To Do:
I tell myself to control the little things.
Set an alarm for 7 am.
Because no one is really in control, are they?
Make the bed.
We cannot control death.
Lock the house on your way out.
Cannot control who lies still in a hospital bed
Laundry day is Thursday.
And who sits restlessly beside them.
Don't skip lunch again; an apple will do.
We cannot control an avalanche of anxious thoughts
Don't leave the grocery list at home.
Nor the future stretching ahead of us.
No shoes inside the house.
We are not in control.
Sweep the crumbs off the counter.
But we can control the little things.
Crumbs off the counter. Off the counter.
Things that keep insanity from gripping the mind.
Sweep the crumbs. Off. The. Counter.
And if we keep this illusion
In bed by ten.
That the little things keep us in control
Set an alarm for 7 am.
Then we never have reason to question.
Block out all thoughts...
Who is in control of our lives?
An Awkward Exchange
Hey.
So, um
Do you like chocolate chip cookies? Because I have some
In my backpack and I was going to eat them but I saved them for you...
and I wasn't going to eat them, so you know I was just wondering if you wanted some.
But now that we're on the subject, what are your thoughts about bees? I mean, haha not in general but do you think that they're important to our ecosystem because I sure do I mean they pollinate the flowers and that's what make our food grow so yeah just wondering...god I'm so awkward
So before you walk away I just um I just...
So what I'm trying to say is...
why can't I just say it?
What I wanted to talk to you about today was surprisingly not about bees but
hm how to put this...
When I see you I feel like I'm going to throw up. Ew, what?
Oh but in a good way. You see...I'm messing this up...
When you smile it feels like a chorus of butterflies,
Fluttering their feather-wings, tickling me from the inside out.
It feels like I'm a puppet:
My master tugs at the corners of my mouth, puts a twinkle in my eye,
Coaxes a sigh of longing.
It feels like I could live a thousand years
And never grow tired
Of that boyish dimple you try so hard to hide
Of your deep laugh, when you hold nothing back
I wish you'd laugh more...
Anyways.
I thought you should know that, um, those were my thoughts so yeah
And also I was wondering if maybe perhaps you feel the same way?
I’m sorry for this poem
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry for what I said yesterday,
And I'm sorry that I'm not always there when you need me,
For being late,
And for not listening.
I'm sorry for having an opinion,
And for being silly when you're not.
For not liking baseball as much as you,
And for complaining about my day.
I'm sorry that I'm too much
And I'm sorry that I'm not enough.
I'm sorry that I need you.
I'm sorry that I'm a burden.
I'm sorry for being sorry.
I'm sorry for this poem.
Helpless
I can see it.
I can see it right there, at the bottom of the emerald pool,
Bright and shining like I can reach out and touch it.
And so I do.
I reach my hand in the pool
And it's so close...
But I can't quite reach...
My arm goes in
Chill creeping up into my chest
Reaching, reaching
Just a little farther...
I duck in my head and torso
Feet lifting off the ground
It hasn't moved...still so close
I plunge in
My whole body in the icy pool
I swim down, down
The cold gripping my heart
The bottom never coming closer
I surface, gasping for air
Salty tears
Frustration
I can't reach it
Helpless.
The Boy in the Mirror
I am sixteen years old.
I go to high school, and I do well. Even though it sounds really nerdy to most people, math is definitely my favorite subject. I love how there's always an answer that can't be argued. No one can argue that 2+2 is anything except four. And I like that. There's always an answer.
I've learned that this is not the case with other aspects of my life.
I came home from school one day, and, on my way to the kitchen for a little after-school snack, I walked past the mirror, just like I do every day. But today, it was different. Today, I saw my buzz-cut hair and my peach fuzz lip and my almost-stubbly chin, my Adam's apple and square-cut jaw, my gangly frame (they call me a tree) and my hairy knees (only noticeable because of my pale, pale skin). Today in the mirror, I saw a stranger.
It's funny, because I've walked past that mirror a thousand times. And each time, I think "that's me". And it is. It's a sixteen year old boy in the mirror. That's me; that's the answer.
But today, I saw that buzz-cut hair and wished it could be straightened and adorned with a bow.
Today, I saw the stubbly chin, and wished for a face smoothed by makeup and colored with cosmetics.
Today, I saw my square jaw, and wished, more than anything in the world, that it was round and soft and feminine.
Today, I saw a stranger in the mirror. One that didn't match my insides, that didn't match my heart. And I realized that maybe gender isn't a math problem. Maybe there isn't always a right answer...
But isn't it sad to look in the mirror, and to not see who you are inside?
Silence
My mind screams.
No words. Chaos.
A torture chamber.
Quiet pleas for help:
Choked out; replaced with roars of flame.
Don't you hear it? Don't you hear my anguish? The cries from the battle field? The shredding of my reason and the thundering collapse of my sanity?
Why do you turn away?
Can't you hear me?
Did my explosions deafen you?
Or am I a crazed chimp, pounding on the glass walls
Of my prison?
Judgement
We are all broken.
My shards are sharper than yours.
But yours are more numerous.
Mine cut into my palms, blood dripping from my fingertips.
You wear yours with pride, a shining emblem upon your chest.
I forget sometimes, that it's not just me that is broken.
I start, when I see your brokenness displayed.
I hate that spark of surprise that I feel
When you dig a shard from my palm,
Kiss it.
Place it on my chest.
A bloody, stained crest of the battles I have won, of the brokenness I hide.
I hate that no one has done this before.
I hate that no one has done this for you.