This is losing my keys.
This is forgetting your name.
This is the time I fell down in gym class and
Was noticed for the first time all semester.
This is my collection of bruises.
This is my network of scars.
This is a human who has seen so much and
Done too little.
This is the question mark at the end of my answer.
This is the nightmare that made me turn the lights on.
This is the failed test and the forgotten homework.
This is him calling me a robot and
Nobody stopping him.
This is the broken promise and the shattered dream.
This is for the one one who doesn’t realize that
This is the beginning where there shouldn’t be an end.
This is the memory where there should be a person.
This is stuttering in front of my peers.
This is a skinned knee and a broken confidence.
This is doing everything
While being told I was nothing.
This is the perpetuating cycle
Of self-loathing and self-doubt.
This is for the voiceless.
This is for the helpless.
This is for the selfless,
For the fighter
Who can’t seem to fight her way out.
This is for the forgotten
The beaten
The tried and true
The loyal
The silent and
The one who has nothing left to give.
This is for the endless.


You were wearing you glasses,
God, I don’t even know when.
I just know you were wearing them.
They framed your intelligent eyes
That, consistently, you turned on me.
They gave you the appearance of being older,
More clever, and
For a second I didn’t recognize you.
Then you smiled.
Maybe I made a stupid joke,
Or a stupid face
Or was just being stupid but
You smiled and those eyes changed.
They brightened, they shone and
Your eyes behind those smart glasses
Convinced me that those plums of mine you ate
Were, in fact, delicious, and
Much like your smile and your eyes and
Your brilliant, yellow soul made of stories,
They were sweet.
So sweet and so cold.

His Creation

He wore his words like a coat of arms
Snakes of letters circling his figure.
They dropped on the ground behind him
With each step he took,
Leaving a trail of his stories in his wake.
He wore his past in narratives;
They inked his skin like a sunrise.
I watched them as they toured his body,
And took refuge behind his eyes.
Those eyes that looked at me
As though I were a miracle,
With his words reached out to me,
Branched out to me,
Hands extended towards my own.
But I know if I take them in mine,
If I hold them and I study them,
If I note each and every intricate detail,
He will unravel.
He will dissolve into an alphabet,
Of a beautiful history never meant to be read.

Of Being Loved

Being in love isn’t something you do, it’s someone you become. It changes you. And that’s why it’s so dangerous. Because once you love someone, you’re not all you anymore. You’re bits and pieces of her, spliced in among your DNA without you even noticing. So when she leaves, and she takes those pieces with her, you realize you can never go back to the you before. He doesn’t exist anymore. You have holes and gaps and though you stitch them back together to form coherency, there are scars. So though you may move on, find other loves, every time you touch the fabric of your soul you’ll find the marks of who you once were, but who you will never be again.

Paper Hearts

I’ve been thinking about feelings lately.
Not emotions. Feelings.
Emotions are what you express.
Feelings are what you experience, and
There’s an inconceivable depth to that
Of which emotion will never accomplish.
So I’m left with eloquent emotions in my hands and
Scribbled feelings on my heart.
That’s the thing about hearts,
Their impressionable.
You can cut them up and rip them out,
Crumple them, stain them with the ink in your pointed words.
You can distress a heart like a pair of jeans but it never stops working.
Yet just because it ticks on
Doesn’t mean it isn’t maimed,
It isn’t changed.
You see, hearts are made of paper.
To think they are made of muscle and sinew,
That they’re strong and resilient
Is to deplete the power of feelings.
To erase their depth.
Because each mark you make on my heart is a constant reminder
Of just who the hell you are.
Each rip you create,
Each time you try to tape it back together.
Every laugh, every glare, every poem and smile and rude comment and ray of light and supportive wish
Decorates my insides like the world’s ugliest collage.
I only get one heart.
It was once a blank slate,
But since then has been written on by a thousand experiences,
Some painful,
Some not.
Every thing I have ever felt has marked up my paper heart.
Which begs the question,
If our hearts are made of paper,
What does yours look like?

Colorful People

You have a color to you.
It glows when you smile
And glitters in the depths of your eyes.
A prism,
So variant, so beautiful,
I never want to stop staring.
You have a music to you.
It rings in your laughter and
Laces your voice.
A melody, so layered and mellifluous,
I refuse to stop listening.
You have an energy to you.
It radiates through your movements and
Is complemented by your excitements.
A lightning storm, charged and snapping,
I neglect to be afraid.
You have a light to you.
It shines through your kindness and
Emanates from your very soul.
A sunset,
A warmth that is matched by nothing else.
It seems so cold elsewhere.

You have a darkness to you.
It clings to your clothes and
Grasps at your hands.
It tries to drag you down.
I know you fear it will.
Just know there is no way it can.

It is terrified of color.
Of music, of energy.
It is so afraid of your light,
It tries to extinguish it.
Which is all the more reason to burn brighter, isn’t it?
Be more colorful, more energetic, more musical.

I know you’re afraid.
It’s all the more reason to be you.