We are all just human,
affected by the changing world around us.
Like a perfect square of origami paper
that a child folds into a crane, 
we are manipulated. 
The folding pressing shaping,
fingers of society telling us we have to be
like the other paper cranes. 
But really, none are alike,
it's just an illusion created by repetition.
A child folding one hundred cranes,
the pressing fingers of society affecting each page differently.
All based on its material, its past,
the future planned for it,
and the ways it is bent to fit
the shape that is most pleasing to the eye.

Here's what I need. Next time you speak to me, call me a baddass before you talk or ask about my ass. I need every person who makes an objectifying  comment, sexual advance, or otherwise problematic innuendo, to imagine they're saying it to their baby sister. To their neighbor. To the kindergarteners we walk past out in the world, to the mothers who fought so hard for equal opportunity in the workplace. I need each and every person to ask themselves before they speak, "Does this sentence use a woman as an object? Am I going to benefit the people around me by saying this, or am I simply insecure?"

Because while I can recover from your comments, jokes, and phrases that are seen as normal in our culture of harassment, I don't know if she can. I don't know if the next girl can. I can't sit back and watch while those around me suffer. This language is not normal. It CANNOT be normal. It's ludicrous that women are subjected to crude comments wherever they go. 

I am from chapter books,
from smartphones and pencils.
I am from the freezing cold winters of Vermont.
I am from the maple tree,
the soft grass lawn.
I am from noodles and dark hair,
from Andrew and Coco.
I am from the glasses,
and chopsticks.
From “work hard” and “never give up”.
I am from atheists and respectful people.
I'm from the south, in Alabama, 
and the rice and noodles.
From the hard-workers, the first-comers,
and the heart-warming. 
I am from the family album, which records our past.
 

I want to never move on
And yet I want change.
I want to see my friends again 
So time must pass
But I do not want my time to pass.
I turn thirteen 
In a week.
I do not want to forever be labeled "teenager" or "adult."
I am a child.
I still cry at movies and books.
I still run up to dogs on the street and pet them.
I still play childish games.
Does this make me a child?
I no longer go to bed at 8.
I no longer have "playdates."
I no longer want to play pretend or go to the playground.
Does this make me a teenager?
I hope not.
I want to remain in my childhood
But time has passed too quickly,
Much of it taken,
Less of it spent.
Why do I have to go?
Forced into this state of being
Where I have to pretend I don't want to go play tag with the kids in the yard,
Where I have to pretend I want to listen to the adults' dull chatter,

The feeling of new is sickeningly addictive. From a young age, we quickly discover that new stuff makes us "happy." New toys or foods or places or clothes, bring us so much excitement and temporary joy, that for a moment we forget all other worries. This feeling brings a rush of excitement and light into our lives, yet the feeling fades quickly, into boredom and dissatisfaction, thus calling for the cycle to repeat.

Whittlers while away time with sticks and knives. 
Me, I wait with diamonds, scratching lines into the sky. 
Down, down, down, down, and then one across 
One for every hour that waiting has cost. 
Waiting in lines, praying for movement, 
Praying for a movement, temporary resolution 
Are we still, are we silent? 
Are we quiet, defiant?
I see our hourglass, and it is mine 
Time is not on our side, I'm running out of time 
Jokes pile up in boxes on my table 
The tales of our defeat stack up like fables 
Lost, losing, choosing not to fight 
Will we stand up, will we do what is right? 
And then; what is? What is our salvation? 
Will it come like rain, soothing our nation 
or will it come like a wrecking ball 
and leave us broken just like we were 
so we can pick up our photographs, marked 2031?
But when the stars align, and fossil fuels fail 
Will we perservere, or die leaving a trail 

/ˈnôrməl/
adjective
conforming to a standard; usual, typical, or expected.
"it's quite normal for puppies to bolt their food"

That's the thing about our
species as humans. We adapt
over time; learn to make the best
of what we have. We are
survivors at heart; it is 
in our blood and nature. We
have been taught to prepare for
natural disasters,
robberies,
a bunch of random things that could
destroy us. But I swear to god
or anything or anyone up there,
no one could have been prepared
for this. 
I WANT MY LIFE BACK

My friend has his bar mitzvah 
on the full year of quarantine:
March 13th, 2021. Shocking, 
if you think about it. A full year
of isolation,
facetime calls,
empty nothingness...
it's become normal. 
We've adapted. Now we know
to not leave the house without
a mask and hand sanitizer, 

When wind whips my hair and blows it across my face dramatically, 
I pretend to be in a Jane Austen novel.
For, what! I cry to the sky through my hoarse throat,
thither comes a dashing gentleman!

(the sky is grey like murky tea.)
Dear, dear me, I am faint! I sweep my hand to my forehead and stumble across the ground.
Are you alright? (I switch to being a handsome young man in a grey waistcoat and a concerned expression.)
Just a little… c-cold, I stammer helplessly.

He regards me and invites me on his horse,
(I am quite faint at this point, and my skin is turning blue.)
and rides home with me draped in his wool coat and clutching tight to his horse (and most certainly not him.)
I am propped in bed with warm tea, the colour of the sky, and he waits anxiously in the parlor, as when he carried me in I looked quite cold and he is wondering how I am doing.