Poetry

December already?

That's what everyone else says.

People ask us at the end 

of every year

to reflect on these last twelve months

that have changed us.

And I honestly never know

“Is that what you’re wearing”

She says

Not as a question

But a judgment

A cold declaration

That I’m doing something wrong

Many years have passed 

Wearing away at my soul

Yet I will never forget

Those 2020 backyard nights we spent 

Collecting acorns and playing tag under sunset skies

Tonight, stars are falling,

Over Chicago, New England, Texas,

From angry east to angry west,

Dark cars: hearses that we don't call hearses

Roll silently towards lively, warm houses,

Fire is like a person. You can change how it looks but it's still the same. 

You can color your hair, pierce your ears or change your clothes, but you're still the same person.

what do the wings write, light in the sky

tales told to the whistling, empty guy

stellar moon that turns eyes hibiscus pink

darling dark hair, shining star, who slips his hand away in the morning

reminds me of crows billowing, in the middle of the day when I can see their wings

of snow and christmastime, falling bright orange or blue, covering shadows

watching it all from up high

I saw a photo of our band from last year

our Wind Ensemble

the intern we all fell in love with

the conductor we adore

everyone was together

and I just...

gah.

I wanted to yell STAY

Sack race

thirteenth birthday party

start of seventh grade.

My two BFFs since kindergarten,

the one that slipped in from fourth grade,

the two I met in fifth -

then of course my party girlfriends

The tides still ebb

The sun still rises

The trees still grow

My curls are longer now.

We have a new president new governors

Different colors speckling made up maps

Division.

How lucky am I?

To feel loved?

In a household and a family and a school that makes me feel not worth it

not good enough 

and I found someone outside of it all who loves me?

I used to have a purpose here.

Words would open,

and people would step inside them.

Photos would breathe,

and someone would stop to look.

Now it feels like I’m slipping—

here,