there’s a boy that spend i time with
but only twice a year
he’s a little broken inside
but i never see his tears
air pods always in
hear zach bryan playing
it travels through the mountain wind

rarely used to see him smile
but last time he started to grin
he brought the girl he loved
i got to know her well
we shared a cabin room and bed
like sisters in a fairytale

he’d come sit on the bed
and talk to her
sometimes me too
but i saw glow in him
his healing showing through

sadly things went wrong
so he had to walk away
and after that something changed
it was as if all his pain went away

so now we sit on the ocean line
sand in our hair
and questions on our minds
getting to know eachother better
as if we haven’t come to the sand for 6 years
i’m just happy
because he’s happy
and it’s the first time i’ve seen his tears

i want long hair and a baby.
i wear soft jumpers and let the rain fall on my face, sometimes.
i worry about being alone.
i laugh with my friends until my stomach aches.
i watch life fly by past my window.

being twenty-something means seeing yourself through fractured glass fragments of mirror:
i am 18, frail. young to the world.
i am 19, confident. unafraid.
i am 20, learning. becoming
21.

i keep each piece in a pocket of my mind,
a patchwork of a girl
with untied knots at each corner.

i often wonder how i am seen by others.
it frightens me to imagine only those thin shards of light that permeate from me
on a first glance.

but i have been 18, 19, 20,
and i have lived and cried and loved.
between my cracks and crevices emerges
a smile with wonky teeth, thick eyebrows, the birth mark on the nape of my neck.
footprints on my face of a girl who was, who is.

so i'll grow my hair.
i'll fall in love.
i'll carry a little heart in my tummy like a plum stone.

a kaleidascope perpetual
of ways i have been and ways that i am.
and i live to hope that
through kind eyes
and a soft voice
and a gentle heart
i will be seen for all that has made me,
and i will make someone as beautiful as all i have seen.

i don't want to grow up
and lose the old me because
it would mean i will lose
the freedom of the youth

back home,
the calendars
were full of us,
names for every day.

we took sweets to school,
wished each other well
in the corridors,
as if the day itself
was a friend.

bonbons waited,
a handful of flowers,
the warmest hugs.
they were small,
but made the day
feel special.
for it was.

here, in my second home,
there are none.
i never really cared
for name days,
not the way others did —
but i miss the fuss
and the unspoken promise.

today slipped by
like a coin
rolled under the bed,
with a thought
gnawing at me.
perhaps growing up
is simply learning
to accept
that some traditions end.

for the longest time
i thought i needed to
return to the child
i was.

i spent half my life
unlearning trauma,
only to lose sight
on the woman
i wanted to become.

I grew up here,
Not just in this city or this state,
But this house,
With my parents’ room down the hall,
The bathroom I used to share with my brother next door.
I grew up on this street,
Right next to the convenience store I used to buy candy from,
Racing to get back before my mom got home from work,
The same yard I’d wait in for my dad every night,
The same neighbors.
So much of this place is as it is in my memory,
How it was when I was just a little girl.
I asked my mother once,
When I was small,
If I could live with her forever,
Scared of strangers,
The idea of not making it home by the time the sun set.
The thought that I wouldn’t just be older,
But actually old,
Was paralyzing.
I’d be responsible for myself,
For my life,
For everything that happened to me.
I wish I had grown up slower.
I wish I still wanted to be here,
Now that I’m stuck here.
Most of all I wish I had become what I used to be so afraid of,
Someone who was responsible,
Someone who could take care of themselves.
I wish my parents hadn’t flown me home,
Fearing for my life and wincing at how skinny I’d gotten while I was away.
I wish they hadn’t realized the damage they taught me when I was young,
I wish they didn’t look at me with that guilt or shame or sadness,
Like they took something from me,
Like they broke me.
I wish they wouldn’t keep reminding me that no matter where I go,
What I do,
Who I meet,
I’ll always be that person I was when I was small,
Fearful and clumsy and irresponsible,
Waiting for someone to come home,
Waiting for someone to take care of me.
I miss when my fears were irrational,
So far into the future they were laughed off.
People used to think it was endearing that I thought about the future,
Now it’s just depressing.
Maybe I was right to be afraid.
Maybe I’ve always known what kind of person I’d turn into.
Maybe this will haunt me for the rest of my life,
Falling asleep in the room I grew up in,
With my parents down the hall,
The ghost of my brother lingering next door.
Is that sad?
Is it sweet?
I guess I’ll never know.