ok

Because the thing about being human is,

If you’re sad but you don’t let yourself cry 

(because you're strong)

If you’re empty and you don’t let yourself feel 

(because you're busy)

And you keep telling everyone everything is good and ok and going well

And smiling

And living

And holding on

And hanging in there

The sad decides to make itself at home.

Decides to look around a little, maybe stay for a while

And without anyone ever knowing 

You realize you’re focusing a whole lot on swimming and breathing

You realize that uncried tears aren’t as forgiving as you thought

You realize your heart is drowning

And you’re not quite sure

what to do. 


And that's ok. 
Because it's ok 
To not be ok. 

BP

another one about the moon

When I was eight years old I reached so high

I grabbed a handful of the moon and decided to sew it into my heart

But wait. For a minute

Let’s talk about how the moon has phases and

Let’s talk about empty tired gazes

Because I didn’t know about those things at eight

Because full hands aren’t that different from full moons

And I can’t seem to ever remember what gibbous even means

But wait. For a second

Let’s talk about 4 am phone calls with exes

and the roommates who have to listen to them

(me)

About how they’ve talked about the same things for… since forever

And how both their hearts are at half and just need to orbit to new

Or full

Or anything besides half because halves aren’t whole and you’d think that’d be common knowledge

But every night at 4 am they seem to forget.

Anyways,

Back to moon-fulls and stitching hearts

Sometimes I want to blame that eight-year-old me for putting something so unstable

So changing

So inconsistent in my heart,

but I thought it was pretty and my mom had just taught me how to sew

Anyways,

A couple days went by and I turned 18

And the moon either disappeared

Or was staying in phase gibbous because I couldn’t understand it

or

remember it or

find it or feel it enough to even unstitch it

And I just put off writing this for a couple hours to register for classes and I can’t get over how ironic it was because

I ended up signing up for a class called Outer Space and I can almost guarantee they’re going to talk about the moon

And gibbous and phases

So maybe I should sit front row and take good notes and act interested and smile and dress nice

And maybe I’ll get a good grade in the class and be able to map out my heart a little better

The sun doesn’t have phases though

(as I’m sure I’ll learn in my class)

At least not on earth

So maybe me myself and eight-year-old I should’ve sewn in handfuls of the sun

But I didn’t

Anyways,

I still fall in love with the moon

I’ve written about it three times on this blog alone and doodled it on every page of my journal

And really, I think if there were a rocket in my back yard made of cardboard boxes and tin foil

I would be convinced it could get me to the moon

Because I would want it to

Because craters and mountains ranges and reflected light seem like the types of things that would make good stories and better friends and would add up for some good pictures

Because I haven’t felt at full for the last couple weeks and I’m starting to worry

Because I’ve had to reinvent my scale of self-worth thirteen times in the last couple months and I’m starting to worry

Because I want to show her how I know I can make her feel full because I can tell she’s starting to worry

Anyways,

I still think the moon is beautiful, even when it’s new

Even when it’s half

Even when it’s gibbous

And I think eight-year-old me knew that even when the moon disappeared,

It was still there, just waiting to take our breath away the next week

Maybe she knew there was something quite amazing about being able to say you’ve felt empty and half and yet,

To always know you’d make your way back to full. 

BP

YOU ARE NOT SPECIAL

About a month ago some people knocked on my door.
Told me they had to run some mandatory tests that would tell me some mandatory things

Asked me what I thought I was good at and what I wished I was better at and what I knew I wasn’t best at

I filled out some forms and I thought it was pretty easy because I thought I knew what I was good, and ok and not best at.  

Turns out the machine knew more than my list of “thought-I-knew”s

Printing... printing... printing...

Barely above average in soccer 

Middle of the pack in school 

Normal in looks, decent artist 

On point sock game 

Good at church

Successful eater 

and a big fat, Helvetica font,

RESULTS: YOU ARE NOT SPECIAL

have a good day

At first I was shaken and I probably called my mom. 

She probably told me I’m special and probably told me it’s ok if I’m not, but I am so don’t worry.

So it’s ok. It’s ok. You’re ok.

And moms are supposed to do that. Supposed to say that. Supposed to believe that.

But there I was with letters looking back at me and I couldn’t help but think about them.

Because there’s a lot of soccer players out there. 

A lot of artists and Mormons.

And there’s a lot of blonde, 5’4’’, smile big, 

good at school (sometimes), sock wearing girls out there.

And we can’t all be special.

So I stuck the paper on my desk and stapled it to my heart till forever.

Some days I held a pity-party for myself.

Handed out a lot of “I’m not specials” just to hear people tell me I am.

Some days I hid the paper behind my shelf

Put in extra time, running, working, studying, prepping, cleaning, being.

Convinced that the next time the machine came around I’d score 5 stars, a 4.0.

A YOU’RE SPECIAL

But turns out emotions are circles and our hearts are downhill and that circle is really good at rolling

Really good at making the last month a rollercoaster of I’m oks and I’ll prove them wrongs and I’m specials and why am I tryings

Because I want to stop rolling

Because I’m getting dizzy

Because I’m getting lost

Cuz I was always the soccer player

The senior class vice president

The smart one

The smiley one

The one who was going to Washington to do something great

And now the only one I am is a one percent.

A slice of a city that never sleeps

And I’ve been thinking a lot about that paper all day today and I think I need to do something soon.

So tonight is different. Because I’m telling the paper I understand. Telling it I know I’m not special.

Not the best at anything.

That that’s ok because tonight I remembered that’s not what life’s about.

I remembered the way I look at people around me. Listening to what they’re saying and hoping and thinking. Not asking for their paper or test results.

Remembered that the people that mean the most to me aren’t the best at anything either. They’re all just a bunch of average, normal, middle of the packers who mean more than the world to me.

Who are really really special to me.

Tonight I realized for the first time the words on the paper were written in pencil

Decided to pull out my eraser and stop focusing on that word SPECIAL and the YOU ARE NOT before it

Decided to replace it with a list of the people that have told me they love me and told me they believed in me

Decided to stop living life for a better test score

And just start living

BP

thoughts from the lobby of a freshmen dorm

Nobody tells you that college means a lot of “mom I’m not sure about this” on the phone kind of crying

Nobody tells you that missing people is a real thing and not just something you tweet about to seem relatable.

Or maybe they did and I was just too busy chanting “senior year” while complaining about high school, to hear them.

I’m down in the lobby of my dorm and there’s a bunch of sorority girls all dressed up and Asian guys speaking Japanese and some sort of study group going on.

And I really want to stand up and ask them if anyone has ever slept under the stars to make sure they stay there all night,

or if they’ve ever written something that became a part of them,

or if they miss having friends who got excited with them about the key change in “Love on Top” by Beyonce,

or if they ever go to down to the lobby just to write and check that they still get chills when they read a good line.

And I think the sorority girls would sit me down and give me a lot of “oh honey” looks and pluck my eyebrows,

And the Asians would be confused because they don’t speak English,

And the study group probably wouldn’t even look up because I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard an exasperated “due tomorrow” come from their corner of the room

But I guess I just would hope I’d see a random hand in the back

A hand that would be confident, but quiet and really really proud.

A hand that I could introduce to Paris and dance videos and slam poetry and cornelia and avery and navy and Harold

A hand that would make seattle feel a little less empty

But I’d also be scared that no hand would come up, and then I’d feel awkward because I’d be standing on a chair with a lot of confused people looking at me.

So maybe not today,

Or tomorrow

But one day, I really hope to have enough courage to find someone to share my Felicity with.

Because she’s getting lonely

And I simply owe her too much to let that happen.

BP

too long

I just barely typed in the letters

f..

e..

l...

to my search bar
and my blog didn't even come up as a suggested site

it's been too long


I'm living in another state now,
wake up at 5:30 every morning now
go to a class full of the eating-by-the-knight kids from every school across the country for four hours every day now
am almost used to it now

taught a boy what Brazil was last week
tried to explain why I stayed home from the frat party this week
haven't cried since that week
won't see my mom till next week

but I promise,
I have never stopped thinking about Paris
and I'm praying it hasn't forgotten about Felicity

because the people here are great
and the food here is fine
and my bed is pretty ok

but
I miss my dog
and people who enjoy my music
and words that have more than four letters

and the boy with blue eyes and the girl with my last name and the one with fire for hair.

because I started reading blogs and I almost started to cry
because I don't think things in slam anymore
and I haven't sent myself a text with a good line in  a while

And sorry to break it to you but
life isn't metaphors and flowers
it's not explaining feelings with colors and emotions with the weather

its smelly and hard and tiring.

And that's how it stays when you forget to day trip to Paris every once in a while

But I want it to be metaphoric and colorful and stormy

So I think I'm going to mark felicity sharpe as a bookmark
And I'm going to start thinking in blue and rain drops again

Because

maybe I'm a jock

and maybe I spend more time in the weight room than in my journal

(ha)

But also someone had to combine socks and sandals to realize how comfy it was

And Troy had to try out karaoke before he starred in the Spring Musical
And maybe I'll just have to do the same

I'll just have to combine the opposites and show everyone just how amazing it can be
to be so many things that so beautifully combine.


BP

final slam

I’ve only seen my dad cry twice

The first time was in the Emergency Room at 1 in the morning and I guess that one just made sense to me

The second was about two hours ago and I don’t think he’s wiped the salt off his cheeks yet.

I was crying too

So was mom

But that happens about twice a day

And it was all because of soccer

Now, in the past I’ve always avoided writing about soccer for some reason

Told myself that

Being athletics’ not poetic

The only chills sports can produce are the type that come from sprinting in the cold

But two hours ago my dad cried for the second time in 17 1/2 years

And I started to reconsider

I’ve been playing since I was three

Been in love since I was three

Been wearing grass stains on my heart since I was three

Been crying after games we lost since I was three

But tonight was different

Because my dad cried too

Tonight was different because when I took off my jersey my mom didn’t ask me when I needed it washed by.

Tonight was different because I knew the next time I’d be putting on a jersey it’d be purple and have a name on the front that is 1,100 miles away

And I’m trying to do the math and I think I’m at

21 pairs of cleats, 3 rec teams, 4 club teams, 14 years, 53 goals, 145 assists, 13 coaches, 521 games, 94 t-shirts, 7 you can’ts, and 19 you betters

And one sport that’s changed my life.

And maybe I’m way off here, but I think anything that makes you cry and sweat and bleed and desire and breathe so hard you’re not sure if you’ll ever be the same

Anything 
that changes the way your heart beats,

Is allowed to be poetic.

50 words or less

My phone keeps auto correcting the word love to live 

because I think it knows that when you're 

sweating,

breathing, 

feeling,

that when you're alive 

love can't be much further than a block away

and I think that's more profound than I could ever try to be

BP