they said that i couldn’t be a writer.
not until i could trap my thoughts in parallel lines before 4 am
or until they could see my work as concrete instead of mist.
but i’ve written symphonies without reading a single note,
composed verses on the curve of a person’s smile,
scribbled out a narrative through the fog of a bus window.
the world is mine.
the words are mine.
and they will never know.
- If you call me ugly, I will try hard to look nice for you. If you call me pretty, I will try even harder to look even nicer for you.
- If I see you smirking when you’re sad, I’ll wonder if your father used to drink and drive with you in the backseat.
- If I see you tapping both your feet…
We hear songs
touches our hearts and
We leave home
thinking the day is warm
because the sun is so bright
but the wind is crisp and chilly.
We tremble and complain
about the cold to only
smile after realizing that, yes,
we can feel.
We think of the little moments
in which made us giggle
and we think of the little moments
that tore us apart
so we bear with
the crisp and chilly air
because we can feel.
I can feel again.
The irises of your eyes were icicle cold
and your fingers folded together,
clenching into the palms of your hand,
pressing into the sides of your thighs.
You sighed before you spoke,
and your words wavered as they hung in the air,
embarrassed to exist, to admit:
you needed to be held.