Stop.

Look around.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Open your eyes.

No, actually open your eyes.

…Ah, but that’s where you’re mistaken.

What you’re seeing right now

Is the back of your eyelids.

The burning intensity,

Overwhelmingly painful darkness

And infinite nothingness

Of the back of your eyelids.

…Oh, really? Are you sure?

Because if your eyes were already open,

I would think that by now

You would’ve noticed

The soft clover underneath you

Splashed with violets;

The arm around your shoulder

Warming your shaking body as you cry.

You would have seen the sun

Rising through your window this morning

As you struggled to revive your tired mind,

And you’d have watched fiery light bounce off the sleek fur

Of your loyal fluff-armored protector guarding your pillow,

Ever-dozing, but always with one eye open.

You would have caught a glimpse

Of the prisms of color

That danced between the sparkling droplets

Last night when it rained.

You’d have been entranced

By the rippling reflections they left on the concrete

That mirrored the sky, swirling with the stars of van Gogh.

Open your eyes, little one.

Witness the beauty of the little moments

That dot every second of your existence.

So. Whenever you’re ready…

I am from (wands of unimaginable power) unsharpened pencils,

from Beanie Boos and Island of the Blue Dolphins.

I am from the broken alarm clock and beige walls cool to the touch

in a room that wasn’t mine,

doors that locked from the outside,

and a silence I filled with hour-long ballads about anything and everything.

I am from the trees I would lie under as after-school traffic died down,

letting the branches protect me as I grew familiar with love and fear

from my usual spot in their dancing shade, settled next to friends on the sidewalk.

I’m from “Band! Ten-hut!” group dismissals

and the exhausted, victorious atmosphere

after every run of the show at every marching contest.

From Tobias Soriano and Alexis Palacio.

I’m from the blunt, nerdy humor of Parker Boyd

and the hours of deep conversation and beautiful,

well-spoken honesty of Lauren Cram.

From “you can’t be trusted” and “you’re the most real person I’ve ever met.”

I’m from delivering Lemonades and finding a community;

from Panama City Beach, where God showed me

that there’s always enough hope to keep existing.

I’m from Level of Concern by twenty øne piløts,

expired Earl Grey,

leaning against trees whose roots grew over the empty sidewalk and writing a song about it.

From the rocky creek I jumped into with Parker,

where I simultaneously got my first kiss

and a cool scar on the bottom of my right foot.

The stickers on someone’s guitar whose sound I thrive on after school,

the voices and laughter of people I’ve just met but couldn’t bear to lose.

Scattered throughout my room, tucked away in desk drawers and on bookshelves,

are folded letters and useless objects

I somehow manage to keep finding places for.

I am from the pink scars and salty tears

of everything I have ever experienced,

unhindered and separate from the realm of blood and descent.

You ask how I plan to change the world.

I don't.

The world does not need

Any more changing.

Far from it.

Look at our surroundings.

Our trees filter sunlight

Through millions of green pages,

Like books that ache to tell a story

Through shadows dancing on the forest floor.

Our skies sigh softly

In cool billows of crisp wind,

Carrying dots of rain

To land on unsuspecting eyelashes,

Leaving morning dew

To be blinked away from wandering eyes.

Our artists beckon us with graphite lines

And textured mountains of color

And pages and pages of original combinations

Of ancient words and immortal sounds;

Redefining culture

By redefining the light spectrum and the world's acoustics,

Altering how our senses absorb the universe.

I am one of those artists.

I do not change the world;

I change our perception of it.

I am an artist;

But I am not your artist.

This is a planet;

But it is not our planet.

Earth is an artist alongside me.

She is a creator of new ideas,

A writer of songs,

A painter of landscapes,

An innovator of intelligence.

She has a portfolio of towering sculptures

And intricately carved woodwork,

And music that took eons to compose.

She is not ours.

No, I will not change the world,

For I am an artist.

I do not vandalize or take credit for

The work of other artists.

I will bring a shift

Into the minds of those who do.

(TW: Sensory overload, parental conflict)

I'm already shaking

At three in the afternoon.

The voices and lights

That fight for my attention

Are starting to get to me,

Because Concerta can only fend off

So much

Before the dam breaks

And it all comes rushing back

In mammoth waves,

The churning white froth

Of the rebound

Stampeding rapidly closer

As I attempt to brace myself

For the hit.

Getting talked at by a teacher

Or a friend

and then tossed around in the hallway,

And then remembering

That eventually

I'm going to have to go home

And get yelled at by a parent

Or two

And get tossed around at the dinner table,

All while trying to hold off a tsunami,

Is not as fun as it sounds.

I have so much shit to do,

I think to myself.

Please stop talking.

Please stop giving me

More to think about

Than I can handle.

Please give me silence,

And give me time,

Because silence and time

Are precious resources

That I never have enough of.

You are the only person

I don't have to speak to.

The only person

Who will just sit there

And play guitar

And be my anchor

Without even trying.

I don't know

If you know

That you're doing

Exactly what I need you to,

And I know

That you don't know

Anything about me

Except what I choose

To tell you.

So this is me telling you

Even though you'll never hear it.

And I'm going to keep it that way

Because I know you need

More silence and time

Than I do.

At first

I used that one line

As a reminder

To never forgive them.

Every time they hurt me

I redrew it

And reopened it.

I wanted a permanent scar,

A tattoo of my home

So I would never speak to them

Too cordially,

Or trust them

With my future children,

Or sit by them

At family gatherings.

And then I drew more.

One for every time

They took away my hope

And my freedom

And my confidence.

I kept a tally of the days

They wouldn't let me breathe;

The days I couldn't let myself breathe.

I justified it in my head

With a projector

That displayed little white lies

Behind my eyes at all times

Constantly playing on repeat

At school,

At home,

At work,

In the shower.

I'm not hurting myself.

This is a physical representation

Of what they are already doing to me.

A little reminder I like to write

In red pen on my arm,

To remind me

That I'm not

A problem child

Who throws temper tantrums,

Who can't be trusted with

Shower water

Or a door

Or food

Or a school-provided computer

Or decision-making

Without supervision

And reprimanding

And punishment;

Who can't receive encouragement

Or praise

Or grace

Or happiness

Without taking advantage of it.

And I liked writing that reminder

A lot.

Maybe a little too much.

Because I began to write and rewrite it

All over my body.

It gave me peace

Knowing I could just look down at myself

And see those words

And automatically know

What my life consisted of at the moment.

And what it always would consist of.

I loved the familiar burst

Of dopamine

Running through my brain

Through my cheeks

Across my shoulders

And into my chest

Where it radiated

Throughout the rest of my body;

Specifically the sweet spots

On hidden areas of my left limbs

Where I sometimes wrote and rewrote,

traced and retraced it

In layers.

It was calming,

A cure-all

For cancers,

Fevers,

Depression,

Anxiety,

Sleep issues...

It was like CBD

But less advertised.

I couldn't stop

To save my life.

But I did.

Eventually.

I can't wash the ink off,

Though.

I've tried.

I always just end up

Rubbing my arms and legs

Raw with a washcloth,

And I sigh

At the things

I would rather have left

Undone

And probably forgotten

By my ever-distracted,

Scattered mind.

It's quiet underwater,

And warm.

It feels kind of like Death

Decided that it would be fun

To kill off the sensation

Of life for a little while

And see what I do about it.

It hurts to breathe

When you're underwater.

It's like inhaling the fuzz

That's shed from a thick blanket you're tangled in

That you just can't seem to find the end of.

I need air

I know I do

But I can't find it.

And I'm getting desperate,

Which hurts even more

Than feeling my breath catch in my throat,

And burn all the way down to my lungs;

And then come back up in throbbing spurts

Right when I think I've found a chance

To replenish my life.

I'm getting desperate,

But I'm just so tired

Of treading.

The dark hooded stranger

Carries intricately carved knives at his belt,

And gold and blue liquids

Strung about his neck on a chain,

Glowing in the twilight

Through translucent corked bottles.

He walks through the darkness

In boots worn with adventure and travel

That leave footprints in the mud

In which a bright young shadow

Silently makes his imprints seconds after;

Not quite as large, but just as curious,

Though the the boy's curiosity

Still filters through the veil of innocence

As he stalks the unfamiliar entity

Through the trees that are haunted

With the wails of the cicadas.

The stranger halts

So the child halts

And watches as his mother stands and blinks again,

Still bleeding ancient blood from ancient burns

That never got enough time to heal;

Still covered in the grime

That collected on her person

In its years under the dirt.

But her eyes

Are not still the same loving green

That the child looked into

As she told him stories of her journeys

As a wandering adventurer.

No,

These eyes are empty

And as grey

As their son's broken tears

As he runs through the woods

Back to the orphanage;

Followed, but not seen,

By a startled young magician

Who thought he heard wolves

Stalking him in the dead of night,

Leaving only a whispering mother

Grieving for her grieving child

in their wake.

I try to lay under the stars

That wink at their observers,

And to sigh with contentment

As I blind myself staring at the twilight;

A white sun warming itself

Underneath a worn velvet blanket

As old as time and space,

A blanket tattered with holes

Where the light of the universe leaks through.

I try to wander empty rich forests

Laced with goldleaf and lapis lazuli,

Alone and yet surrounded by life,

But not the destructive kind;

Rather, that kind that embraces me,

Knowing that I AM the destructive kind

But also knowing

That I have gone against the tides of humanity

And that I am okay with that.

But whirlwinds travel with me

And as much as I want to stop

And smell the flowers

That are RIGHT THERE

Right in front of me,

Close enough to just barely

Reach out an arm and brush

The momentary silk petals

With the the tip of a calloused finger,

They drift away on airy oceans

Carried on the backs of Poseidon’s horses

And they leave only me,

Under this blue velvet blanket,

Surrounded by this life tinged with precious metals,

Seeing nothing, chasing nothing

But the flowers I already lost

and those that I will lose.

I don’t know you.

I’d never seen you before

Until a week ago,

When you decided

To start complimenting more people

Because of something you read on the internet.

Except you did it wrong,

Because it kind of sounded

Like a catcall.

Then you shook my hand,

Asked for my name,

Told me yours,

And walked away.

It was awkward and unexpected

And made me uncomfortable.

My least favorite kind of interaction.

And for the next several days

At around the same time

I found myself looking around

At all the heads bobbing

Through the high school hallways

For a very specific,

But apparently very popular shade

Of bleached blonde.

You washed up, unremarkably,

Just like everything else does,

Onto my overgrown, littered private beach

That is in desperate need of maintenance.

Its fences are falling down

So badly, and in so many places,

That I can’t remember where the property line is,

And trespassers don’t get prosecuted anymore

Because the sign fell down ages ago

And I honestly don’t blame them

For not realizing that somebody is responsible

For this place.

So how did you

Of all people,

Prosaic and illustrous,

Manage to glint through the sheets of rain

And spark my curiosity enough

To make me want to go outside

And investigate you

In the middle of a tropical storm?