Just Like a Star

Up late, I’m listening to the same song on repeat. I’m listening because it reminds me of you, lyrics and habit. You find a song and replay it until ears bleed and tunes get stuck in heads. I hate it yet here I am, replaying the song as I write. Allowing you to be my muse even with miles between us.

I’m writing to let you know that when you called me a “beautiful soul” and constantly questioned why I didn’t see this; you changed your tune, telling me that you want me to see myself through your eyes. I’m sure you’re not the first to see this brilliance in me but you’re the first to tell me.

I wouldn’t have trusted them. I wouldn’t have given the chance to get into my head, on repeat. Compliments that don’t sit on the surface but sink deep into me, lighting places that haven’t seen any in years. People who says those things want something else. They want your guard down so they can use your energy against you. I’ve been there so I stopped believing them. Especially from boys who’d later ask me for pictures because you know, I’m a sweet person and it would make them happy. Make me special. Make us …something or another.

“I won’t let my guard down for anyone but you” I’ve never trusted an interpretation of who I am but I trust yours. Allowing me to be who I am with room for growth because no one can really define a beautiful soul.

No Submarine [Subway Series]

I like to be explored. I want to be explored. He tried to stare into the depths of my soul and searching every part. Even the ones I wanted to cover. They weren’t worthy of the light of others.

He loved everything he had learned about me. He thought I was eccentric, natural, the Eyrkah Badu type. Yoga, tea, chakras. Holistic. Earthy. I danced barefoot, feeling the earth under my toes. Each move smoother than the last until I became a blur of movement, capturing the heart of those who caught a glimpse.

Except, that wasn’t me. I’m an ocean and he explored my goodness. Unable to dive further into my darkness, he floated for hours at the top. He created an image of me I couldn’t live up to. Not that I wanted to.

Good Night

I like the nights when sleeping together is really just sleeping together. Being reached for when inching away. The warmth of another body that slowly but surely causes you to sweat. Snores light and consistent. The calm energy of another body.

You know, this comes with the type of love that accepts that you’ll drool on their arm all night. Tries to tangle your limbs together but arms and legs will only bend so far. A light sleeper that kisses your cheek as you lie awake, just listening to every breath.

In, out, in, out

Soft breaths that rock you to sleep.

I like the nights where sleeping together means just that.

Hurt / I’m Alright

I looked within myself and found parts of you everywhere. Tangled in my DNA, I was disgusted with myself for even being related. Anger causes me to mutter insults similar to yours. We lace them with pettiness and manipulation. Each meant to cause turmoil to the target. Hoping they’d replay in their heads over and over and over until they couldn’t sleep at night. They’d claw at their own skin the same way I do now just thinking about what was said.

I’m hurt. I’m resentful. I was picked over and made an option by someone who claimed they wouldn’t do such a thing. Suddenly I was a burden to a man who promised to provide until he no longer could. I tell people I’ve come a long way but a long way only means I’m no longer crying every night. I’m not standing in random lines and feeling my heart break into pieces again.

I’m trying forgiveness. It’s for me, not you. But I’m not ready yet.
You broke my heart. I tell people that even though it sucks, at least no one can hurt me worst than you have.

I wrote this over the summer, when all I felt towards you was anger and hurt. Now that a few months have passed, I’ve looked within myself to see a person who isn’t you. She told me that she picks your good qualities to imitate while not claiming your negative ones. I followed suit and began to imitate your hard work, persistence, and taste for odd combinations.

My ability to express myself allows me to stay above water while you drown in words you don’t mean or haven’t said. My compassion and care for others will always lead me to find love in places love wasn’t meant to be.

I’m not you
And I don’t have to be.

Fall In Love With Me

I told them that I wouldn’t fall in love with a writer. I told myself to avoid them like a plague. They’ve brought me nothing but heartache. Words they said would last forever; in reality they simply faded away as time passed. The poems I would reread every so often. The pain never did disappear until I had moved on to someone else. Sometimes I remembered their names. One started a B and ended with a Y. He visited for a few days, I loved him quickly and fiercely. His
inspiration was the strongest and hardest.

Yet I find myself sinking into his writing as if he crafted each one for me. Stringing together a necklace only I can wear. Each one an intimate look into his life. He’d explain the inspiration, some of heartbreak, anger, and regret. Nonetheless I enjoyed listening to him recite them. They only became about me later on, he’d kiss me and remind me that I’m beautiful. Nights were for resetting. Kisses were meant to trail down my back. My soul needed protection for my innocence was too sweet. I saved some.

I told myself I wouldn’t fall for a writer and here I am. Some habits never die.

I told them I wasn’t a writer so every poem I wrote had the opportunity to sound corny. I gave them the chance to tell me where I could do better as I made them apart of my history. I latched on. I let them know that this was for them and I didn’t want anyone to know. “I want to be the one that got away.” They’d remember me words, burning in their memories.

Words I said meant everything until they lost their meaning from repetition, practicing so it was perfect for boys who later disappeared. Only protecting themselves from the harsh realities of a girl who loved them and leave.

He reminded me he wasn’t a writer, so I took comfort in the fact and fell in love. I laid on his chest and wrote out notes for him to enjoy when he woke up. Reminders that my love wouldn’t fade away, as his eyes scanned over the words, he’ll slowly became another chapter. Your body is beautiful, so let me kiss it. I love you so corny but I don’t have other words. I’m fragile because you told me so. He’ll wake up one day, only with a few poems to hold him.

I told them I wouldn’t fall in love with a writer but I never told them not to fall in love with me.


We sat at dinner; I was the youngest yet I proclaimed, “I feel so old.” Heads turned towards me, sighs escaped pressed lips, clearly I was wrong.

Trying to fix my words, I struggled over an explanation. Nothing came out right. “I felt that way before too. I felt like I didn’t have any time left. Young people feel like they’re running out of time and older people feel like they have a lot of time.” She shared my story better than I had. It only mattered to me that I wasn’t alone.

I started having panic attacks over the summer. They were triggered by the idea that there isn’t much time left for the world if we don’t start taking care of it. I began to think about where I’ll go. Heaven or an abyss of nothingness. I got hot and thought a murder-suicide would be the best answer. The choice to die was better than no choice at all. Right?

My panic attacks triggered something else, a realization that I don’t have enough time to do everything I want to do. I’m afraid. I’m only 21 and I don’t have enough time to do everything. I’m constantly in a race to beat the clock. Often making lists of things to do, I never follow through. I don’t have enough time.

I just want to stop.

He tells me to “slow down.” I can’t.

I just don’t think I’ll survive if I do.