When the “Door” Shuts

So the boy
you loved three years ago,
cried two years OVER,
finally is in a relationship again.

And you cry,
before you remember

this is the same boy
who told you not dance in your seat,
who smiled when he dimmed the happiness in your eyes,
who left,
who GHOSTED—

So the boy
you LOVED three years ago,
maybe never stopped wanting
in some way shape or form,
is finally in a relationship again

and you spend the next five hours on YouTube
dancing in your seat,
and this time, it only takes 300 minutes
rather than 730 days
before you’re smiling again.

Future Realities

“Lovely”
like a stain on your lips
that doesn’t come from kisses.
Like the first ray of sunshine
that signals spring.
Like believing this life is not the end,
like hoping for bliss.
Like kindness.

“Lovely”
like a sugar rush.
Like constant laughter
running like light
through an open floor plan.
Like children falling to the floor,
rolling on their backs and giggling.
Like sanded furniture.
Like wild flowers,
fresh flowers
springing from every crevice.

“Lovely”
like silence,
like an honest promise,
one that’s kept.
Like moments where it is you
and God
and the birds singing on the window
ledge,
and maybe you’re in that townhouse
or that cottage
but you’re smiling easier
and in awe of the littlest of things
like the way ice cube press together,
share space with tea
with citrus
with everything that represents simplicity.

“Lovely”
like possibility.
Like this life you’re living,
like what the future could hold.

“Lovely”
like waking up
and realizing
this world
is your dream.

I’m sorry it’s been so long 

I’m sitting on my new couch, about to watch Glee,

maybe nap, who knows,

and I am at peace and I’m comfortable and my feet aren’t cold.

I know God’s got my life under control.

I’m blessed to understand that being alone is an okay thing,

that this time I am alone,

and I’m still happy.

I’m blessed to be able to realize this is what it feels like to actually be happy.

Another Round for 4

We are ostracized by a table
half the size of the dining room
and I am looking at you
and you are laughing.

And I am watching you
and you don’t look at me;

and this is why I don’t believe you
when you say I’m ‘pretty’,
when you like ‘my personality’.

I see the way you’re smiling,
the way your eyes are glinting,
and maybe you’ve finally fooled me.

But in those moment, I swear
you look, you seem
genuinely happy.

And maybe that lessens the blow
of the lie:
that I know you never watch me
when I’m having a good time.

So the next time we are at a table
and this time, I’m at your side,
I’ll still cherish that smile,

But won’t confuse it for your validity
of my ‘pretty’
or ‘personality’.
No, without you,
without it, I’m still me,
and regardless,
I’ve been doing just fine.

A Year from Then

We all know that
Beethoven wrote symphonies
and we sit here
writing our so-called
poetry
from our
“broken-hearted” misery.

I’m not trying to say we’re all sellouts.
I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt.

I’m trying to remind you
that Beethoven,
deaf and maddening,
wrote one of the best known
musical symphonies 
due to feeling happy.

A little number
called
“Ode to joy.”

Now let’s pause and think of the notes.
Let’s take a moment to remember we don’t
do this for the comments,
but rather to express a common feeling
whether it be love or apathy
happiness or pain
that others are dealing with.

This is me 
looking back
saying that
I never thought
I would be where I am now
a year ago,
this is me saying I’m proud of how far I had to come.

This is me not diminishing my pain,
but instead realizing things are only “great”
if we let them be.

Yes,
you’ve read the poetry,
you’ve seen the behind-the-scenes,
the suffering,
but understand,
that was a year ago.
And I was nineteen.

I’m twenty now,
if I’ve learned anything:
it’s that I’m healing,
falling in love with me,
and I want to write
joyous symphonies. 

Atlantis

Take a crystal.

Pierce my skin

Your hand on my heart.

Turn two notches.

Watch me glow.

Not all keys are metal,
some are made of mineral.
And though water doesn’t flow red,
the same cannot be said of iron.

I am no longer lost city.

I am no longer ancient mystery.

You dove into stretches of
uncharted waters,
Swam deep into trenches
that did not promise
oxygen pockets,

just to find me.

Did not give me a chance
to let my mind wonder
whether my ruins
satisfied the
inbred fantasy,

Because the minute you broke the surface,
your eyes rose up meet mine,
your feet to follow in bounds,
crystal held in palms,

You saw that I
was no longer
buried treasure;
I was
discovered lottery.

You saw the cracks,
trampled debris,
and you still wanted all of me.

I was better than—
I was more than—-
my wreckage of a history.

And though I believe
every word you say to me,
I do think you’re mistaken.

Explorer,
you may have found
the lost city,
but you lost your heart
at the bottom of the sea.

May 1st

We are driving back home
from Batsto
and the wind is whipping smiles
onto our pale faces,
drained vessels brought to life
as music tangles around us
and Albus embraces us
on cracked roads that turn to
smooth streets once we cross
county borders.
I am exhausted.
I am sick.
I am happy.

And if you’re one of them then you’re one of me;
And you would do almost anything just to feel free.

When she isn’t sure I love her,
when she thinks I’m ignoring her,
when I can’t look at her,
remember this.