Just so you know, 

You are not a number, 

you are not a digit out of 10 

or a rating, 

you are not a GPA 

and you are not what you got on the SAT, 

you are not a 1500 meter time 

or a percentile 

or a rank

You 

are not 

a number

You cannot be defined by a total on a scale

 your worth cannot be measured in inches  

and a symbol on a paper does not decide your importance

Because 

You are SO much more than a number

You are the light that shines behind your eyes

You are a source of beauty and love,

You are a heart that beats

And lungs that breathe 

and so I am POSITIVE you are someone

who REALLY matters

So please,

let neither grades nor seconds

nor inches nor pounds

nor anything else

take away from your infinite value

I don't know who needs to hear this, but there are times I definitely do. Comparison is the thief of joy so don't let it take yours.

The sun sets. 

A stunning watercolor effect paints the sky beautiful warm colors. 

A last hurrah before disappearing over the horizon. 

Then, 

there is moonrise. 

Not as flashy as the sunrise,

but just as beautiful in its own way.

A light in the otherwise darkness of night.

Accompanied by a never-ending sea of stars.

Looking up you feel so small in this big world.

Yet you also feel a weird calm fall over you.

The moon is smaller yet it moves the tides.

Both celestial bodies,

living in tandem.

Yin and Yang.

Sun and Moon.

An endless cycle:

Sunrise, Moonset.

Sunset, Moonrise.

Every day.

As true as the ground beneath your feet.

And eating cherries in the morning, I think about Icarus 

Young, Golden, Brilliant Boy 

So overcome by the freedom 

So overcome by the ecstasy of it all 

That he forgot to heed his father’s warnings 

That he felt the sea-spray 

That he felt the sun’s sharp rays on his back

And he smiled

And he flew

And he called back to his father

Zooming ahead

This way and that

``We’re going home! ``

Home

Home 

Home

And the cherry juice running down my hand 

reminds me of the wax

Melting, bubbling, burning

Turning his pale skin red

Dripping and falling

Into the blue sea below

Wax, from the candles

That had been the only source of light

In the dark windowless tower

Wax, that held together each feather 

Each feather that gifted him the ability to fly

To soar

To reach out and touch Apollo’s sun

And, spitting out the pit of the cherry, I think about

The pit in Icarus's stomach

As he realizes it was too late

As the far away blue grows closer and closer

As he can see the ripples

As he can see the end of his freedom

So limited, so short

But my sweet Icarus

Never felt fear

Never felt free

In the labyrinth, He was trapped by his father’s ambition

In the tower, Trapped by King Minos

Trapped by all of Crete

I have heard people say that Icarus laughed

As he was plummeting through the sky, he laughed

And who am I to say he didn’t

Who am I to say that sun-drunk Icarus

Reckless and at last uncontained

Didn’t spend his last moments

The sea’s arms reaching up for him

Howling

Screaming joy and triumph

``I flew! I flew!``

And he knew that

Despite the fact that he flew

He was falling

And as I reach for the last cherry in the bowl

Icarus reaches up his arms in a last moment

Before the sea receives him

Before he is pulled under the waves

His father, watching

Screaming

Crying

But in that moment, Icarus was not his father’s son

In the moment of the flight, he was Apollo’s 

In the sea, Poseidon's

Soon, he would be Hades’s

So, like the cherry stem I roll and twist between my fingers

Icarus rolled and twisted in the waves

The last dying breath taken from his lungs

His body now sinking

Sea-claimed, Sky-hungry boy

Now void of his free falling flight

Maybe, he could have lived

Grew old in the tower

Or maybe he could have fought

That all-consuming urge

That freedom

Maybe he wouldn’t have reached out and touched Apollo

But he would

Oh, but he would

All over again, given the choice

He would have chosen that last dying flight

The fall

And so Icarus

God-touched

Light-chasing

Sun-drunk Icarus

Flew

Flew

Flew

And fell

And I smile

thinking of my Freedom-mad boy

And I forget about the cherries

And their juice staining my hands

When I was 12, 
My favorite pair of shoes 
Also happened to be my only pair of shoes. 

I liked that they were so old their soles were coming 
Off of the actual shoe 
Because I had walked that much in them. 

I liked that they were so beaten 
That it shows how many times 
They've been packed 
And washed 
And squashed into dog poop 
Or gum in the school hallway. 

I have more shoes now. 
But they're still my favorite. 

I remember when I first got them 
From my dad after 
I begged him for weeks. 

He told me he knew I knew 
I could make him do whatever I wanted 
And he planted the lightest kiss on my forehead 
And it felt like an achievement of some kind. 

And I held his hand for maybe an hour after that 
Because it felt like that's what it was there for. 

And he still feels like heavy snow 
On a school morning 
Or maybe 
Someone who's been through so much 
But still ended up staying. 

I have a cat, and I miss him. I should be reading a short story for one of my classes, and I have a half-eaten burger in front of me, but I am thinking, only, of my cat. He is smooth—one brush of my palm against the back of his head and I was his, he was mine—he doesn’t really cuddle up to me, we just lay together, beside one another, in my bed. Sometimes the windows are open, and I watch the hair on his ears flutter. Other times, he settles his chin against the bony protrusions of my left ankle and purrs, eyes open. I’m not sure I would make a good pet owner—I don’t remember things, I neglect necessary duties, my medication piles up and I don’t take it. But he’s my parents’ cat, and when I come home—for break, for a night, for as long as I can—he’s there, and I’m here, and we bask in each other’s company. And, you know, I don’t really like cuddling. I’ve been touched and held before—of course I have—but there’s nothing quite like knowing someone (or something) you love is there, with you, because they choose to, and yet you do not touch, because you are existing while doing the things you both want to do, in proximity to one another. I think that’s why I like cats so much—they care, but they don’t. And we have a cat that cuddles—lord, does she—but she’s strange. My family thinks I dislike her—and, in the moment, I say I do. I agree. And I don’t. This is a cat—my brother’s cat—a small, defenseless, oldanimal that cannot do anything but walk around, get underfoot, drool, climb on top of our laps (at rather inopportune times), and meow, quite loudly. And eat, too, I suppose. She is very persistent, and very needy, and it is not the kind of personality I know how to handle. It irks me. Such habits and mannerisms are uncharacteristic of a cat, much less a person I can speak to and hang around. This is why I don’t like her—or, well. Don’t like being near her. She is too much. She needs me. I don’t know what to do about it. Maybe that makes me a bad person. It most certainly makes me a bad pet owner. I am willing to admit that. Bronny doesn’t do those things. He beats Seal up, sometimes (that’s her name; I’m not sure how she got it, other than the fact that she is very grey). It doesn’t bring me pleasure or happiness to see it, but I am detached from it all. Animals fight. Humans watch. Sometimes the roles switch. Oftentimes, even if the physical does, the psychological does not. I don’t know how to explain this philosophy. I mean, maybe, that we are all animals, but humans are inherently cruel, in a way everything else is not. It takes one to know one. I see it. I live it. I am it. I suppose I do like it when they are both in bed with me, laying there, asleep. It is peaceful. Seal is good company when she is quiet. Bronny is always quiet when he is in my bed—therefore, he is always good company. I guess I will say, I have two cats, and I miss them. Dearly. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, and lack of hairballs makes appreciation easier. Something like that.

Friendship,

Friendship is a wonderful, beautiful, amazingly quirky thing.

It’s meeting for the first time at a random place with no expectation of getting to know anyone, until comes a simple, “Hello.”

It’s those awkward days, months, years figuring each other out and realizing what you have in common, and what you don’t.

It’s going to wild places and doing crazy things, maybe getting a bit injured or falling flat-faced in the mulch, but getting back up with a goofy grin.

It’s eating too many marshmallows and singing till your voice cracks and your head is filled with the replaying fragments of Taylor Swift.

It’s giggling till your stomach hurts over a certain movie or book or even art you’ve made, even if it's dumb.

It’s thinking something really stupid is really funny and getting in trouble but going through it together, maybe still laughing under your breath.

It’s staying up late at a sleepover to watch a movie only one of you likes and learning to like it too.

It’s gossiping and talking about drama and what’s happening in life and having those awkward conversations about crushes, enemies, growing up, hormones, identity and silly and scary secrets.

It’s fighting over a random thing and then sighing and forgiving each other for it all.

It’s letting yourself cry and be vulnerable when you’re hurting and helping them when they hurt, telling each other, “It’s going to be okay.”

It’s being right by their side through their life the whole time through the ups and downs and not letting go and picking them up when they fall.

It’s texting and emailing each other goofy messages and calling each other over facetime for a whopping two to three hours, still smiling, and oh so much more.

But what it really is is love;

Love for each other;

Someone who’s always there, no matter what.

A companion,

A soulmate, you could say.

A real,

true,

friend.