornings, my afternoons. i am lightened

by the promise of being enjoyed.

this is an ode for the girls in seventh grade.

for your awkward laughter in the cafeteria

when the microphone takes three tries to work,

the genuine smiles on your faces splitting even wider

as “happy birthday” pours out from the surrounding crowd.

for your bracelets that clink together like wind chimes

when you wrap a tight hug around your friends.

for the way you trade gum and pens and secrets

like offerings,

like proof of something you haven’t yet done.

for every time you look unsure of yourself,

like you’re waiting to become somebody –

anybody – else.

reread this poem and see:

you already are someone 

worth writing a thousand poems about.

this is an ode for the girls in seventh grade.

For my friend, who

sent me a letter in the mail even though

we see each other every day, just

so she could gift me a card and

a lovely little poem;

For my other friend, who

sang with me on the bus

to a math competition, who

wrote a poem to convince me

I'm still myself;

For the lunch monitor, who

gives me and just about anyone

a smile and

who gave my friend a hug

when she got her license, beaming and

letting it reach her eyes;

For the boy who texts me almost

every night, just

to ask me about my day, who

put a song on our playlist 

About the stars, and

even though I can't tell what they're screaming

in the lyrics, I

still love it;

For all of you who

say hello to people and

smile as you say it, and

let your heart flood with

little kindnesses and the flowers bursting

from the pages of your soul:

Thank you.

I pick at my face

on a daily basis.

Rub my finger over

my acne scars and oily skin,

trying to convince myself

I'm this "imperfect slice of perfection"

all these influencers

claim I am.

But it's ironic

how they all say

the same thing, feeding

us captions that don't

match their images.

Their fuel is body-positivity and self-love,

yet they all have the

figure of a goddess,

skin of a newborn.

But they tell their

human money trees,

branches bent, pigment faded,

to love themselves

like it's easy.

I wonder when the day will come,

where I'm finally able

to look in the mirror without

tears in my eyes

and without some wannabe

influencer's TikTok audio

in the background telling me

to love every ugly

part of myself

I'll never be able to.

I impatiently wait for

the fog to clear

to reveal an open, beautiful

sky that my eyes reflect,

pupils twinkling when

I see myself.

I sit for infinity, awaiting the

arrival of my not only

model-like, but unreasonably expected body:

clear skin,

silky hair,

flat stomach,

invisible waist,

hairless,

thin,

clean nails,

stereotypical Barbie,

perfect.

Why should such a word exist if it cannot describe a single person on this earth?

I'm not yet convinced

that I'm a goddess,

and maybe I never will be.

But maybe someday,

a pair of eyes will

look at me and bow down

to worship my imperfections,

whether they are my eyes,

or the eyes of

a person who

loves me unconditionally.