I'm a poet,

I'm a writer,

I'm a sister.

I'm outrageous,

I'm silly, 

I'm weird.

I'm also not special

I'm not better

or the best

But I want to be.

I want to be special, 

I want to be better, 

I want to be the best.

I want to be a better writer,

I want to be recognized as somebody that's especially good at something.

I want people to think of me as the best of the best.

And I'm not any of those things yet.

But I want to be.

After all, that's why I'm here.

*lines in italics are from Jane Eyre

Are you apprehensive of the new sphere you are about to enter?

Because I fear

For the warm skin

Between your shoulder

And collarbone,

The slick hair

That coils at the nape 

Of your neck.

I had cherished the thought of one day seeing him: now, I never should. 

He is like the scent of briar-roses–sickly-sweet in summer,

Humming through the wood with the frogs and midnight jasmine,

Burnt to memory by October. Once pooling in my pores,

Now soft as a song against my tongue.

I used to write poems, when nights were thick with thoughts of him.

I want to know him again,

But his scent is gone from my wrists.

The restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes. 

And so I ran, windswept, after you

And wrote you into songs that sounded like

Jeans and lemonade, since I was bored of his agate eyes

And moonstone bones. I wanted you,

My pyrite. Did the moon hang

Like a dish of gold or butter, and call to me?
I have always wanted to scream back. 

It always seems that 
In the unruly depths of each Alabama winter 
I long for summer 
For campfires and S'mores 
And laughing louder than the cicadas 
I long for the sticky-sweet popsicle melt running down my arm 
For the thorns scraping at my ankles 
For unexplained bruises 
And for car trips that last forever 

And it always seems that
In the hazardous halls of this high school
I long for childhood
For free Publix cookies
And Disney songs haunting every drive
I long to be swinging and running at the playground
For chocolate milk before bed
For just one more story
And pretending to fall asleep in the car

And it always seems that
In the concrete darkness of the city
I long for color
For fields of wildflowers
And dirt roads that lead to nowhere
I long to bike past local, family-owned shops
For dandelions and clovers
For second-hand books
And knowing all my neighbors by name

And it always seems that
In the bright loud chaos of today
I long for simple things
For baking bread alone at night
And sharing it with strangers
I long to keep fresh flowers in my room, depending on the season
For reading cozy mysteries
For sitting by the window
And relishing in the quiet peace of it
 

broke out a pen, not a pencil

i usually use pencils for english homework,

mechanical ones,

teal or purple.

but i guess it's different

with forgotten homework,

either rushed or

completed by chatgpt

at 10:59 pm.

i don't want to do homework

or study for the tests

i have tomorrow.

i want to write poems,

is what i say.

i want to write poems

forever.

poems read by everyone

across the world.

but i want to go to sleep.

eyelids melting during class,

drifting off,

a new habit for me.

dream of all the poems

i could be writing

about being drained,

while drained.

i do a lot of thinking without writing.

for a writer.

too lazy to grab my journal

out of my nightstand,

open a new document on my laptop.

but i'm doing it now,

perhaps a sign.

it may be to go to bed,

but in the least,

a sign.

and maybe it will say

something else tomorrow.

i hope it will say something else tomorrow.

but i'll check back again, at 10:59 pm.

subjugated to solitude eternal,

only perceiving and watching love,

maybe receiving it but never understanding it

never internalizing it

it bounces off. Doesn't stick,

unkept and unruly and unclean.

formulaic loneliness, like it was planned and chosen 

some plan this is,

going out alone, and eating alone, and sleeping alone

wandering around alone, getting lost alone, pondering alone

some plan this is,

to be so enamored by what could be

maybe if she wanted it enough,

maybe if she cared enough to be kept.

We didn’t break, 
we thinned out 
into quieter sentences. 

Into “we need space,” 
into “I still love you,” 
into words that meant 
stay 
but sounded like go. 

Love didn’t leave.
It just stepped back,

like warmth
lingering in a seat
after someone stands 

proof
someone was there,
and is not
anymore.