Sometimes,
I just want to skip the directions of life.
Go right to the game,
No tutorial needed.
I know I'll regret it later,
But I just don't want to be told what to do,
And how to do it.
Sometimes,
I dream,
And those dreams come back.
Sometimes those dreams are good,
And they make me just want to sleep,
So I can keep living those dreams.
Sometimes they slip away like a little piece of cobweb,
And I have to wait for them to come back,
To remember.
Sometimes,
I am the hug,
Who listens and give you advice,
Trying my best to make you feel better.
And sometimes I just need a hug,
A forever hug.
I just want to cry like a lost kitten in someone's arms,
And feel weightless.
Sometimes,
I want to write the best words the worls has ever seen,
Only to be dissapointed.
And sometimes,
I just want to write something away,
And I don't care about it.

If you are hearing this, and you are a police officer, hear me out. You and I both know very well how twisted the system is. Officers were originally used to hunt down slaves. I don’t think you need further proof than that. Yet still, proof continues to rise up as black lives are struck down. Black lives, like the lives of Tamir Rice, Michael Brown, Breanna Taylor, Amhaud Arbery, Eric Garner, George Floyd and so many more. Those were only off the top of my head. As officers take the mercy of humans lives their own fists and choose to throw it away because of chocolate. And when they are faced with the truth about their racism, throw it back to us as tear gas and batons, beating us down as if that will also beat down the truth. But it doesn’t work. We all know the truth isn't leaving any time soon. The only way to fix this is peace. Lay down your weapons and join the fight.

This,
This waistland of broken stuff.
Broken songs,
Made for a cracked voice.
Broken promises,
That they all forgot.
A broken glass,
Thrown in a hasty momment of rage.
Broken discs,
To an old fashioned radio.
Broken people.
Oh, the broken people.
And everyone's breaking,
Gradually.
Ticking,
A time bomb into our end.
And it's time,
For some people to break a little more.
And time,
For others to finish breaking.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
We're all breaking,
But we need to rebuild.
We are all warriors,
And once we're on the other side of all this,
We will see our loved ones,
And marvel at all the things that have changed.
We all will have battle scars,
And someday,
Some of us already do.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
There will be a time,
To let those scars heal.
And there will be a time,
To let those scars stay.
Stay,
As a tribute,

    I was laying on my back, talking to my best friend. The towel beneath me had grown wet with the chlorine and sweaty water from our neighboorhood pool, so I was resting my hands on the warmth of the tennis courts. While the smooth concrete was hard, it was oddly soothing.

    We were talking about planets, and we ended up on the subject of the whole universe. My friend said, “If you think about it, the whole universe is huge. In the big scheme of things, we are insignificant.” I thought about this for a moment. I then propped my self up on my elbow, looked at her, and then lay down again. I watched the clouds.

    “Actually, no,” I said, watching the gentle breeze slowly push the clouds away. “We are not insignificant. Every move we make affects something. Just by pushing this leaf-” I flicked a little leaf from the surface of the court. It moved an inch. “-I have changed my whole future.”

    “How so?” she asked skeptically.

I have never had to talk to my grandparents six feet apart. It just did not happen. We are family. Until now. My grandparents came into the driveway one day. This was the first time they had come over since the Corona craziness started. I went out to greet them, and my mother stopped me at six feet from my grandfather. Both of my grandparents were wearing masks. This was strange for me, and it kind of made me feel as though I were the virus itself. I had no words. I tried to be cheerful and discussed a new development in my life. Now and again, I am allowed to have a little coffee since I have stopped growing. I had had some that morning and was excited to tell my grandparents. I still did. It is awkward and kind of hard to social distance from family, and I hope I will never have to do this again in my life. If I do, I really will lose it.

WEEK 31: Home-ish. Describe a place that feels like home, but isn’t what you would consider your actual home. In what ways does this safe/special setting bring you comfort?

only then.
a poem highlighting the life of an eating disordered teen. autobiographical.

i’m seven years old, sitting on ms.k’s alphabet rug on the dirty classroom floor.
my hands cup the skin on my thighs, as i sit and wonder why the other girl’s don’t look like mine.

i’m almost ten, delicate ballet music plays as point shoes from the devil leap across the floor.
i look in the mirror, and take a deep breath, sucking in my leotarded stomach that isn’t as flat as it “should be.”

i’m eleven, pulling my soccer jersey from my chest, and wishing it would stay.
ignoring the ache in my ribs from a sports bra three sizes too small, an attempt to hide what i don’t want.

i’m twelve, watching as my friends get ready for winter formal.
i sit quietly on the bathroom counter, praying to the heavens that my dress would be the same size as theirs.