28 May 2014


Disappointment stings
more than bees;
the only difference
is that we expect bees.
And yet
if we expected
we wouldn't feel it.

14 May 2014

Since I'm late for #transformationtuesday...

Lately, I've been lacking inspiration. I've just been so worn out between school and extra-curriculars (and I got into a car crash about a month ago and I've been dealing with the aftermath of that....) that I've just been too tired to write... It's been hard posting twice a week.

A lot of the poems I've already posted come from the files I already have on hand, and though there are nearly 100 of them, I only feel comfortable posting a few. As I go through and try to choose which poem to post, I find that most of the ones I have on hand are a) incomplete, or b) from several years ago.

Which brings me to this post. Reading these old poems makes me wince; I've been tempted, on a number of occasions, to erase them and pretend they never existed. But I don't. I save them so that I can see the way my writing has evolved. I'm not a ground-breaking, philosophy-spouting scholar; I've always written as a form of self-soothing. But I do find it interesting to see how I've grown as a writer.

For example, this

was written when I was about 14. Looking at it today, at age 18, I want to bury myself in sand and revoke any association with it.

Whereas I wrote this

the summer between my junior and senior years of high school at age 17. Actually, they're written about the same person.

I go over what I've written about the boy I'm currently in love with, and I can't even begin to speculate what my files will have on him in 3 months, let alone 3 years. It's kind of cool to realize how gradually and yet how incredibly experiences modify writing style.

Has anyone else noticed a similar phenomenon?

11 May 2014

throwback to this time last year

People think it's when someone tells you they don't want you
or need you
or love you.
And, well, it is.
But it's also where they show you that they don't.
It's where you say you could call me
and they say I know
and then they don't.
It's where you ache with the burning desire to hear about their day and their activities
and you listen to them talk,
watch their expressions,
laugh in the right places,
and they don't even bother to ask about you.
It's where, yeah, you've got other friends and you're happy,
but they've left this hole where they used to be
and you've been unable to fill it up,
and they didn't even have a space for you in the first place.
So, yeah, rejection is "I think we should break up,"
or "I guess I just moved on,"
but it's also
"She's my best friend," when that used to be you,
or a playful, "No one" when you ask who keeps texting them
because their phone keeps ringing
and it's like it's laughing at you because look-
he chose to talk to you, but you're only one of his options,
and you're definitely not the first
and you're definitely not the best.
So you just smile weakly and hope they don't notice that they've broken you so completely,
and you wonder, why do I keep letting him in?
It's because every time he comes back, you're hoping he's accepted you
when really you're just finding out all the different ways he can reject you.

08 May 2014


I was broken when I met you;
 in all directions lay shards
of my fragile, glass soul.
Oh, but how kind you were,
how sweet,
 how gentle-
the softness of your touch
as you helped me gather them all
into a box.
I remember each brush of your fingers
against each fragment;
I once had memorized every callous.
And then, oh,
the shock of you leaving-
the thought of you gone-
I couldn't help but drop the box
that held the shards of my heart.
This time,
 I picked them up alone;
oh, how slowly I worked,
how the dust embedded itself in my skin.
Months later,
I was whole again,
glass dust dissolved,
a heart in one piece-
ignoring the cracks.
I can't say I miss you,
because I'm glad you left.
He makes me feel
less like glass
and more like diamond.

07 May 2014

evening run

My feet pound the pavement, echoing around me; my heart pounds in my chest, filling up my ears. Thoughts of you litter my mind like trash on the sidewalk. I stop to catch my breath, only to lose it once more because in this place, I can only feel you.
I remember the words that spilled from your lips as we walked these streets together, the way each house looked in that moment, glowing in the afternoon sunshine.
This fence that so often finds itself a target for runaway cars has been replaced, just like me.
Remember walking by here? The gaping hole, the only thing between us and the drainage ditch a line of yellow tape, limply hung in a gross misrepresentation of a smile that more resembled a grimace.
Still, we couldn't have cared less, flashing grins like IDs as we continued down that stretch of road, vehicles flashing by in a blur of color and a blast of wind. It's empty now; just me and my thoughts. My pace slows as I approach the intersection, pressing the button and half-smiling as I recall you teasing my inability to do so; it beeps in response and startles me out of my memory. Has it always been so loud? It didn't seem that way with you by my side.

The light turns and I run through the crosswalk, yet I can't help but remember your casual grace as you sauntered through, cool and confident like a runway model. You even looked the part, with your finger-mussed hair and inviting smile. It seems a million years ago that you sent that smile my way, a glint in your eyes that I couldn't quite place, though it made me flush with excitement anyway.

05 May 2014


1. We are, all of us, children: eyes bright, with the pointed face and awkward limbs indicating a growth yet to come. Our desks have grown comfortable and the hallways have grown home-y and we are at the top of the food chain, and yet we are about to leave it all behind.
The prospect of moving on is not one we are familiar with; it is what we have been putting off, but no longer. They thrust it upon us, with forms to fill out and papers to sign and numbers to memorize.
They tell us to choose an elective, and when I did, I never thought that a word, circled, on a sheet of paper, could save my life.
2. I have grown up learning that I have what is known as potential: I display excellence in academics. But I have been taught more about getting good grades than I have been about science or math or history; I have been taught more about being exemplary in the eyes of the system than I have learned at all. They tell me I am talented.
They tell me that I am going places, but they never tell me where.
3. I am alone, and I sit on the edge of the bathtub. The bottle I hold rattles when I shake it; the paper in my other hand is crumpled and smudged. I have always believed them when they told me that my future was bright,
but not anymore. I see no future. I am alone
and worthless
and there is nothing for me.
My potential has run out and my talent has faded. I am the ashes of a campfire, and I am so tempted to let the wind carry me away.
I put the bottle away. But I hide the paper where only I can find it.
4. The next day, at school, my band director says something to me. He says that he is proud of me, words I have only ever heard from my parents and which have long ago lost meaning. But I go home, and I look at my hidden letter, and I tear it to shreds, because suddenly, the thought of never feeling an instrument in my hands again, of never making music again, of never making my director proud again, is too much to bear.
5. It has been several months since they began asking me the college questions. What will I major in? Where will I go? And the truth is, I have no idea. They tell me I can do anything- again with my potential- but I know that's not true. I am an utterly unremarkable student with mediocre intelligence and an unusual ability to bullshit teachers, but that will only get me so far in life and I doubt its abilities to get me into college. I am at a loss. Everything I thought I knew is slipping away.
I write another letter. I find another hiding place.
6. You inspired me to practice more, so I can be an amazing clarinet player like you, is what one of my freshman writes in my yearbook. I saw you playing the clarinet and it made me want to play it, too, is what another tells me at a sectional. And somewhere along the lines, the words music education major floated to the front of my mind.
7. Why music? You could excel in math; you could thrive in science. Why music?
Why music? Because music has shown me beauty in places I'd never expected,
and has spoken to me in languages I'd never known;
because music has kept me alive when the breath in my lungs couldn't.
So now, here I am, a child with eyes more dull than before, with limbs more proportional than they had been, yet again at the top of the food chain,
with more forms to fill out and more papers to sign and more numbers to memorize:
they tell me to choose a major and this time,
I am fully aware that a word, circled, on a sheet of paper can save lives.