I can’t believe I ever wanted to die.
Before I met her and him and them and you.
Before I danced in the rain and found my first four-leaf clover.
Before I had songs written about me by a beautiful boy.
Before I fell in love with that beautiful boy that engulfed my soul.
Before I picked up a paintbrush.
Before the car rides with Kristen.
Before I got stupid drunk every weekend with the best people I’ve ever met.
Before I felt God.
Or saw Him in the acts of strangers.
Before I lost my Nirvana lighter twice, my virginity, and my mind.
Before I lived.
I can’t believe I ever wanted to die.
I keep trying to write a poem but all that comes out is your name.
You say a toast towards all the dreamers.
And we down our glasses because the alcohol has a great way of disguising itself as hope.
And sometimes things get stuck in our eyes.
Like the way the ash does in yours.
Like the way God does in mine.
1. My childhood best friend keeping a poem I wrote her when I was 7.
2. A guy praying towards Mecca beside me.
3. An affectionate lesbian couple.
4. A guy singing and strumming his guitar in the middle of a busy union.
5. The smile on a homeless man’s face when I handed him 3 dollars.
6. My little brother trying to catch the dust spectacles.
7. The guy who worked at Bojangles with a girl’s name tattooed on his neck.
8. The way my little sister looks at me. Like I’m the best thing around.
9. You telling me there is hope. To be pure. Kind. Patient. To pray.
10. The eyelash on your cheek.
Lately, it has been the things that I didn’t say that keep me up.
It’s the excessive amount of caffeine I put into my body.
It’s the way the boy looked at me like I was some sort of evil because I was smoking in a non-smoking area.
I’ve just been thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking that maybe I need to stop all the thinking
but I can’t stop it
And at times I feel like maybe I’m not so alone,
because I saw the look in your eyes the night you told me you wanted to leave for Disney land,
and I was on board because I’ve always wanted to meet Peter Pan.
Because he never came to my window when my mother told me it was time to grow up.
Because just maybe I’m a lost girl with a lost mind.
They say it takes 21 days to break a bad habit.
But I’ve been trying to get unhooked from a lot of things for months.
And now I prefer the lightheadedness I get from a lot of things
more so than the way nature used to catch my breath.
Or the first shot that gets me buzzed,
like the bee that scared my hand that day in highschool.
I used to be pure.
But then I got drunk off of the comfort,
and inhaled some acceptance.
They say that it takes 21 days to break a bad habit,
but maybe, just maybe, I was just born this way.
I now understand why some people become addicts.
And I wonder if we will ever find the substance that makes our hearts match the speed that it was when another’s hand was in yours.
I have to remember:
To not have caffeine around you.
To not smoke around you.
Because my hands shake enough as it is,
and my heartbeats are constant reminders,
that I don’t need the reminder
of how I feel about you.
Like the sun, you blinded me.
Sometimes I forget that people don’t appreciate words as much as I do.
Or the spilled secrets
at 3am over a cigarette.
Sometimes I forget that people don’t want to be drunk dialed.
Although they are the only person you’re mixed up mind can think of.
Sometimes the only guidance you need is from the light at the end of a cigarette.
Sometimes I forget to pray.
Sometimes I spend my entire day in conversation with God.
But I still get lonely at night because God doesn’t like to cuddle.
And people don’t like to be drunk dialed.
Sometimes people fall in hate or in love.
And it’s okay to do both or neither as many times a day as you want.
Sometimes I forget that.
But lately, I’ve been thinking:
How bad can Satan be,
if he accepts the people that even God won’t?
The first week will suck.
You will miss home.
You will hate the food.
And the whole sharing a bathroom with 11 other girls.
You will cry.
You and your roommate won’t hit it off well.
You will make friends,
only to never talk to them again.
Your sociology teacher will be an ass.
And the boy you like will lose interest.
You will (unintentionally) grow apart from your bestfriends.
And home won’t feel like it sounds anymore.
You will get lonely.
The cereal will never disappoint.
The maids are sweet ladies.
You will pass Sociology with a B.
Your roommate will become one of your bestfriends.
(Don’t worry, you’ll get comfortable enough to not have to wear pants)
She will feel like home.
You will make a whole new group of friends.
Ones who put up with you and fix your makeup on the nights you get too intoxicated and cry about the boy who lost interest.
(Sorry about that, I love you, guys)
Your mom will be okay.
You will meet people who talk in words that are so beautiful that chest pains and headaches will become normal.
You will laugh until you pee,
Sing in the rain,
Body surf to Anthony Green,
See beautiful things,
Hear beautiful voices,
Love more people than you thought possible.
Your mind will blossom like the trees that you ride, walk, sit, and smoke under. (Yeah, you pick up a few bad habits, but that’s okay.)
You will be happy.
So, don’t be scared or anxious, or worried.
Unpack your bags, you still have a few weeks.
Hug your mother and love yourself.
(Also, don’t bleach your hair. That was just a bad idea.)
I don’t know if I believe in karma
But what a lovely thought
that what goes around
I hope it’s you.
Sometimes I lose hope.
We all do.
But it’s times like these, where my back is sore from staying up hours and hours painting.
Where I listen to beautiful words from beautiful people.
Where I recall the times Sigman talked.
Or the cute boy played his guitar.
Where we sat and talked in your car for hours talking about God and boys and fucking aliens.
Where I laughed so hard I peed myself.
Where I felt home.
Where I am in a constant state of goosebumps from all the beauty that is around me.
All these words and sights and people
and omg sometimes everything is so godammed beautiful.
Van Gogh ate yellow paint
because he thought it would make him feel happiness
Well I’ve been painting
for almost 3 years
And my organs are angry
because I’ve got nothing in me
but smoke and ash
Sometimes I think I deserve this.
Maybe it was the countless times I pushed someone away
Into a friend zone
Maybe I’m not that great of a person
I think I think too much
Once when I was 6, I got lost at Disney World.
And although I knew my mom was worried,
I knew I was born an explorer
And that I could find what or whoever I wanted.
12 years later, I’m doing the same thing.
But this time, I’m lacking the confidence.
Because they don’t hand out directions to a place called home.
And the punches we throw just to feel alive, look similar enough to the galaxy.
They say there are 206 bones in the body
but mine is just composed of natural disasters
And from the day you lit that lighter for me,
I’ve become walking smoke.
Stories say that when you’re dying
you see beautiful things.
you see God.
It may have been the deathbed visions, the dmt, or lack of oxygen,
But I couldn’t get your freckles out of my head that Saturday night.
And although we always fall for the same person,
over and over
And at times we fall in love with sadness
maybe God does exist.
Because although I felt those three nails in me last Friday night.
I also felt love.
And although I may not be a great explorer,
or a great lover,
sometimes life isn’t about finding a boy,
it’s about finding yourself.
I never understood why my mother ruined her lungs.
I would come home from school with pictures
of before and after someone started smoking, hoping to scare her into stopping.
It just seemed absurd, how she was killing herself slowly.
Today, I understood that craving.
The whole wanting something that isn’t good for you.
Even after I finished my cigarette.
She never quit.
And although I’m killing myself slowly, I’ve never felt so alive.