this isn't about life

this isn’t about life,
this is about love
and living
and loving
loving until your heart breaks so many times the cracks hurt when you move,
living until everywhere feels like home and everything tastes like passion
this is about the tiny palms that hold your fingers,
wrapping around them and holding on as if to whisper,
“I’m here, I’m alive,” the blood pumping under her skin, tinting it pink like her new jumper.
this is about laughing so hard your insides shake,
tears stinging your eyes and your brain scattered in ecstatic sparks,
this is about the time when she cried in the closet until her ears rang and her legs fell asleep,
closing her eyes to keep it all in, the tears and the pain
they never wanted her to feel this,
but she did anyway.

this isn’t about life,
this is about the boy who threw the bracelet at her and pedaled away,
the boy who prank called her 28 times,
the one who loved her eyelashes,
the one who ran off the doorstep,
the one who couldn’t claim her,
the boy who couldn’t choose.
this is about her heart beating at night, praying for a hug,
praying for the love she felt could keep her safe, holding herself between her sheets.

this is about waking up in the morning and smiling back at the sun,
filling herself with love until she loved more than she knew
walked the length of the city more times than she could count
hugged and helped and served and sang
this is about moments
moments that define, moments that sting, moments that dance
not just living because your lungs are moving and your heart is pumping
but because you’re surrounded by the poignant reminder of lives and purpose and after

after, when everything will be different,
transitions and change beating down on you like a mallet on a wooden post,
shifting perspective,
challenging yourself to keep the doors open even though it hurts
maybe that’s how it is
after living,
after loving,
after hurting

this isn’t about life.
it’s about two weeks ago, it’s about today,
how at once she’s beside him and the next she can’t be
where you can reach and not touch,
speak and not be heard
where the foundation is hope and some twisted notion of faith
faith in something you can’t see but faith that keeps us together,
keeps her from tearing herself to pieces and
keeps her from the foggy pollution she breathes in
this is about her eyes when they close at night
and the reality of the dreams that dance in her head
the reflection of the emotions she can never express
the fight between her body and soul
how long will it be
before they can work together?

this isn’t about life.
this is about love,
this is about living and loving,
reaching and trying harder than you have before,
squinting until your head hurts,
wishing until you feel,
feeling so that you’re living,
living so that you can love.

back

Pedaling without much triumph over the hill,
I glance behind me, seeing nothing but gravel and dust.
Gravel and dust that once gave me purpose and hope but
that has lost its shimmer and its brilliance.
I look at the mirrors that tremble under the pressure and see
faces of those who I thought I knew.
One who was the tallest,
the counselor,
the meme-loving 4 o clocker,
the best.
Surroundings change my perception and
I'm not really sure what I am looking at anymore.

Back and I try not to hate the reality before me
try not to judge
try not to vomit words over those who don't need them
Help me before my hands reach helplessly
for a grip that is only an illusion of security
a practiced deceiver
the knower of lies and twisted truths.

Back and I slipped in like a whisper
without much hope of fame
I cut through the crowds,
leaving shards of emptiness in my wake.

Back and it is entirely cold
full of faked greeting and love
too far away from formed expectaions

Back and I wish
I could just decide
On who I was already.

I keep looking for things

Where is the shock?

A flash of lightning, a spark of light and hope, a lingering feeling of tingles.

White light spreading through consciousness, erasing all doubt, fear, hopes, 

Doing spring-cleaning on your imagination and tap-dancing on your creativity.

It stops to stir your mind into a stew of mystery meats and lost words while

running ovals around the index of your memories. 

Leaving nothing but the mush which we call 

a brain.

Where is the excitement?

Racing faster than adrenaline through every muscle, tightening your grip,

leaving sweat on under your eyes and in every crack of your palm.

Your eyes search for something reasonable, but can only digest

COLOR
COLOR 

COLOR

Colors of flushed faces and crowded bodies, colors of sweat and 

anxiety and love.

Where is the expectation?

The hope of a butterfly hatching or the standards of every Mormon girl.

The yellow-gray muck of failure mixed with the navy-blue-brown of 

disappointment. Its nothing you thought it would be and everything you 

hoped it wouldn't. It finds the space between your heart and those

hairs in your nose that grant you smell and it cuts it into pieces so 

you are left with nothing but a nose and cold, wet veins.

You can find it here if you look hard enough, tucked beneath the 

lukewarm of my coat pocket, next to the old gum and bobby pins.

It's here, though silent, haunting a silent girl with nothing but reddish 

hair and a knack for the unusual. It's friends with the lice and fleas and 

likes to pester at one's skin and becomes a tapeworm digging into 

the flesh of you. 

Where is the cure?