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.

Night loved Day so much, 

she folded back her dark, starlit cloak 

to make more room for Day’s light to bloom 

and spill gold over the World.

Day’s light touched every river, every stream. 

It kissed the leaves and the trees 

and caressed the fields and meadows.

She gazed at her reflection on all seven seas 

and shone.

But her beauty burned too long,

her laughter ran too far.

Fields cracked beneath her joy,

crops withered to dust.

Leaves lost their color,

branches turned to brittle bone,

and rivers dried to silent beds.

On the ground, 

the People cried out for mercy, 

for shade.

Day had grown vain,

hungering for more light.

Night heard the prayers.

She spread out her arms and let her cloak fall.

 She lingered in the morning, 

just a little longer. 

blocking Day just a little more 

every day. 

Her love for Day was outshone 

by her love for the People and for Nature.

She hid Day’s brilliance 

behind her stars and constellations. 

The cool blanket over the World. 

Rivers filled once again with sweet water, 

dreams returned to the weary.

Yet when Day awoke again, 

her glow brushed against Night’s cheek, 

and Night remembered 

why she had loved her so fiercely. 

She loosened her resolve, 

let the stars fall, 

and dawn spilled wider and warmer, 

until World sighed again beneath too much light.

And so they danced 

as two lovers chasing the sweet balance, 

never learning it, 

ever learning it, 

their tenderness carving the seasons 

from the ache of their endless love.

The patriotic soul of an American is brave, loyal,  and dedicated to never ignore that in America they are free to be who they want. The thing is that this has been almost fully destroyed by people who want to destroy the ability in this country to be free, more worried about making money than the working class. Throughout the years, corruption and people who do not represent the true American have found their way into our political systems, silencing the voices of people who care about our country, from the very start, people who have exploited others to be rich and wealthy. And today America is in an almost fascist state, on the brink of having one leader. America is unrecognizable from the Declaration of Independence. Democracy is being ruined as I type this. Still, people around the nation are rising up to the rich who are choosing money over the people. The brave people who are standing up to the evil wealthy are the ones who are the true American souls, standing for what this country was made to be.

for old times' sake

is such a pretty sentiment

like

let's do it

for the love

that used to be here

for the memories that used to be young

let's do it for the time

when the little things meant i love you

for the time when the things we forgot

were the things we thought we would always remember

so for old times' sake

could we sit under the old fig tree

one last time

holding hands as we laughed

as if there was nothing in the world

except you and me

for old times' sake

could we go and walk in the bamboo forest

skipping in the lowlight of the day

half shadowed by the trees

that are still, somehow, green

for old times' sake

could we—

remember those nameless

beautiful

tiny

acts

of

love

For a businesswoman, she is very kind. She is the winter giving her hand to autumn as they trade places. Autumn stands back and watches Winter do her work, covering Autumn's leaves and grass until everything is white, white, white. Winter walks quickly and with purpose, a silver pocket watch dangling from her pocket. She wears pants with a sports jacket and is never late. If anything, she is always early. Earlier than expected and earlier than preferred. She doesn't like the sun, but she likes making people cold just so they can be warm inside. She would rather have people watch her from inside than trample her work under her boots. She loves watching people have a kiss underneath the trees, raining down the fluffy flakes of her tears and laughter. She prefers coffee over tea but will drink tea if it is black and un-sweetened, just like her coffee. We're not trying to make Winter sound like a rock with a brain; we are merely telling the truth. Truth is that Winter is cold, and Winter is cold because there is not a woman for her. She evaporates and melts if she is paired with summer. She is too different from fall, for she destroys it. Spring always wants the front stage, and pops flowers through her blanket of cold white. To exist with someone the same as her is a luxury. Mud season will turn her dirty and slushy. How about stick season? There's already a song about it. They just forgot to mention how sticks and snow seem to go together. 

I was in love with him once. I think.

He was in love with me, though, and I knew it. He wrote me poems and copied out lyrics from songs he thought felt like me, or us, or him. He gave me rainbow earrings and a lesbian flag to match his trans one. He applauded when I got a lead in the spring show and I comforted him when, later in the year, he auditioned for something and received a role with two lines and no name. I thought it might be a fun experience for him anyways - the shows I've been in with only a few lines and a name that never gets told were good fun and kick-started my love of the stage. love, i hate to say it, but sometimes you need a few little roles to get a few big ones. 

He ended up quitting the show. That, perhaps, was the beginning.

I remember thinking, what is he going to do if he gets the same kind of part in the school show? because we'd met doing the fall play and school theater was kind of our thing. I didn't want him to quit just because he didn't like his role, but at the same time I kind of wanted to see what would happen if he did.

After a summer of highs and lows, of festivals (I excitedly invited him to one; he arrived late and left early, leaving me with my family but still alone) and melting ice cream, of lakes and forests and sleep away camps (I had the best time of my life but all he could talk about was how much better his time at his camp was because he went for three weeks and I only went for one), of sunny days and rainy ones too. I went months without seeing him and I didn't want to admit that I was almost relieved. But I was.

By this point, we had been together for over six months and a lot of the time, just the thought of seeing him made me seethingly mad. Occasionally I would have conversations with him about my anger; he would apologize for anything he'd done and promise to always love me; I would feel this rush of why did I do that why was I mad at him I love him he's perfect he loves me and I would apologize and apologize and a few days later I'd be mad again. It got solved for him. Never for me.

I didn't realize until the beginning of the next school year that the reason for all this was that he thought everything revolved around him. Of course, the breaking point was that it didn't.

This year, I wasn't in any of his classes. It honestly didn't matter that much to me - we still sat next to each other in chorus and lunch and his locker was right near mine. Plus, I was still struggling with this constant annoyance towards him. One of my other good friends and I ended up in basically the same schedule, and we would pass notes and they would offer advice, the most shocking to me being break up. But I didn't want to break up - at least not at first.

And then he started to be mean.

Not to me. Never to me. To my friends. Especially to the one mentioned above, the shortest, the silliest, and the one with the worst mental health. He knew this, of course, but it didn't stop him from calling them names, from telling them they wouldn't win anything, they wouldn't ever be a success, they were stupid, they were everything he thought about himself but worse. He was bullying them while others bullied him, their voices coming out twisted and harsh from his mouth as he pressed all of his problems onto someone else. I heard about it every day and I felt like I couldn't do anything.

He called my other friend shallow. Spoiled. He said she was a little brat who didn't know anything about surviving in the real world. He told me not to be friends with her anymore. He would make fun of people's sexualities, their identities, always telling us he was teasing, always making us feel bad for presenting ourselves the way we did. For someone who changed his name twice and wore flag pins on his jackets, he was never very supportive. 

He told me he had an eating disorder very soon after I met him, and I always made sure to have mac 'n' cheese, one of his only safe foods, at my house when he came over. In return, he would take our food at lunch without asking, his lunchbox open and full to the brim with his own. Except he never wanted any of the things we'd bring in that were meant to be taken. My friend made Korean songpyeon* by hand. sorry, I have an eating disorder, he said. He wasn't at all sorry.

He had a fight with his friend in August. They didn't speak anymore, they had their separate groups, and it was okay. In September he sent her a message: two paragraphs detailing exactly why he hated her, making her cry and forcing a lot of us to spend a few days in the guidance counselor's office comforting her while he continually told us not to go.

He made me feel uncomfortable in public, with the raucous laughter, the dancing, the standing in the middle of doorways, aisles, the talking over me about something different as I spoke to the cashier, the i'm sorry, i'm not good with social situations and the proceeding to loudly embarrass me as if there were not other people in the room, the mall, the school, the world.

I didn't want to say that I couldn't believe it because I could, and I felt like an accomplice to it. I was dating him. He told me he loved me and then turned around and told my friends they weren't good enough. 

I couldn't take it anymore. I broke up with him.

He did not take it well. He hasn't spoken to me since and has been slowly cutting off all of his friends, using words like hateful and pressure when they've done nothing to him except continue being friends with me. When he does have to talk to one of us, it comes out in sharp, harsh sentences like waves against rocks. I don't care. I am unburdened from him. My friend group has tightened our threads to one another. Everything feels lighter now, stepping through the world without him attached to me. I think I've moved on. It feels good; I genuinely hope he has too.

I apologized when we broke up. I wished him well. It clearly didn't mean anything to him then and it doesn't now, exactly one month later. I see him in the hallways now and I cannot help but feel empathetic towards this boy at the lockers, one above and to the right of mine, who has cut all of his friends away from him with a blunt knife. I tried to talk to him the other day and got a blue metal door slammed in my face. I won't try it again; this was not meant as an apology.

*songpyeon are semi-sweet Korean rice cakes. they are delicious :D but i am definitely not Korean, so don't ask me if you want to know more about them lol