"Would you like a receipt?" asked Travis. The customer didn't want a receipt, and she left with her iced latte right as the sun was setting outside of the shop window. It was nine o'clock, midsummer. Travis got ready to end his day.

Shirley helped him wash the dishes, and she said, "Long shift today, huh?" Travis breathed, "Yeah. You too?" Shirley nodded, and rested her hands on the sink, and rested her head on her hands. 

"Got pans?" asked Shirley. Travis shook his head, and they walked away so that the crew could take down the set.

They changed out of their costumes in their respective dressing rooms and washed the stage makeup off their faces. On their way out the door, they made sure to say goodbye to the rest of the cast and exited into the stars, where they would wait, running their lines for the next workday.

To be quiet more. Be angry less. Watch shows and read books and listen to music people recommend to me, and not forget. Cry, without anxiety, embarrassment, fear or shame. Trust. Bite at the skin of my lips less. Sing more. Remember to put lotion on my hands—the winter always makes them so dry. Read some, stop, start again. Give myself true grace. Eat before one PM. Stop dreaming about leaving and live where I’m at. Pay closer attention to my curls. Pet the cats. Hug my brother. Text my best friends goodnight. Workout with the intent to get stronger and not just to look better. Turn my phone off. Floss my teeth. Try new perfumes. Pass my math class. Make more money. Get more tattoos. Get more sleep. Call my grandma. Call my other grandma. Fold my socks. Stop blaming stupid shit on timing. Take accountability. Learn how to make more meals. Buy less plastic. Try spicier foods. Book my first solo flight. Get comfortable disappointing people. Make my dad laugh more. Make my mom relax. Write whenever I need to—in class, at home, in the bathroom. Perfect my handshake. Fix my posture. Scream if I need to scream. Release my shame.

Forgive.

Forgive.

Forgive.

some people stay up to ring in the new year,

watch it burst like a glittery balloon

over the midnight horizon, count down the seconds

til it starts over again. they dress up,

shriek under streetlights, expect it. they want to see it

the moment it comes for them.

meanwhile, miles away, i stare out the crack in the blinds

into the darkened world outside. i recall the year past,

months out of order, pictures never taken. i

prefer to drift off to sleep before the ball drops -

alone in my bed with the old year

pulled up around me like a worn comforter

patterned with days gone by. i will wake,

i know, in the half-light of morning,

when the revelers are still drunk on champagne

and newly forged promises. I will walk

to the window and press my nose to the glass,

already wondering how the winter sunlight

will look against next year's snow.

We lie tired

Bundled up in puffers and scarves

On the pleather seats of the bus that felt like home. 

You rummage through your red lunchbox, 

Unpacking each item carefully 

Announcing to everyone what’s inside

Making us laugh, 

Only to throw it away. 

You open the window, 

Allowing the cold to rush in,

Chilling our faces and turning our cheeks frosty pink. 

We laugh as each baby carrot 

And quarter of a sandwich, 

Would tumble to the rushing road below. 

We toss starburst wrappers behind the last seat, 

Watching them pile up 

And get neglected by the janitor. 

Sweet elementary adrenaline 

Felt like real rebellion. 

The bus becomes a haven 

A relic of childhood 

A place of fun in the dark of dawn, 

And in the golden light of an autumn afternoon. 

In the dead of dusk 

Today I yearn 

Close my eyes and just pretend 

That I once more 

Will rest my head on my backpack 

And borrow your headphones

Listening to music that only you like, 

But it’s okay. 

Because on the bus, 

Nothing was wrong with the world. 

Rumbling away from a childhood dream

Went bus 34. 

i learned 
life liberty 
the pursuit of happiness 
before i learned 
how often a promise 
can hesitate 

no one mentioned 
how often you’d have to prove 
you deserved the words 

i’ve learned on my own 
there are places 
where i soften my voice 
where i let people assume 
something easier about me 

it works 
and that makes me angry 
in a quiet way 

no one taught me that part 
of the experiment 

i don’t think the declaration lied 
i think it promised too soon, 
before it understood 
how selective belief can be 

equality sounds simple
until you ask
who gets to move through a room
unchallenged

liberty feels clean
until it depends
on who’s watching

happiness
is the strangest part
something you’re told to chase
but never slow down for

maybe the experiment isn’t failing
maybe it’s just honest
about what it still refuses
to give freely

i want to believe
those words were written
for breath
for bodies
for voices like mine

no one told me
they might not be.