Time wasted away

On small,

Trivial things

I only have one life

And no way

To undo the things

I’ve already done

So why

Do I waste hours

When I could be doing so much more?

Why 

Do I care so much

When it’s just a useless moment in my life?

Why should I put so much effort

Into something I can’t control?

Why am I wasting the only life I have?

Because it’s something I love doing,

Something that puts joy in me,

That lights up my face,

Because I know,

That 

It’s

Worth my time

My effort

My care

My attention

My energy

Because I will care,

No matter what others think.

How I wish I was a fairytale;

How I wish I wore gowns perfect

for twirling, and

how I wish I wore perfectly crisp

button-down shirts and

immaculately embroidered jerkins;

How I wish my eyeshadow really was

the stars brushed across my eyelids, and

how I wish I had rosy cheeks and a smile

sparkling as the sun;

How I wish I knew how to dance, and

had a prince charming to twirl me;

But perhaps I

do have a prince charming(kind

of, and I have friends with

flying hair and arms outstretched

to spin me), and

perhaps my eyeshadow is the stars, and

perhaps I do live a fairy tale;

So thank you (you

know who you are) for

writing me into your own stories.

My face is a mix of my parents'

I have my dad's eyes

And hair

I have my moms features

And skin tone

But it all pulled together

To make my face

My face with brown hair and eyes

Pink lips

And light olive skin

My mind was made by my mom and dad

I'm stubborn like my dad

And anxious like my mom

I'm also as determined as my dad

And as thoughtful as my mom 

I have opinions and ideas

Fears and concerns

My mind is bits and pieces

From my mom and dad

A mixture of both

My mom and dad like different things

I like both

I like the thrill of snowboarding

And sitting on the chairlift with my dad

I like getting lost in books

And holding hot cocoa in my hands as my mom holds her coffee

But I also like

To share my thoughts

And write about what I like

I like to listen to music

And hanging out with friends

I'm a mix of my mom and dad

I have a bit of their features

That tied together to make

The face that I see in the mirror each morning

My mind is like both of there's

With my stubborn and anxious tendencies

That created the business

In my brain

I like the same things as them

I like the thrill and stillness

Maybe the fact that I like those things

Contribute for my love of other things

I'm a mixture

Created with bits and pieces

Of my mom and dad

But in the end

I'm just me

If your eyes were the ocean, I'd swim in them.

If they were the sky, I'd fly in them.

Collecting crystals as blue as your eyes,

I wonder what I could see inside?

Blue flowers scream your name with a soft whisper,

and I listen carefully to each one, thinking of you.

Your blue eyes have made blue one of my favorite colors.

Every time you're on stage, I see your blue eyes glow, your pretty face glimmering in the warm, blinding light.

You like acting and singing, but you prefer bugs over people, like blue butterflies.

I wonder if you saw the way I stare into your eyes like an aquamarine gemstone, but I wouldn't know.

If we were at prom wearing matching blue dresses, I'd dance with you.

If you decided to wear a blue suit, I would still dance with you and I know you would do the same for me.

You're as pretty as a blue-tinted moon jellyfish, and the way the light hits your eyes makes me think of sunlight shimmering off of the water.

If only you knew the doubt I carried whenever I'm with you, thinking, “oh, they deserve so much better,"

Somebody once told me that blue meant sadness or despair, but whenever I look into your eyes; all I see is how pretty you are.

I wouldn't hesitate.

If your eyes were baggy ripped jeans, I'd wear em’.

The blue reef against the sand, I'd sit there with you until the tide pulled in.

If anything was as blue as your eyes, I know what I'd do.

All I know is that I love the color blue.

Imagine being in a place 
that everyone promised was safe, 
yet being chased 
by a weapon 
at the age of only eleven. 

School shootings are too normalized. 
Kids grow up scared and traumatized. 
Grief gets debated, politicized. 
It’ll be on headlines for a day or two, 
and the next day there’s new news, 
like, “Someone decided to shoot, but hey, Adidas made new shoes.” 
A resting place being a school —
the way they treat this situation is so cruel.

No one should have fear of that kind,
being held at gunpoint at the age of five.
All you can hear are screams and cries,
kids texting their parents, “Mom, ILY. Bye.”

And it’s not a one-day thing as well.
You can feel the silence where laughter fell.
Fear sits in every hallway cell.
The silence screams louder than the bell.

From one occurrence, kids are traumatized,
life flashing before their eyes,
questioning if they’ll make it out alive.
No one should have to beg, “Put down the gun,”
their life ending before it’s even really begun.

And I won’t say, “What if it was you,”
because it shouldn’t even be imagined. This isn’t a pain we should have to get used to.
This isn’t normal — it’s true.
Schools are meant to build futures, not undo them.

Because a seven-year-old girl had dreams to be
a princess, grow up, and see
the world. She still believed in the tooth fairy,
but now she rests for eternity.

And “If only they got out faster,” we say.
“We should’ve done drills for more days.”
If only the system protected who it promised to.
Time doesn’t owe her a future — we do.

Dedicated to the many schools on many lands,
and every adult who chose silence over command.
How many children must die before you stand?

new converse, christmas lights strung up til march, arcade pizza glistening with grease, red hair dye, burnt-off fog, rain, i think, or the dew on grass, dark lip stain, tracks in fresh snow, heavy vanilla, old lemon peel, pink ribbons forgotten on the floor, that acid dry-erase tang, notebook paper (college ruled), woodfire smoke, nostalgia, caramel, the bottoms of antique drawers, 0.7 graphite shattered on the page, sriracha sauce, the glitter you wipe from your eyes, three a.m. washed-out dawnings, 

fogged up & thumbprinted 

over & over again

Some people don’t stay

like mountains do.

They arrive like weather —

soft, sudden,

changing the air around you.

They sit beside you

on ordinary days

and somehow

make them glow.

You don’t notice

you’re in the middle of it

while it’s happening.

You just laugh.

You just breathe.

You just exist — lighter.

And then one day

the season shifts.

The chair across from you

is empty again.

The air feels different.

Quieter.

But here’s the strange thing —

the warmth doesn’t leave.

It lingers

in the way you grew,

in the way you learned

how it feels

to be understood

for a while.

Maybe that’s the gift.

Not that they stayed.

But that they were here at all.

As I lie in the warmth,

The sun brushes life with gold.

My soul fills with sounds of laughter, thorns,

but everything feels so cold.

The beautiful water so nice and giving,

the hues of blue, swirling, and dancing,

I open my eyes, looking, seeking,

but all I see is gray.

The beach. My beach.  

Where are the big seagulls squawking and laughing?

Where are the people playing and swimming?

Why is everything gone?

The lemonade and sweet strawberries,

The magical sunset, Mother laughing,

All so faint, all so vague,

All gone with wisps of smoke.

Sometimes when I close my eyes,

I can still feel the salt in the skies, 

The love and sorrow for that beach,

All gone from my grasp and my reach.