It all started with the big bang — the mighty "thwack"-ing noise that connected my body to the prickly embrace of the wood chips below. My descent from the jungle gym was far from graceful, solo mission "rescue Mr. Beanie Boo" undone by gravity's merciless pull.

Dazed and seeing stars, I lay on my back and listened to the noise of other kids orbiting the playground. 

It was then, that suddenly, faster than a shooting star, she appeared — clutching my Beanie Boo in her arms like a cosmic offering. 

It was then I knew my universe had expanded for good.

Today I saw my sister

the way she used to be—

not because she changed,

but because I remembered.

She was just there,

messy with noodles,

doing nothing special at all.

And somehow

that made it everything.

For a second,

the years folded in on themselves.

Her younger face

fluttered across the present

like a ghost made of memory.

And I thought—

Has that much time really passed?

When did “right now” become “back then”?

When did little turn into growing?

The moment slipped by fast,

like they all do.

But I caught it.

And I’m keeping it.

Not to be sad.

Not to wish things back.

But to remind myself

how quickly seconds turn into years—

and how every ordinary moment

is secretly a treasure.

this will be

the first 

and the last 

dance 

we'll share 

I'll be wearing pink

riding high on a childhood dream

waltzing 

like it's 1945

and you 

will wear a dark suit

matching the depth of your eyes

your eyes

which will tell me everything I need to know

even though we know our love has died

you will spin me round

my skirt twirling in the night air 

and hold me a little closer 

until the song slows

and the record stops

you will hide your pain from me

and pretend it's not goodbye 

when we leave the ballroom

but as I turn back, 

your jacket over my shoulders

I'll realize

first love

never dies completely

it just sinks

to the bottom of your heart 

like a body in the east river

and I know then

I will not miss you

but I will always love you 

Feet in thick socks 

Shuffle through the halls 

And across the kitchen floor 

Hands reach into cupboards 

Rearranging and putting away

Mugs 

And plates

And crystal cocktail glasses

On dusty shelves 

The sun rises 

A slice of bread with chocolate

Dry and stale from sitting out all night 

Is breakfast

To be eaten on the corner of the torn red sectional 

Which sits on an oriental rug 

Faded from the sun

Two sweatshirts and fathers vest 

Protect from the cold 

On a dry winter morning

Where skin gets cracked and dry 

From washing one too many dishes

A cycle 

A ritual 

In the morning 

Where time is still and warm to the touch 

Keeps things moving 

And gears turning

And the lights on

In silent suburbia 

The moment I first saw you, I knew to be afraid.

You were different. Your hair was short, your eyes were cold. There was a ruggedness in the headphones you wore around your neck, and there was a distant apathy in the voice you rarely used.

I steered clear of you. I stayed with my bright, warm friends, avoiding the cloud you lived in. And yet still, every day at school, I saw you, and I watched you. What made you frightening also made you fascinating.

Until one day, you weren’t at school. And the next, you were, but it wasn’t you. Not quite. Your hair was unkempt, your uncaring blue eyes were bloodshot. Your headphones weren’t there, and your voice wasn’t either. The cloud around you wasn’t defensive, didn’t scream, “Leave me alone, or else.” It was lonely. Melancholy.

So that day, I looked at my full table of grinning friends, and I walked to your empty one. I sat down. You looked at me through your tears like I had teleported next to you. I just smiled.

I didn’t know what had happened, but I was a sponge, soaking up your misery, if a sponge could joke with you and tell you it’s going to be okay.

That class period, I shed more tears than I ever had at school.

I also made a forever friend.

Being a teenager means 

Schrodinger's cat isn't just a concept anymore 

The person you are 

is simultaneously alive and dead 

in the box you were put in 

Nothing fits you 

not your awkward limbs 

not your angry, red skin 

not your aching heart or exhausted brain 

nothing feels human 

And the cardboard walls that were built around you 

seem too flimsy for a cage or to be protection 

You resent that they were built at all 

and so you poke holes for air and anguish 

but you shrink back, afraid to show your morphing face 

Being a teenager means

waiting with Schrodinger's cat on your shoulder, holding your tongue

until your strike of lightning comes 

and the box is opened, so you find out

if you are dead

or if you have finally come alive.