sometimes,
I don't know me.
sometimes,
I write what looks
pleasing.
sometimes,
I like solitude
and destined stars.
sometimes,
I watch the clock
and wait until
it stops to give me
a run for my youth.
I lose myself a lot,
when my ribcage feels
bleached and starched.
I hate to catch the
feeling that I don't know
myself like you know yourself.
best at night,
when I rewind that
album and feel like
its only me who knows
of this precious collection.
a constellation that dances
on my ceiling,
your lyrics are my verses.
birthdays feel nice
when the wishes are
open to everyone.
wish to self; love yourself
more than you love when
others love you.
swinging in the
rain, and it feels
like the sun's downpour.
countdown until 10:39pm
and its like I can see a
shift in myself.
womanhood is new to me.
I know nothing of it.
but its beautiful, how I
get to live through it.
its special, only to me.
I twirl earth in my hand,
though I know its a
dangerous game.
I just want something
that can make me feel
whole.
jansport on my back,
swinging high above
heaven.
I want to go higher,
but I only have myself to push me.
I see the planets align
like my years of living.
each an era of discovery,
some are empty slots.
I fill them in with my
delicate words,
peel them from my walls
and pasted freshly on
my chest.
I feel like a spectrum
of sparklers and glitter.
pouring out what's stuck
in my gut, that feeling of
losing yourself before
you're even found.
I don't really know myself,
and its like a open void.
because whirlpools are
behind these soaked eyes
and they're causing euphoric
headaches.
the moment candles
light my pasted cake,
waxed and artificial
satisfactory,
I know I'm with myself,
and its okay to want to
be with only yourself.
I sleep in a deep dream,
seeing six-year-old me
with scraped knees and
eyes that are like a
rainy interlude
that keeps replaying
during the sky's painting
of streetlights and dawn.
she speaks to me,
in her lisp and small laugh.
freckles in her gap,
she begins and ends with:
"happy fifteenth,
you're doing great."
