When you are a teenager,
Every mirror is a kaleidoscope.
It is rare that you will see just one image of yourself,
But many fragmented pieces staring back at you.
We never know who we are, because what we see isn’t true.

Every image is a different person,
A new version of who you are trying to be.
The cracked and unclear picture, the only thing
You have to go off of.

So, we learn to avoid mirrors.
And duck when we walk by glass
That maybe, just might possibly,
Show a reflection of ourselves. 

Because we are scared of what we see.
That looking glass isn’t what we think it is. 
And once the only view of ourselves is gone,
We have no idea who we are.

That leads to us making it up,
And following the pretty girls at school.
Because they are all we can see.
Our reflection, never true. 
So in turn, we cling to those who we know.
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I made this piece to represent how sometimes we cut ourselves off from the darkness of the world, but we just need to reach out. Our little world, our "jar" seems like the best place to be. The world outside seems so big and scary. But, every once in a while a little glow of something welcoming taps on the glass. Seeing this is a sign to take that chance. Stepping out of your comfort zone can lead to your world becoming bigger and brighter than you could have imagined.

set fire to the 
redwoods of my mind
let copper ribbons 
taper into nothingness,
bury the forest’s 
bones into earth-sunken, 
sacred ground—
they say tears are
catharsis,
but they don’t extinguish anything—
how can drop of water,
quench a famished fire;
give me rain
and i will be at peace;
the only place i am free
is in comatose,
dreamscapes,
sleep is Elysium,
when every word is a matchstick,
living breeds fatigue,
so let me fall into beds
eternally
and maybe i’ll be the 
person everyone wants me to be.

When I was four, I thought monsters hid under my bed
because I felt a presence stain my nightmares so
I wove a dreamcatcher out of yarn, beads and bravery
and I hung it from my windowpane.

When I was six, I was scared to shed my training wheels
because I felt unsteady alone so 
I cocooned myself in layers of padding and
my fear turned into wings
like the caterpillars that learned they could be 
lionhearted butterflies in my kindergarten classroom. 

When I was eight, I thought rainstorms would kill me so 
I pretended that the pitter-patter was a melody and
thunder was my chorus. I fell asleep to
her lullabies cemented in my mind, and I woke to rainbows. 

When I was ten, I fell in a race and I was afraid
of last place. I picked myself up and ran faster;
I didn't notice the blood trickling off my shredded skin.
My scrapes and scars were the medals I wore proudly