I went to work the day after they announced it. I stocked the shelves and listened to the radio from the speakers in the warehouse ceilings. Cars were piling up at the exits, trying to get out of town. I don’t know where they thought they were escaping to. They couldn’t get off the planet no matter how far they drove.

I worked until my eyes got heavy like they always do, and then I worked until one a.m., long after the store was supposed to close, and then I clocked out. I went home and threw my television out the window, and then I called you on the phone. I wanted to ask you about that time you were over for my birthday, when everything was blue for lifetimes and lifetimes, and we stayed up until the sunrise. I wanted to ask you if it was real or just a dream I had.

All of the lights were on in my apartment. I had left them on this morning because I was worried I would be in the dark when it happened. I was afraid of the dark. After the dial tone rang about eight times, you picked up and breathed for a minute. I did too. I lay back on my bed too and just breathed into the receiver for as long as you breathed. Then you said, “Did you leave home?”

I said “No. I want to be home when it happens.”

You said, “Good.” Then we breathed for another minute, and after that minute, you said, “Are you still with what's his name?”

I laughed and said, “No.” You laughed too. I said, “No, I’m not with what's his name anymore. Hey, do you remember my 12th birthday? It was the one where you slept over, and we stayed up way later than we were allowed to?”

You exhaled and said, “God, I don’t remember anything. I can’t remember a god damn thing. You wanna know where I am right now? In my bathtub. I’ve been here since they announced it.” You laughed, “The water’s fucking freezing.”

I inhaled, then exhaled, then inhaled again, then said, “Well, I’ll just let you go.” I took a last breath before I hung up, but you said, “Can you tell me about it? So it feels like I remember?”

“Well,” I said while I tried to breathe without my voice breaking, “You had that stupid buzz cut.” This made you laugh. I looked at the clock and saw that it was getting close to the predicted time. I got the clock down off the wall and smashed it.

I inhaled and said, “We snuck out and bought as much candy as we could from the gas station, and we brought it back to my room,” I exhaled, “and we watched Instagram reels until we couldn’t hold our eyes open anymore,” I inhaled, “and right when we were about to sleep, we kissed for the first time.” I held my breath so that I didn’t cry.

You laughed shakily and said, “What? We never kissed.” But even as you said it, you inhaled hopefully. I said, “I don’t care. I want us to have kissed. So we kissed. You kissed me, and I kissed you back. And then we kissed each other more.” 

Only seconds remained now, and you said, “I want that too." Exhale "Yeah." Inhale, "Okay. That can be true.” Then, while you laughed (with joy, I think,) our phone speakers began to melt and boil. I inhaled, then exhaled, then inhaled, then exhaled, then inhaled...

...and, while the world ended, I sent you a text message that said I will love you forever.

I will be someday, 

gone, 

that is. 

When I am, 

I hope the pine needles still grow thick 

covered thick 

with snow. 

I hope the air still whistles 

with sledding calls 

whipping along with it. 

And I hope I have left 

all that I can give. 

I hope my hands 

are tired from writing rebellious words 

and squeezing friends' hands tight 

swinging them in the summer holding in the winter 

and building up the bridges with my hands 

that will lead us together 

and calloused with dirt from trails others taught me 

trails I made for others

trails I learned to walk with my chin up.

I hope my breath

is just a whisper, then

having said many words of change

and fought many battles with my voice

and read aloud poems and books to cousins curled up on the couch,

someday children and grandchildren,

words I read with my voice strong.

I hope my legs are tired

from racing running pedaling skiing

pushing to the limit

coming back

and carrying groceries up the stairs after long days

and bouncing babies smiling up at me

and long days in the cold

days I spent walking onward.

I hope I leave

tired

content

having given

given all I have

until I am tired to my bones

and my heart has loved

and my hands have held.

I've never been a fan of Four-Letter Words,

never seen the need for profanity,

and thought swears showed a lack of self control,

Now, I haven't changed my mind

but four-letter words are more than curses,

they are the black and white

Because Hate is a Four-Letter Word,

but so is Love

and Fame and Pride are under the same branch as Hope and all things True

Easy and Hard

Fast and Slow

because to Take and to Free are opposite things

so maybe Four-Letter Words aren't all black or all white

but I don't think they are grey either

maybe Four-Letter Words are the contrast

that helps us to see 

how similar Love and Hate can be

Walking through an art museum, 

reading all the signs, 

try to trace back the thought process, 

paid parking's outta time, 

leave with paintings stuck inside my head,  

feeling finally more alive than dead, 

I have so many ideas,

Melpomene, Urania,

music and movies,

drawings and stories,

once I have paper my life won't be boring,

I'll write while the rest of my family's snoring,

and novel and poetry will just be pouring,

out of me,

but you see,

blank paper sucks all my ideas up,

tragedy, comedy, don't give a duck,

and once I am drained,

my mind and my brain,

tells me I need to write music!

The death of ideas,

is born on blank pages,

someone once said to

draw smiley faces,

so I won't be frightened,

to ruin more sketchbooks,

honestly it's paper,

if left blank it's wasted,

but my brain says everything

has to be perfect,

if it can't be optimal,

my soul'd be worthless,

so i'll keep on staring,

at spine-chilling cold-press,

with tons of ideas,

all tied up and restless.

Woah.

I've been busy.

I haven't posted for 5 months.

I haven't opened the site for 5 months.

I have a good reason.

I promise.

I shipped myself to a New England boarding school?

No, I'm not a delinquent.

No, I don't hate my family.

No, I'm not a pretentious ungrateful trust fund kid.

I'm just a kid whose school didn't work for her.

And who was lucky enough to be able to afford to try something else.

It was the most terrifying thing I've ever done. 

It felt like I was falling. No idea when I would hit the ground. Knowing nothing was ever going to be the same.

But it was also the best decision I've ever made.

So I guess I'm just here to say, sometimes you have to be in free fall before you land where you belong.

Every year, December comes around again,

Like an old friend, 

One who you haven’t seen in a long time.

For many people, December brings happiness, and warmth.

While this is true, December itself is anything but.

To me, December is like an old man,

Wrapped up in sweaters,

With kind eyes, and thousands of stories.

He will sit with you as long as he can, recounting these tales of his youth.

Some of his stories are filled with magic and fireworks,

But some are packed with sadness, and tragedy.

You never know what stories he will tell when he stops by,

And sometimes it seems as if he doesn’t know either.

He has had a long life, December.

How else would he have so many stories, filled with love and loss.

When he eventually appears, 

Wrapped in his sweaters,

He will sit with you and ask you one question.

“What is this year’s story?”

The two of you will sit for a while,

Staring out at the last sunset of the year.

You will think.

December has so many stories to tell,

How could yours possibly be important?

As you reflect, December will watch.

Patiently waiting.

You will sit together for some time.

As you watch colors fade, so will the memories of this past year.

Everything that once seemed so important now feels like it was a million years ago,

But at the same time you don’t want it to be over.

There were so many things you wanted to do, people you wanted to meet, and achievements you never quite got around to.

But as the color fades and darkness takes over you will look at the old man one final time.

He will be fainter now, the wool of his sweater becoming translucent and the light in his eyes fading into a tiny sparkle.

“Until next year,” he will say.

Then, the clock will hit twelve, and he will be gone.

Gone as if he were never there, but not gone forever.

Why do we wonder? 

Is is a quiet rebellion? Refusal to accept It as it is? 

A mental shield to protect from routine and repetition?

Is its continual persistence to blur the harshness of reality?

What If This 

Suppose That 

If It Was 

Wonder, constant as breath or beating of a heart 

As if a sixth sense

Sense of wonder, a magical sense 

Slowing time just enough to notice the little things in life,

turning questions to possibility

Constantly curious

Awed by life's simplicity 

Wary in a good way, never quite satisfied

Like a child why, why, why,

why this and why that 

Why is the color blue called blue,

why is fire hot,

why does the sky change colors before night

Children possess the keenest sense of wonder to be found

noticing what no other will, coming into the world free of the "already known"

Asking questions of the most ordinary, the answer to their questions less important than the asking,

giving things overlooked new meaning 

Children are the fresh pair of eyes proofreading a paper,

the new angle needed to acquire a solution

They are the future, without new eyes, solutions, there would be no change 

No questions to be asked, same, same, same 

Quiet, unchanging, comfortable, imagination replaced by silence

World never changing no new perspectives to be had

Change is hard 

It can feel like a floor collapsing beneath your feet or water being poured over the fire providing comfort and heat

but comfort does not allow change

Comfort allows the fire to burn too big, too bright, smoke clouding judgement and heat numbing the need to move 

it kills everything ahead, becoming too blinded to see and then?

All to be left are scorch marks of what could have been.