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

last night I went to bed early

Last night I went to bed early

I woke up to screaming texts and crying silence

Last night I went to bed early

And I've never regretted anything more

This morning I told my mom that another boy had committed suicide

And I felt broken

For him

For all of those before him

For the fact that the words Another and Suicide have become attached

So attached

Too attached

I've been told there’s opposition in all things. 
Yin and Yang.

As good things become better, bad things become worse

But lately I feel like good things should stay where they are,

hit the brakes,
slow it down,

if that means less bad, less suicide.

Suicide is a cycle and lone peak is on round 11 and we’re all tearing, straining, sweating trying to stop the wheel, but

It

                  Just

    Keeps

                             Spinning

Spinning towards shattered hearts, melting minds and collapsing lungs.

Bruised knees

Two hour long, please-help-me-and-them-and-her, prayers worth of bruised knees

But bruises fade from purple to yellow to flesh and I promise you, hearts heal too.

I promise you, I will spend every moment by your side if that’s what it takes for you to decide to stay

I promise you hundreds of others would do the same

I promise you that clouds are nothing more than water vapor and they too will clear.

And I’m trying to find you,

The ones with the taped hearts and stitched bones

But my gps is malfunctioning and this map is ripped in three places

And I just don’t feel qualified.

I don’t have any letters of recommendation to send to God with my prayers when I’m asking to be guided to tape and stitches

But I still ask.

I still ask.

And I feel like I should work on complimenting people’s hearts more than their hair because everyone knows hair grows back when it’s cut

There’s a thousand things I need to work on
And

I’m trying to convince myself that that’s ok

That adjustments are part of the procedure 

I’m trying to tell myself that tomorrows exist for a reason.

That tomorrows are for Betters and Try-harders.

They’re for clearer skies

Warmer eyes 

Overcoming trials

Truer smiles

But for him, the tomorrows stopped coming

And for that reason,

I think,

we all need to live for the tomorrows he left behind

And make them worth as much as we possibly can

For him. 

F. Sharpe

life comes with a brick

Life comes with a brick.

It was part of the coupon your parents used to get you here.

No returns

No exchanges

Just a brick.

                       

Mine was crumbled on the right top corner when I picked it up

Had a 7^th grade scratch

A heartbreak chip

Yours is just a little bit larger than everyone else’s. And theirs has two holes while hers has three

His is rougher than usual.

Our parents taught us that holes were ok and crumbles were beautiful.

Just like parents are suposed to.

In fifth grade we had a show-and-tell day and

that’s the last time I can remember everyone being proud of their bricks.

When we were under 4 feet tall there were shows and songs and rhymes and riddles and 2 million different heat activated color changing motivational pencils (remember those?) that reminded us 

every brick was great.

Because all bricks are different

When we grew closer to 6 feet tall there were shows and songs and rhymes and riddles and 2 million different Yahoo articles and googled how-tos that reminded us that 

every brick was not great.

Because all bricks are different.

And once for three months I believed my brick was worthless. I drove up a road behind 7 other people considered the “figured-it-outs” and hair-flipped, drop-kicked my brick out the window.

They convinced me that holding onto it would make me another cemented down brick in the wall.

And they had a point

because millions of bricks all together tend to look repetitive

But they

                I

                    we

were missing the point.

Because that crumble in the top right corner

That seventh grade scratch

That heartbreak chip

Those things were me.

They were my grocery list, must-learns of life

Things designed specifically for me to learn

And I’m doing all that I can to search that pile of “not-good-enoughs” to find my crumbled, scratched, chipped block of something

Because this wall can’t be built without me

And I think that makes my brick pretty significant.

(In a beautifully insignificant kind of way)

F. Sharpe

nighttime thinking

Last night I stayed up and talked to the stars and listened to the mountains.

They told me to live. 

To live and to unchain myself from cords that run nowhere meaningful.

They whispered for me to create

Create memories that weigh as much as gold.

But are worth so much more

Last night I stayed up and talked to the stars and listened to the mountains.

They reminded me that 

I’m doing fine

I’m doing fine

I’m doing fine

They made me tell myself that my whole-hearted efforts are superior to my half-successful results.

They made me engrave it in my lungs so every breath would be a reminder.

Last night I stayed up and talked to the stars and listened to the mountains.

They showed me a 2 for 1 deal that allowed happiness and reality to co-exist.

A place where 

smiles aren't forced 

and 

interests aren't mass-produced.

The stars told me that sometimes you have to step back to see that you’re part of something bigger

The mountains told me the ones that care the most to see the world the way you do will be the ones willing to climb.

And after hours of nighttime listening

I decided to work for five star days.

Days of happy

I’m talking about the happy that comes from head-out-the-sun-roof-jamming and the stop-it-I’m-dying stomach pain laughing.

The days when your phone is on full and your body is on empty.

The days when the stars and the mountains no longer have to remind you to be you. 

F. Sharpe