thank you, felicity.

24 get-out-your-journal periods ago we were all asked to introduce ourselves.

We were asked to pick a friend. The type of friend that lets you hide behind them just long enough to get some things out there that have been locked up for too long.

I picked Felicity Sharpe.

She picked Little Red

He picked Charlie Laurent

They picked Heisenburg, Alta June, Walter Mitty, Beatrice McCandless, Avery Moon, Sonny Jean, A S Ketchum, Pepper Ivey.

We chose them and they chose us.

Felicity become my dear diary, 

my I-hate-boys Ben and Jerry’s, 

my ladder that reached just to the top of a wall I couldn't seem to get around.

She became me.

I picked her because her name sounded cool. Because I always liked the idea of having a name that people automatically had an opinion about.

What I didn't realize was that I was picking her for so much more.

And I don’t mean to be the creepy uncle at the family reunion,

but Felicity,

look how much you've grown up.

Look how much we've learned.

So I guess this is a thank you.

Addressed to Felicity.

For being a version of me that let me be so much more than just me.

And for teaching me that being me is ok.

Is great.

Is everything.

For teaching me that,

Brittney Porter,

Is allowed to make people feel things.

And to feel a whole lot more.

For the last time,

F. Sharpe

the mountains are for us

Last Thursday I said hello to unknown trails and well known silence

The green made me smile

The air made me sigh

It felt like a 90 degree type of angle.

A pen and paper kind of connection.

I looked around and felt everything.

Every time I passed someone, I said hello

Asked them how they were

Felt like I cared

Like it was for a homework assignment or something

As if 14 friendly hellos guaranteed an A.

But it didn't. And no one told me it would.

The mountains just make you kinder.

They take your heart and shape it into something beautiful. Something natural.

They make you breathe and feel

Make us feel like it’s ok to not be important

And that’s important.

Because there are 6 billion of us on this planet.

And there’s not enough time for us all to be told that we matter as much as we do.

Maybe that’s how the trees feel though.

Because last Thursday I went on a hike and I lost count of how many trees I saw at around number 1,087

But each new tree still caught my eye and held my breath

Shaped my heart to be a little kinder.

A little better

And I've seen 200 different mountains and never once have I thought one needed more snow or that it stretched a little too wide.

Because at the end of the day, every mountain has a sunset and every tree can be climbed

Every single one is named Beauty.

And I think

when we look at the mountains and stare at the trees,

God opens a window into what He thinks of us.

With all our flaws and every imperfection. With our broken branches and dying leaves

He still carves love into our trunks

And hope into our hearts

He wants us to know that He cares.

He wants us to know that He cares.

And I know that He cares.

Because He took the time to make flowers and rain, He allows rocks to hold stories and paths to have history.

I know

Because the mountains,

the mountains, were made

for us.

F. Sharpe

papers with heart beats

Because words aren't always the best way for me to express how I feel.

sorry, to the couple in the white suburban

My favorite spot is across the street from my house.

You can see everything and nothing.

Hear things that fill your heart and feel things that rob your words. 

To get to it you have to climb over a fence

(well I mean there is a gap on the far left side. but that just wouldn't be as fun)

Behind the fence there's a runway of plants that itch naked legs

I think they itch naked legs to urge them forward.

Even the plants know that the view is the best part.

Some nights I see couples park in front of the fence and climb over. 

I tell my little brother they're just going over there to hold hands.

But tonight was different. 

Tonight a white suburban pulled up. 

Tonight my dad called the cops.

The couple got out and broke the fence.

The fence that I would purposely climb through just to feel like I was in a movie every once and a while. 

The fence that is the bridge between my reality and my dreams. 

The fence that was mine.

Tonight my dad called the cops.

They drove through the now open fence and right over the plants that would itch and urge you forward.

Right over plants that cared so much for you to see the view, that they only said goodbyes.

And we all know how hard goodbyes are.

Tonight my dad called the cops.

He told them people where breaking fences and crushing plants.

Ruining things that mattered to people that mattered. 

And maybe if I heard this story about some other fence and some other car and some other dad

I'd think it was an overreaction. 

I'd think the dad was being uptight.

But I know how that view would whisper it's secrets

I know the way my heart would miss that rock that hides my journal.

So maybe this was a reminder to me.

About things bigger than fences and views.

About judging and assuming and labeling feelings as overreactions.

Because when the fence broke

My heart did a little too.

Tonight my dad called the cops

And I swear I could hear 

those itchy plants

whisper 

"thank you".

F. Sharpe

to him.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I made you miss half of the PG basketball game. I’m sorry I got in the way of the two of you dating last summer. I’m sorry I could never stay awake. I’m sorry the shirt I bought you was too big.

But most of all I’m sorry I couldn't make it work.

You owned two thirds of my smiles and all of my yesterdays for four months.

But then it stopped.

And it was my fault. I was the one who slammed on the brakes.

And explaining why would require a 3-gas-station-stops type of drive.

That’s probably why I haven’t ever really taken the time to explain it all to anyone yet.

Not even my mom.

And you know how much I tell my mom.

You promised me a basketball game two years from last December and I’m crossing my fingers that that promise is still breathing.  

And I know that’s selfish of me.

But I want to see how many people you've changed and if you drive the black car like I guessed you would and I want to act like we’re 16 again and buy you a crepe so we’re even.

People keep telling me I can’t have friendship without having romance, but I pray every night that they’re wrong.

Because if I’m being honest.

I kinda miss movie-time hand holding and midnight kisses. But mostly, I miss your heart.

I miss talking about your favorite niece and seeing you laugh at my stupid jokes when you were extra tired.

I miss seeing you getting excited about silly things like your mom’s rolls and exchanging lists of one another’s quirks.

I miss the way you believed in me. 

With all your heart.

And I know you told me it’s harder when I’m around

And I know I’m being selfish for missing all these things when I’m the reason they’re gone.

And I know you’d probably prefer it if June 28^th would come quicker.

But I’m afraid of June 28^th and the day after that and after that. Scared that they won’t include being friends with you.

And I don’t really know how to fully explain everything

But I do know I keep wishing on stars that we could talk about something more than the weather and the answer to #23 on your calculus.

That instead of making wishes that we could talk about them.

.

And I've never been good as just sitting back and wishing

Because why waste pennies on overhead-fountain-throws

When I have a voice and a pair of legs that can do so,

so much more.

F. Sharpe

red words

It’s 11:29 and I wish my cheeks were wet.

But they’re dry

and my lungs are drowning

I keep reading things that I know should make me feel

But my heart isn’t responding        

Every Sunday I hear men in suits tell me how to be happy

And every Friday the canyon reminds me why I should smile

But I’m tired of needing reminders.

I’m tired of nighttime sadness and happiness relapses

I’m mad you don’t seem to care that we look at each other like strangers now

That everything to nothing was such an easy transition for you

I’m mad I wasted time to paint my nails

I’m mad I care about social media as much as I do’

I’m mad I write for comments

Lately I’ve painted over any feelings that don’t reflect that my life is perfect

But the paint is chipping and I’m starting to wonder if painting was every really my thing in the first place

I’m mad things are working out between the two of them

I’m mad that that makes me mad

I’m mad about the two weeks of summer I lost

And that I felt like I was the only not texting four boys at all times last weekend.

The paint is chipping and I think it’s time for me to open up to the idea of flaws and imperfect realities.

Because that’s what I am and what I am living

And I'm trying really hard not to hate who I am. 

I’m mad at the weather forcasts and the full basket of laundry on my floor

I’m mad at the three of them and the fact that I’m going to miss the deadline for this post by a couple minutes.

I’m mad that all my previous posts are about the same thing

I’m mad I don’t always like myself

The paint is chipping and it hurts, but acknowledging everything underneath is allowing clarity.

Clarity that allows me to throw a lot of things away

To clean

A sort of glowing cleaning that leads to feeling again

It’s 12:11 and my cheeks

are finally wet

F. Sharpe

instruction manual

We are the roses

We are the thorns

The mountain top sunsets

The New York City horns

We are the barefooted hotel-carpet walkers

We are the cold butter morning toast spreaders

The wheel-spinning, token-moving, jump-ahead-3, Life playing girls and boys.

The losers

The winners

The frustrated finishers

Most of us have read the 27 page long instruction manual, but no one can remember what’s on 11.

But we all faintly remember it was titled High School.

But I do remember page 14 and the fact that it says “Life is better once you pass the square labeled WELCOME TO COLLEGE” three separate times

I’ve always known life is more than a game though.

It’s that 18 letter word you always forget how to spell

The beautiful complications of being in an unfamiliar city.

Me trying to do the splits

Life is stopping every once and a while and wondering “what is life and why am I here?”

and finding that it’s hiding in things like disposable cameras and 2am prayers.

It’s in closed eyes and open bibles

In closed bibles and open minds

The instruction manual ended with “life is to be lived”

And there’s a reason life and live

are one letter off

are found on the same page of the dictionary

are connected

So let go of the spinner, put down your plastic pawn

And go swim and jump and dance

Because the only way you can write the word life

is with decades of Sunday walks

and years and years of star gazing. 

F. Sharpe