DreamAmongStars

I used to think myself grand in the face of the abstract. I thought myself a poet, a knitter of words which together would create something like music to the eyes, drumming its rhythm in time with heartbeats and telling stories of love that almost was—of heartbreak that was very real at the time, and of thoughts that then seemed profound but—looking back—are laughable. And I missed the words. They always seemed one step (or several steps—perhaps miles) ahead of me, and I wanted to run after them, to delve into their secrets and wade in their meanings. Alas, I was not worthy then, nor now, and whether or not I can eve

August I remember being afraid. I felt smaller than I had in a long time, and familiar faces with unfamiliar names only made me feel more alone. September She cried, and I didn’t know what to do what to say how to help. So I taught her how to make paper stars and wishes, and that night she smiled in her sleep. October The nostalgia kicked in, bringing with it bittersweet memories (I thought I’d tucked them away), and I had to stop myself before I felt too much. November I dreamed I was in love for about a week. His smile made me giddy, and I liked that he wanted to spend time with me. Then I woke up when I found out I

Faint scars near the elbow on my left arm whisper kisses of how proud they are, “You overcame this,” and stretch marks show my age like tree-rings. My knee says “Remember that time when…” and tells a story through discolored skin. Mom says we can put something on it to make the scars go away, but they smile at me and invent fables, making the cells underneath dance in their seats like children waiting for the page-turn of a book. And each goose-bump on my arms holds a galaxy, quasars erupting on my skin and black holes forming moles which to me look like constellations (see here? It’s Orion,

i. you were my first real love, and I wish I had handled that better (I was only 14), but what’s done is done, and those poems I wrote for you weren’t even good. You swallowed up my months despite insisting you were full, and I still hate myself for being so damn infatuated with you, even if it’s in the past. ii. my first boyfriend, my second love. I remember hating myself for waiting so long to tell you (it was only a week, but too many things happened), and then I had to wait two months more before you were mine. And then, you never kissed me, never talked to me, never took me out, but there’s one thing I can say

Stop-motion words are hanging for dear life to the tongues of lifeless voices, begging to be spoken through rotting teeth to give purpose to an otherwise forgotten spirit. And choked fireflies are sprinkled on the remnants of me, as though my damaged portions would be more appealing with the twinkling enchantment of that winged being, but fireflies bring no comfort to dying words.

I find it almost humorous that when I talk about him, I seem as though I’m in love with him. (I am not in love with him), but when I put his jacket on, feel the gazes of people who know it belongs to a guy – him even – I feel a sort of happiness that I just can’t explain. And I worry about him a lot. He’s no saint (neither am I), and he’s made some choices many people consider bad choices. I’m sure he’s lost friends. There may come a day when he makes a mistake, and he becomes the example; the “bad thing that could happen to you”, and he’ll find himself alone – no

I hunted for you in the stars – sought you out in caves that hid behind waterfalls (You always alluded me). And my bedside table held your smile in between the pages of my favorite books – teeth shining in between chapters and laughter underneath my pillow – but the tooth fairy doesn’t come for the sound of your voice. I wish she did, though. It’s lonelier to be without you and to still be cooed to sleep by the sound of your breathing than to be completely without you – the last of my memories moved out and relocated. But I still miss you.

she stole herself from me in the whispered dots of ‘i’s in muted cries for help as she shook with worry that this was how it was always supposed to be – never would she find someone never would she feel as though she belonged… and now it’s a promise, a broken reminder that the words that cradle me in their arms could not even touch her did not even smile in her eyes. (she had made up her mind by then) so now I count the stars wondering if she is among them and if somehow, the twinkling frequencies of Hydrogen and other noble gases would sketch themselves to resemble her face or if they, too, would weep for her

I often find myself in some sort of limbo, floating in between this and that. It took a conversation with him to even figure out I was sad – or off somehow; I don’t know – and it wasn’t even me who figured it out, it was him. But what gets me is that I can’t tell if I was off before our conversation, or if his worrying about me brought it out. The mind is a strange place, and I can’t even begin to navigate its twists and turns. Somehow it’s all foreign to me. I’m thinking with someone else’s head: a sort of out-of-body experience that gets me no closer than I already was to self-actualiz