if a wish were a hood it could keep off the rain
it could hide my face, hide my shame

if a wish were a ring it could bind my heart
it could bind my soul, a vital part

if a wish were glue it could keep me together
i could feel more grounded, or light as a feather

if a wish were more than a thought...
but no, it is all for naught

h.f.m.

i.
graduation feels a little like tripping, a little like falling, a little like flying. for thirteen years our only job was to do what our teachers told us, learn what they taught us, shut up and sit still and listen when they were talking. we wrote pages and pages and pages on historical significance and environmental responsibility and socio-economic balances, all the while thinking to ourselves what does any of this have to do with me? and now the future whispers across our shoulders while we sit in parallel rows wearing identical black gowns it has everything to do with you.

ii.
half of us dont know what we are doing or what it is going to be like where we are going, or if we are even going to make it, but each of us are filled with a new fire that ripples under our skin like power, like a song, like the secrets of the universe murmuring come find me, children of hope, children of madness. because we have to be mad to believe we can change anything, we have to have a little bit of crazy to make a change. lucky for us, we are plenty insane, ready to shape the world under hands of benevolence and tolerance and innovation and freedom and hope.

iii.
they tell us we are the future, but theyre not entirely correct. what they tend to forget is that we are also the present, and we are already picking up their pieces to make a new mosaic in the shape of humanity’s rebirth.

h.f.m.

i.
it is so much easier to write rage to write anger to write agony than all of those fluff-feelings of joy-love-peace-hope and i have a truth for you and pain is not sweet and we always want to turn blood into paint for a masterpiece as if our suffering is fair trade for our passion and and and—

ii.
my mouth is a wolf’s maw full of sharp and bone and hunger and i wonder what satisfied means and i wonder how you dare speak to me like you know me like you know anything about me like fact and truth are equals like absolute power is anything but the most concentrated form of weakness like—

iii.
9-year-old me listens with such innocence, such naivety, such sickening hope as i tell her a tale of redemption and happy endings but now the world is burning and people are dying and i am being ****** into a stagnant role under the title maturity and civil responsibility and if this is growing up then give me back the youthful fury of my teenage years where i believed that my voice meant something and my actions made a difference and that i deserved my righteous indignation at the world trying to condition me into using my will and my desire and my skill and my love for the sake of everything and everyone but myself while i try to beat my quivering into the shape of something of use.

iv.
my hands are shaking but i will take the fire itself into my hands if that is what it takes for you to listen.

h.f.m.

happily, you decompose
releasing your woes
even as they drag away your laughter

euphorically, you dissolve
losing your resolve
to live, even as your fears leave you

elatedly, you decay
your skin turns ash-grey
and maggots dig into your flesh

passionately, you molder
your recently-cremated ashes smolder
the flame devoured you with all the ferocity of a lover

joyfully, you disintegrate
forget the cold burn of hate
and misplace the memory of love, too

blissfully, you rot
lose your affinity with thought
your mind a directionless searching

delightedly, you wither
there is no time to dither
no time, full sprint to oblivion

reverently, you splinter
welcome eternal winter
relegate warmth to your fleeing memories

earnestly, you break down
your will is to drown
all your issues are a rising sea

fervently, you fall apart
you thought you were so smart
with death comes release, no?

h.f.m.

My poems are pretty nice, I know
These premeditated thoughts I type up
To show you a sliver of me
But you haven't met me in person

On the other side of this poem
The other side of the screen
I'm just another high school student
Plodding along with the rest

I have a few people
(like, one or two)
Who I talk to occasionally
So I can call them friends

I have a loving family
There are seven of us in the house, though
So it's a bit crowded
And crowds stress me out

I'm a bit of an introvert
So even though I hate to be lonely
I don't really mind being alone
Prefer it, actually, most of the time

In person I'm small
And a bit quiet 'till you know me
Won't talk till you show interest
Then talk your ear off in excitement

I do tend to ramble
This shows in my poetry sometimes
Mostly because I don't have chance to practice
Normal conversing behavior

I talk too fast, and too much about myself
I'm a bit annoying, to be honest
And I'm pretty absent-minded
Forgetting to eat or go to bed on occasion

In person I'm sarcastic
A bit sassy too
But I'm always scared I'll hurt someone
And at the slightest confrontation I clam up

I favor silence, and solitude
As (unhealthy) coping mechanisms
Because I hate bothering people
And will withdraw if I think I'm being irritating

In person I'm shy and solitary
In person I'm too needy and excitable
In person I'm a bit naive and lonesome
In person I'd rather die than hurt anyone

So you know my poetry—
A bit sad and fierce
With a few encouraging works thrown in—
But you haven't met me in person

h.f.m.

It's interesting to learn to love yourself,
when you hadn't known before that you didn't.

To learn to love the sound of your voice
without knowing you thought it was grating.

To learn to love the color of your eyes
before realizing you thought their grey was dull.

To learn to love your skin, even,
as you come to understand you have always wanted to claw it off.

To learn to love your idiosyncracies
as you discover that they irritated you to no end.

To learn to love yourself in your entirity
even as you learn you had resigned yourself to being unlovable,

to yourself or anyone else.
(Especially anyone else)

It's interesting to learn to love yourself,
when you don't fully comprehend your own self-hate.

h.f.m.

You know that feeling when you walk into a room full of purpose
and then instantly forget what you were doing?
The intention, the action, then the frustrated attempt at recollection.
That's how I feel when I wake up.

You know that feeling when you reach the top of a rollercoaster
and your stomach drops before the ride does?
The anticipation, the adrenaline rush, and then you feel sick.
That's how I feel when I step outside my door every morning.

You know that feeling when you're just going about your life
and then you get a sense that something has gone terribly wrong?
The relaxation, the peace, then the chills across your skin.
That's how I feel when I cross the road.

You know that feeling when you are listening to a song
and then one line loops and loops and loops, like a broken record?
The rhythm, the melody, then the repetition (repetition, repetition).
That's how I feel when I speak.

You know that feeling when you get a new pen, put it to paper
and then it glides, tracing letters cleanly and smoothly?
The impact, the initiation, then the ease of creation.
That is how I feel when I write.

h.f.m.