Being a people pleaser is a part of me
You ask if I can meet you
I’ll promise you yes.
My schedule that will not allow it
I’ll change it so it can
My schedule will be deconstructed and reconstructed to form for yours.

You don't seem to like my laugh
I can laugh differently
To your liking.
Molding and creating a new me for you
My personality being formed around you.
An obsession,
An unhealthy obsession to make a personality formed for you.

The lesson here is to say what you hate
Because I'll change for you always
I'll lose who I am,
But as long as you're happy
I’m a people pleaser.

Music was never something I obsessed over.
Dumb icebreaker questions were thrown at me
“what’s your favorite music?” Or “Who is your favorite artist?”
The answer was always the same
“I don’t listen to music”

Silence welcomed me and I welcomed it
Music was foreign
The life I have never was interested eventually though
Places that I frequented or even lived in during the summer
Music played
Always

The silence that welcomed me and I welcomed back
Faded to black gone like the credit screen after a movie
The music I hummed to and began to sing to was odd to me
Oddities turned to happiness
happiness turned to sadness
Sadness turned to excitement
Each emotion dependent on the song

Now I’m desperate to catch up
Catch up on the excitement of all the songs people listen to
So I can be pleased by music just like everyone else.

Lies fall out of my mouth.
I’m a cunning little fox.
Deception is a must.
Trickster, Cunning, joker even!
Not a serious answer on my breath.

Lies seep through my lips.
A cunning little fox choked by the lies.
Lies tighten around my throat
My lies faulty, broken, transparent even!
I didn’t get caught, nor did I own up.

Lies stay trapped in my mouth.
The cunning little fox suffocated.
Who am I?
Call it natural selection, karma, penance even!
Poisonous flowers grow, outlining the fox’s still body.
Bright, beautiful easy to spot.

The first:
tall, imposing,
a sixth-grade boy,
watching,
admiring.

The second:
scary,
with frostbitten eyes
that hid careful warmth.

The third:
too loud,
but perfectly warm,
melting the frost.

The boy,
now eighth grade,
listens to the two senior girls
with filters
That seems to not catch anything.
Still,
He listens,
intent.

The fourth:
straight as a soldier,
his heart locked,
But the key was found.

The fifth:
a walking cliché --
too kind,
too forgiving,
and fond of syrup.

The sixth:
brought in by the fifth.
A new boy,
just reaching high school,
watches him, curious.

The seventh and eighth:
closest in age
mirrors of what the boy could be.

Now:
the boy,
a senior,
sits in his home,
a room across from him as he writes
Number Nine.

She works, she toils,
the boy
With his lifetime to view her
her sarcasm and wit.
He came to a conclusion
all perfect sister-qualities.

Number Nine,
the boy’s favorite.

Late nights are often for highschool
Nights turned to morning
The screens illumination fading.

Endless movies, Endless Homework.
Papers clutter the soft folds of the bed
Socializing now almost foreign
But movie quotes endless.
The ever growing stack of papers
breathes and grows to the height of the bed.

Unselected nights, passed out
Eyes with heaviness, now closed and hidden.
A pen tapping to the floor
falling under the bed, never picked up again.
The breath of the papers growing as sleep takes over.

A yellow button appears
“Stop” was plastered on it.
Ringing. Buzzing.
The phone broke the silence.
Sink of a heart then a groan of weariness followed.