heart hopes

I asked my mom what I should write about

Told her I was tired of writing about being a senior and then not being a senior.

She told me to write about heart hopes.

About what I’m crossing my fingers for my heart to tell me in ten years

I hope my heart has wrinkles.

The kinds that are found on the corners of worn shoes

The edges of embarrassing snorts

I hope my heart still pumps extra blood into that vein in the middle of my forehead every time I laugh

I’m wishing that there’s a “him” in my life

a good one.

A “him” that’s turned all the tears of the last month into the word meaningless on page 394 in the dictionary

I have a heart hope for midnight Ramen

For tandem bicycles

For vases and sunflowers

Push pops

New socks

Apple picking

5 o’ clock texts

Happy mornings

and lots and lots of sushi

BP

breathing nostalgia

I remember my first crush, Nolan.

I remember bus rides and empty seats everywhere

But not row three.

Row three was for him and me.

I remember that watermelon paper we made on my first day of first grade.

I remember how cool I thought it was that we were using actual seeds.

I remember the fourth new school in five years.

I remember when kids hoped our teacher would pick them to be my buddy while I was adjusting to the school

I remember when I finally learned what the word adjusting meant.

I remember Facebook chatting him “oh hey didn't see you there”

I remember thinking that was smooth

I remember meeting the girl who shared my last name

I remember knowing immediately that I should feel grateful to know Whit

I remember telling my mom my stomach hurt every day for a week to explain why I cried at recess

I remember praying I’d make a friend in Mr. Wimmer’s class

I remember meeting Natty the next day

I remember vowing I’d never wear makeup

I remember the first time I tried clam chowder.

I remember the first time I cried in public. She just sipped her sprite and laughed.

I remember telling my mom I hated her.

I remember it was because she wouldn't let me get a club penguin membership

I remember graduating from sixth grade and crying because I wasn't quite ready to have grown up responsibilities

I remember crying yesterday because I’m not quite ready to have grown up responsibilities

I remember when he told me I wasn't good enough to go anywhere in soccer.

I remember when she told me I understood the game so well that I could play at any college I wanted.

I remember laughing.

I remember thinking that I wasn't going to meet anyone worth dating in high school

I remember her pointing you out to me in US history.

I remember that football game.

I remember feeling grateful that my ride showed up last

I remember when remembering made me smile

I remember when the future was a little less tear soaked.

I remember when tomorrows included my mom and you and woods landing court and one more season

school year

tryout

I remember when chalk did more and decisions did less.

BP

if words were people

If words were people,

Definitions would be harder to believe.

We’d probably think more before we spoke

Or at least be more careful about how loudly and where we spoke them.

And a Dictionary would be the most valuable source in the world

I would get along really well with Nostalgia

I’d feel uncomfortable around Regret.

All together avoid Perfection.

Strive to be more like Content

Sometimes Today and I would be best friends, but other times I think she would get jealous of how much I talked about Yesterday and Tomorrow.

I’d apologize and she’d give me another chance.

That’s just the type of person she’d be.

My mom would tell me to stay away from Flattery

To be careful around Feelings

Not to avoid him,

But to be aware that he would the worst and the best.

That he and Frustration come from the same family.

Dad would hide in his room when Love came over and always remind me of the benefits of being friends with Ambition.

He’d compare me to her, but in a way that I knew meant he loved me.

Dreams would be pretty.

Reality, ugly.

You’re would feel misunderstood

Defiantly would get tired of feeling used for all the wrong reasons.

And you and I would be getting really sick of Confusion

right  

about

now

BP

bippity boppity

We all know the story of Cinderella

One prince, an evil queen, two step siblings and a pretty girl with prettier shoes.

I’d like to say that you’re the prince and I’m the pretty girl

That you'd search a whole kingdom for me

That I fell in love with your dancing and your smile

But 

that’d be lying

No.

This time around it turns out we’re the ugly step siblings.

You and I
we're working towards something more than a castle. 

And actually it's a whole lot bigger than a shoe
But it's just that Metaphors seem to be the only thing speaking my language lately

So
We're going after that shoe

And we've spent hours trying to figure out how to make that slipper fit

We've had letters of ideas

Nights of talking it out

And I thought we had it

I really did

Because you told me

If I just shaved my heel a little

And you just cut your toes down a bit

They’d fit

We’d win

It’d work out.

But honey I think you forgot that those slippers are glass

And I’m trying to remember why I gave myself this limp in the first place

Because when it was your turn to try on that shoe

It became very clear

That

Only one of us 

has any scars. 

BP

8-hurts a whole lot

When you are at the doctor's they ask you to rate your pain.
Tonight, the hormonal emotion filled dam inside of me would've said 8.

Tonight they made fun of how quietly I counted when it was my turn in the game

Of the fact that counting from 1 to 10 never sounded so painful

And oh boy

If only they knew how it felt.

It felt like an 8.

It hurt a whole lot. 

The thing about tears is, they demand to be noticed.

And if you don’t let them gain attention by falling, they shake your voice in hopes of creating earthquakes in listening ears.

And so a soft number 4 and an almost inaudible number 9 was really all I could manage.

Because being called shy or self-conscious just seems so much easier than emotional or needy.

So when they made fun of my counting I forced a smile.

And laughed with them.

It felt like an 8.

But Forced Smiles and Fake Laughs are beyond sleep deprived

And they’re actually begging for me to tuck them in and just let them sleep.

And as tired as they are,

I think sometimes they forget I’m the one plasters them there

I’m the one who has to strain the lid off the glue and wash the paint brushes every time

And my lid removing arms and glued hands are tired.

But as tired as they are,
I am,

All I can do is stay up late and think

   And cry

                    And write

                                    And laugh

          And wonder

And do anything but sleep

But maybe I shouldn't be sleeping anyways

Maybe I should be practicing counting without my voice wavering.

Practicing telling the doctor I'm feeling nothing but zeroes.

Practicing hiding the way I feel so I don’t ruin anymore games.

Because I’m always the first one to cry at funerals and I was always the first one found in hide-and-seek.

Because I was never very good at hiding.

Because the number 8 I was feeling may as well have been tattooed on my face right next to that fake smile.

But maybe it’s my turn to be the first

The first to leave.

The first to say I don’t care.

The first to count from 1 to 10

And act like 2-9 don’t even phase me.

Like I feel nothing but zeroes

ALL THE TIME

But maybe when you tell the doctor the number you're feeling on the pain scale it also reflects how much of anything you're feeling.

Maybe enough empty "no hurt" zeroes stacked on top of each other would start to look a whole lot like eights. 

But it’s late. And I’m done practicing counting.

I'm done nailing my heart to some scale in some doctor's office.

It’s late and the cooking channel is getting boring.

It’s late and I just finished tucking in Forced Smiles and Fake Laughs

And they told me they’re going to take the day off tomorrow.

It’s late

And

I'm done feeling 8's.

BP