Today I

ran through the rain, hair

newly cut and weightless even though

it was drenched; I

ate strawberries dusted with sugar while

doing homework, pencil

tracing neat letters across math homework I

hadn't realized I remembered

how to do but

found the numbers quietly running

back into my arms; I

wore a plaid skirt and polo even though

the short strands of my hair constantly

getting caught in my eyes and across my nose

didn't seem to fit; I

realize now as I run my fingers through it that

I always liked the haircut, just

was terrified of what other people

would think; birds

are weightless and free, and

people still find them beautiful;

I also realized today that

the United States spells out

us.

Today I 

carried the world on my shoulders but

still felt weightless, as

carrying the world with me were the shoulders

of a million poets.

When I met a girl on Omegle who read me like three incoherent, handwritten, multi-page love poems

I think that's what it means to feel something

When the lady who sleeps on the bench outside smiles because only she fully appreciates a sunny day

I’m pretty sure that's what feeling is

When the old man who is weak from fasting cries as he reads the last passage on Yom Kippur, then dances in front of the congregation in the presence of God

He is feeling

The little boy in the room next to mine, who weeps and thrashes and screams at the change

He is feeling

There's a playlist I made a year ago called “Big Feelings” 

If I ever have a reason to listen to it, maybe then I will be feeling

I hear the river running, 

flowing with not a care in the world.

I see the leaves falling to the ground,

a thick carpet on the forest floor.

I feel a light breeze on my skin,

cool and crisp and fresh.

I smell the trees of pine, 

ever as vibrant as the summer before.

I taste the wild berries,

delicious as they are untouched, natural.

The forest is a safe space, a place for healing.

Surrender yourself to it, 

let it heal you,

let it enter your veins and make you feel the euphoria, 

the calmness, 

the quiet. 

Step into the forest,

and just, 

be.

I love post-script, thought Benvolio as he sat curled in his favorite armchair.  His favorite music was humming through his airpods into his ears, and as he watched raindrops gather and drip down the windowpane, he felt that he could nearly silence the world through the steady stream of verses twirling with his thoughts.  

Perhaps, he thought, rainy days are meant to teach us what beauty and what hope can be found in our minds and in each other.  Spring carries so many rainy days upon her freckled shoulders, and yet she never seems to fall from the weight; rather, it’s almost like she grows from it.  She brings about dozens of days fluttering with flower petals and the scent of magnolias.  She dances and dances, and she leaps so high she kisses the sky.  

Benvolio, unsure of where his thoughts were flitting their wings off to, stood up to retrieve a notebook from his desk.  It was nearly empty, as he didn’t write often, but he was feeling rather poetic today; it was as if spring were whispering into his ear the melodies that were mixing with his playlist.  When he returned to his spot with a pen in his hand, he began with an address to Rory; he always felt his ideas were best captured in letters.

But he didn’t get past that first name dotted at the end with a comma.  His eyes had strayed to a little sprout of green poking from the soil filling in with rainwater.  There was the tiniest hint of pink clinging to the end of the wisp of green: a bud.

The first of spring’s freckles, just beginning to glow on her cheeks.

Benvolio smiled at that, and thought about the freckles that were scattered across Rory’s nose.

P.S, he began, just under where he had addressed his letter.

I love post-script.

Every day when I walk home from school
I see a woman with her young son
Asking for money by the road.

I stick my hands in my pocket and
Turn my head away.
There is nothing I can do because
I only have three dollars on me.

The Houston heat is relentless
And I am tired.
I open Instagram on my phone as I pass the 
Convenience store
So I can distract myself.

It looks like my country's crazy president
Has done something crazy (again).

Shocker.

I like the post, and concede that
There is nothing I can really do other than a like
Because I am only fourteen.
This is enough. 
(I add a repost on top of the like for my conscience.)

I head to my best friend's house.
Did you know we're in a water crisis right now?
I didn't.
I like that reel, too.

Nothing more I can do.

I walk into her bedroom.
She complains about the state of the world.
Bombs, Iran, Israel
Oil.

We argue, we laugh, we play games
And before we can scroll away from the truth
Her eyes turn to mine, eyes wide.
Real people, she says.
They're dying. What do we do?

I shrug. For now, I believe what I am told.
Test on Tuesday.

Tomorrow will go just about the same way.
I'll walk past that woman on the side of the road
And tell myself there's nothing I can do.

We'll
Seduce ourselves with the sweet lies we're told
Learn how to prioritize the wealth of the one percent
Soothe ourselves with the faint warmth
Of the people not on television
Burning in our kitchen.

I miss when my bedroom walls were purple. 

Cranberry purple, to be specific. 

I was young, 

and moving into my new bedroom 

while my sister stayed in the one next to it. 

We decided to paint the room's walls 

since my parents were moving into the larger room. 

Going to the store into the paint section, 

looking at all the different colors that could be the color of my walls forever, 

I remember not being sure what I wanted as I didn't know how to make up my mind. 

Sometimes I still don't. 

After minutes, I chose something that was similar to purple, as it's one of my favorite colors. 

Cranberry purple is what I chose. 

Its shade really made the vibe better. 

It felt like something I could live in. 

The color didn't hurt my eyes, wasn't too bright,

and it went well with the berrywood carpet. 

My mother and I painted the walls together, 

a little paint got on the floor. 

It was okay, though, since it was my room. 

It was cleanable. 

Until it wasn't. 

Now the color's all gone, 

gone white, and painted over. 

Even the two windows are just one now,

makes everything seem off.

All those memories are fading away, 

but they still stick in my brain,

and it brings me pain.

How could it have turned out this way?

I miss its color.

It brought me comfort,

and now it's just white.

All I see now is white,

and my current bedroom walls,

they have no color either,

it's like 50 shades of gray up here.

Cranberry purple.

A color close to my favorite,

when I don't have a favorite,

at least I don't anymore.

Cranberry purple.

I grew up with that color,

and I wish it could stay

a little longer.