Dad’s favorite gospel was John. He made us go to church on Christmas. He could paint and draw and sing and do math, pick up any instrument, play it and play it well. He was funny and charismatic and charming and intense: we’d wake up at least once seasonally to find some “required” houseware missing in Christ’s name and proceed with six months of audacious lack only for it all to end abruptly: what was lost would be mysteriously found or repurchased and the era was not to be spoken of again.

Dad’s biggest hook was heaven. His biggest fear was that his kids would grow up and stop biting. I don’t know what his second biggest fear was, if he had one. I don’t know if that’s something people count, if fears are the kind of thing that wait to inch into the top spot upon the occurrence of their predecessors. I don’t know what makes someone a good daughter or a bad daughter, how muddy that in between gets, but I know my hazy faithlessness is the one cardinal difference between the two of us that Dad lacks any capacity to forgive, so I have to speak of him in past tense; sleep and wake up and keep grieving.

So it’s my second year of college, October, one of those gawky fall days close to seventy but cloudy enough to consider throwing on a sweater, if it’s worth the possibility of having to lug around a sweater. I’m reading the Bible despite previously swearing that I’d never go back to that–my rebellious phase has come and gone. I figure I remember enough of it that I’ll be obnoxious in class anyway, I’d best just do the damn thing. So I march through the Old Testament, through September, through my rage at realizing what this book says with farsight. I think at least a couple times a week about calling Dad and asking why. I never do. And if you were to ask me if I was nervous to get into the gospels maybe I’d have laughed but I think I’d also recognize that there is something about the thing that saved Dad but couldn’t save me that might make it all less of a trudge but somehow still much harder to get through.

I opt out of a sweater. The warmth on my back has not yet reached my arms. I’m reading Matthew. It has to have been five years by now, and that, to me, is crazy. Five years since I left the church. I can’t tell you how long it’s felt like but five would never be the number I’d give. There’s a sort of hollowness that comes with the realization of passing time. I thought I’d have a more definite answer by now about religion–deep down I think a part of myself is still holding onto the idea of being a prodigal daughter. Everyone comes to Christ eventually, right? We’ll never understand divine timing? Five years and I’ve wobbled in and out of churches as quietly as I attempted to tiptoe out of the first. Nobody wants to be made an example of, but there was a point at which I realized that no matter what I did, that’s what I’d become. Now, in a sense, it doesn’t matter what I turn into. My name is a stain on my father’s, and when he looks down, that’s all that he’ll see. Either way, every stretch of time that passes between my sporadic church visits makes me feel like I’ve lost more and more of a language I used to be fluent in. I don’t go for God. Maybe I’m a shit person for that. I do go every so often still, though, missing Dad.

I don’t know if I believe in God. I don’t know if I want to believe in God. I don’t know how easy I feel about the idea that divine intervention could save mankind at large but couldn’t save me. I’m not unhappy–I’m taking the backroads around stating that I love my family but I wonder sometimes if I shouldn’t. Maybe I’m missing some glaring poignance, the idea that God is so often what helps people out of their situations, unless their situation comes with some relation to his name.

Matthew’s the most hellish of the gospels. I don’t think I ever realized that. I don’t know if I’m any more or less afraid of holy fire than I was as a child. I stayed and faked it for a really long time because I did not want to go to hell. I consider going back to all of it sometimes because I do not want to go to hell. For whatever reason, it’s just so easy to believe in hell. There’s something so nauseatingly jarring reading about being eternally burned when the words are coming from what should’ve been my childhood hero. I find that Matthew makes my stomach churn with the sort of remembrance that shouldn’t be let surface. It probably shouldn’t scare me as badly as it does. The idea should come as naturally as my own name– I’ve always believed I am going to end up in hell.

Dad’s been confident in his salvation for a while. Right now, I’m trying so hard to save myself. Dad wants me to go to heaven but I just want to go home. Our difference will always make it be that I shouldn’t. I like to think that even when I was little, I knew. It’s some kind of comfort to feel like there wasn’t ever a time when I didn’t have some keen idea that my whole religious facade was temporary. I knew I was leaving. I don’t know what I thought it’d look like, if it would be this isolating. Who do you lean on when you’re grieving the people you’re supposed to lean on the most? God and I have a past to let lie, but I spend more time thinking about Dad than not. He’ll always be my favorite and I hate that. I hate how awkward all of this is to shoulder. New friends will catch me on a rough day, many have tried to be of comfort. They get it, they lost their dad too. I lost Dad to an extent, sure, but I feel like an ass when I tell them he’s alive. He is, though, and somewhere he’s embodying an adjacency to greatness that I do not get to know about.

He’s come up to visit twice. He sent me a birthday card this year and I taped it to the wall. I’ve heard he’s on a vegetarian kick but it seems out of character–I’ve thought about asking but he hates gossip and I hate phone calls–something tells me I’m making excuses. Sometimes it might be what I need to do. Only getting to think about him is sad, but at least it’s still rosy.

I learn I cannot read about the crucifixion without crying. I do not cry at books, never got anywhere close to emotional in church, but fresh into my twentieth year with a story I know the ending to, I find myself in the sort of tears that come back throughout the day. I don’t know if I pity Christ, if that’s the right word, but I think to some sympathetic degree I understand him. He didn’t ask for this, but took it as a burden for a father who took everything too far. And did he have any sort of option? Did I? Tonight, my class will reach a standstill on this exact topic, but I will stay wondering what could’ve gone any different. Sometimes I’m curious if it wasn’t really the church that was the breaking point, if maybe Dad and I were so similar that we would’ve had the same non-ending in every universe, every version of ourselves screaming at each other in the smallest kitchen in the world over something that cannot be boiled down to anything more than opinion. I took up my cross, though. Maybe in every universe, we reached the point where it was the only thing I could do. But the last time I ever prayed to God–knowing for certain I was praying to God–I was praying for Dad. Jesus came back in three days raving about his father and I bring up Dad nearly every chance I get. I do not remember that I should be angry. Matthew ends abruptly. It feels fitting.

I wander aimlessly for a while, through my campus, through my city. I listen to the same song on repeat. The idea of skipping class rattles itself loudly around my mind but I also know that’s out of character. I’ll go. I want to settle down somewhere and think and re-read Matthew, but I don’t. Damn freshmen in my cry spot again.

I’ve been waiting five years to find some sliver of anything that isn’t this, and I will keep waiting through more. I feel as though I can’t move back, can’t be here or any other city or any other school, join any one church or be openly against it, but I’m at the age where it feels childishly gaudy to think about it all too nihilistically over and over again. I think what I really want is to take a nap in someone else’s bed. They don’t even need to be there. I just need to smell anything but my own perfume on the sheets. I want to find one thing that makes me feel the same excitement as walking into church with Dad on Christmas Eve as a child, hand in icy hand. I’m waiting for some new enigma who can so effortlessly turn the whole world into theirs to the point where I can blur all my focus and morph into something tertiary. I want someone to stick around. And maybe that’s all just some sort of minor god; if it is, I don’t know why I’ve done wrong. I don’t know what this hurt has done to Dad and I both. I’ve stopped myself from trying to grasp it for better or worse because I am scared, and I know he is stronger, and I know it broke him. In the end, I guess that knowing may be my biggest fear come true.

In the end, we broke each other. That’s probably the whole point.

Dad always said he liked John because of its portrayal of Jesus’ strength. I will keep reading Matthew even after our class finishes with the gospels because it feels, to me, the most real. Truth is, I still cannot define this vast emptiness. I don’t know if it stems from a need to find God or if I’m just mourning my belief in him correctly. I have my anger and I have my hunger, but tonight I will not fix either. I will go home after class, turn the lights on just to turn them off again. I will drink what’s left of the prosecco straight from the bottle. I will turn off my phone and lock my own door. I will keep wondering if there is any way to fight fire with fire.

----------------

Footnotes:

Hey guys, it's been a while :) The past few times I've come on here and posted I've also given a general life update so that's what I'm gonna do here too. Going to also try and keep it short but who knows how well that will work--point is though, if u don't know me well or even just don't really care, the essay is over and you can totally stop reading now, no worries at all.

For the rest of you: I just finished my sophomore year of college!! Omg. Does NOT feel real. This year felt like it went by in a blip. Highlights are: threw a rager for my 20th, dated a woman, broke up with said woman, came out (because of a Young Sheldon episode that was a bit too convicting), un-came out, realized who my real friends are and who they aren't, ran away to NYC without telling anyone, took ten shots in seven minutes, signed a lease, and was made editor in chief of my school's literary magazine (holy shit.)

This was published in the latest issue of that literary magazine--my training issue. The prior editor who was training me planned the issue and had space carved out for a Riley Ferver essay but I hadn't submitted anything nor did I really think I had anything to submit, but the night before spring break my friend Alexandra came over and we started going through each other's writing and she fell in love with this--I'd written it in November and promptly forgotten about it. She used the "please...I'm graduating soon and I'll want this" and voila, I said whatever and gave it to Allyson to put into the mag. Tldr I'll do anything for my friends I guess.

About a week ago, after the issue release party I woke up about 2 hours after falling asleep and checked my phone to find messages from a ton of people about the essay, most movingly from a senior girl on my floor I'd never even talked to. She said this essay made such an impact on her and she knew I was probably not up but she'd love to talk about it if I was. Five minutes later, we met on the balcony and stayed up until sunrise just hanging out. I never really think of my writing having an impact but it did this time--and it made me a new friend. That was one of the best nights of this year, hands down. No chance you'll ever see this, but here's to you, Carrie.

Anyway, all this to say I know it sounds horrible but I've been riding on knowing I'm an ok writer for a while now. This piece that I still don't even know if I like reawakened something I hadn't felt in a while, though--connection. With that, I hope you find it too, in this or in something else. Feel free to start conversation below, I'd love to chat (mainly because packing is lame but also because I miss you all.) See you in...what seems to be my average, another year?

XX- RKF

i hope i don't forget my youth.

i am by no means old now, but i feel time catching up with me,

and i don't know whether this is a race that can be won.

i would very much like nostalgia to wrap itself around me,

seep into by bones and infuse my soul with the memory of what it was like

to exist. as a child full of joy and hope and love. full of

dreams, wishes, delight, impulses.

i would very much like love to be personified as my imaginary friend,

someone who will inspire me

to exist.

i will look up at the stars at night and know that they are the same stars

that i gazed upon as a child. they will tell me stories of how i used to talk to them about my day. they can time travel, you know. and they will tell me about how they waded through the thick, gelatinous substance of time to tell the child struck by magic, stuck within a fantasy, that it will all be okay.

i may grow old, but i will never grow up.

1: i knew the stars, once.

before city lights swallowed the last of the starlight and spit out a black, black sky

a sky that beckoned and beguiled until I became one with its shadow

i can hardly recall the stars, anymore; hardly recall anything but the darkness that swallowed me whole

5: i see the constellations in dreams, withered and weaving their way into my consciousness

I wonder how a memory of beauty can exist among the ruins of destruction.

and so Memory Lane has become a wasteland of dying stars and long-forgotten dreams

how i wish time could be turned back to those shooting stars once more

the visions of stars, though bright, are faded and blurry inside my head, and i know they would not accept me anymore

10: and yet, and yet. here i stand, arms open and eyes unraveled.

welcome to another poem written by us! i cannot believe how long it took me to get around to posting this but thank you so much to everyone who participated!! much love to you all, tagged in the comments < 3

hi! if you know me you might remember almost a year ago i asked everyone to write a poem together by adding a line in the comments! i loved it so much, and the end result was so beautiful (see: astronomical on my profile) that i wanted to do it again!

so please, anyone is encouraged to contribute a line or several! the only rule is that the comment above yours must not be your own :)

line 1: i knew the stars, once.

my eyes burn in the pitch black of my room, only illuminated by a 13" screen that screams in the darkness. it attacks my eyes with the talons of some ancient beast, but my head is too full. it's spinning and whirling and overflowing and desperate. hilariously underworked and heartbreakingly neglected. it's 3 a.m and a firefly lands on my arm. it tickles, advancing slowly to my hand, then to my desk. it illuminates the path it takes as it goes, the memory of its journey imprinted into my nerves. it settles onto my desk and, like a puppy, lies down and is still. i hope it's sleeping. i feel an unceasing tug to my laptop, to my dreams, the bubblegum streetlights streaming through the hastily dropped blinds.

i click the big teal button that says "write". i return to my dreams, my hope, my home.

i click "publish."

The sky is drowning, and I with it.

The moon is no longer mine—

she doesn’t follow me into the sea.

She reaches, she tries,

but her glowing visage is only

smeared over the sea like

oils paints on clean canvas.

one: 

you trip and

two:

you almost let something unsavory

come out of your mouth, but close it instead.

you steady your pace, and your partner laughs,

and readjusts the grasp on your waist; after a few

beats, you find the rhythm of the waltz again.

the pianist accents the note with a flourish, with the

violinist stretching out the melody.  you turn

to glance at their faces but the dance continues

and you catch only a blur. the small cabin is cozily

warm but filled with partners. the tap of shoes against

the wooden floorboards is hypnotizing, but your partner

taps you gently on the shoulder, and you look

back.

three:

you tilt your head in question. your partner

laughs. don't tilt your head at me, he winks.

something about that makes the back of your neck

shudder, but you ignore it. whats wrong? you wanna

ask, but

that's the wrong question, isn't it? that thought

disappears as quickly as it came, so you 

instead say, what do you need?

your partner blinks,

four:

and something flashes behind his eyes.

you aren't sure when you stopped moving, or when

the music stopped, but the massive ballroom is

empty and cold, and you can see your reflection

in the marble flooring.

you stop. you glance up at your partner,

then look down at the ground again.

five:

there is only one figure in the reflection.

six:

automatically you flinch out of your

partner's fingers, but his face remains

blank, mouth neutral. where is your reflection,

you say, not quite a question. and then:

we weren't here before- where did the

others go.

a beat passes, and he steps back, drops

his eyes. you track his movements,

and watch him walk away, walk to gaze out

the arched ceiling reaching up to the ceiling.

you wait for a moment, then join him.

seven:

the sky is too gorgeous, an unnatural shade

of lovely black ice blue. you look away

after a second- you have to. at long last,

your partner(?) looks down from the window,

though the light still illuminates his figure.

so. he smiles finally. you figured it out, right?

you think for a moment.

the cabin. the ballroom.

the violinist. the lone reflection.

something is wrong. you manage.

that's not incorrect. he jerks his head. and then:

you're dreaming.

eight:

well. you think you'd have noticed that sort of

thing. still, you suppose it makes sense.

okay. you decide. okay, then. you're a figure

of my imagination?

oh, you wound me, he smirks. little sister.

a broken noise comes out of your throat before

you think, and you do not know why.

'i'd remember my older brother,' you want to say,

but instead you swallow, and try to think.

you realize, watching him, he looks at you

with a sort of fondness,

nine:

the sort of fondness that comes from

someone who hasn't

seen you in a while.

ten:

you don't realize you're hyperventilating until

your brother grabs your fingers in his, going over the

breathing exercises he taught you until your heart

stops feeling like it will collapse into itself.

the ballroom has gotten so cold you can see your

breath dispersing into small clouds. but,

you're dead. you whisper.

always the smarter of us two, he agrees.

eleven:

you sit there for awhile, focusing on

steadying your heartbeat. its so obvious

once it is said in words. finally, you look up.

well, why am i dreaming of my dead brother, then?

he looks mildly amused at that. i dunno. do you miss me?

'all the time', you want to answer. but you look around instead,

expecting the ballroom to change. why now? i've never

dreamt about you before. at least, not in years.

he bows his head. you know the answer to that one.

you don't reply, choosing instead to turn and watch

shooting stars flicker across the window.

twelve:

you watch the stars with him for what feels like

eternity. it's not, but it's long enough to make up

for long lost time. you don't say anything at first, he doesn't

either- you're dreaming, what's the point? but at 

some point, he turns to you, with an unreadable expression

on his face. he speaks: so, little sister?

you swallow, and lick dry lips. this isn't real.

a nod. and?

your eyes are unfocused when you turn to him.

i wish it were. and: i want to stay.

but you can't. he says. he waits for an echo.

when you don't reply, he frowns.

thirteen:

but you can't, he says more forcefully. you can't, right?

you shake your head, but he goes on: we're beautiful

little things built to live in the fabrics of reality, not the

deceitful satins of dreams.

always a poet, you think. you were never so good

with words and you end up muttering something

stupid like: it's just hard.

but he just smiles and shrugs: well, that's the

glory of it, is it not?

fourteen:

sometimes it's not glorious. you exhale.

usually it's not, actually. he corrects. i'm dead,

remember?

yeah, i do. you snort. not very glorious of you, actually.

maybe glory isn't the best word for it, then. he taps

his chin absently. have you got a better idea?

i guess not. you say. i'll think on it though.

when you get back? he asks and

a beat. when i get back.

he bows his head. thank you.

fifteen:

you stand there for a second longer, and he

takes that as a signal to leave. but as he

turns away, you grab his hand. will i see you again?

he raises his eyebrow. i'm literally in your head.

you're not sure if that's a yes. then i can conjure you whenever?

he slowly releases his hand. i'm not real, little sister.

you shouldn't.

but: why not?

he smiles again. it's a bit sad. it's not healthy to

cling to echoes of dead brothers, don't you think?

you watch your lone reflection in the marble. i don't

care if it's not real. i want you, even if this you

is a lie. it's a beautiful lie.

sixteen:

he considers this. then, this isn't where you find me.

then where? you demand.

he takes his time answering. in sunrises and art

museums. classic poetry and fireworks. the smell

of citrus and the taste of sourdough. in the glory of living.

in things i loved.

your voice is barely above a whisper: but you're

not there to enjoy those things with me.

he shrugs. not in the way you want me to be. and yet

i'm inexplicably there, aren't i?

you inhale. exhale. in the glory of living.

in the glory of living. he agrees.

seventeen:

you watch the stars for a bit more before

you have to leave. the goodbye isn't with

a kiss or a cry but with a

promise.

(eighteen: 

you wake up sometime in

the blissful crevices of the morning,

restless. getting up from your bed, you

walk through the celebratory decor your family

hung about the house. eventually,

you make your way to his room, cracking open his

door and slipping in. his neatly made bed

has a fine layer of dust over it, but you settle in it

nevertheless.

you do not feel eighteen and

you do not feel older than him and 

older than he will ever be.

the thoughts leave an empty ache

between your shoulders.

you don't feel glorious. and yet,

and yet.

when you wake up the next day,

you ask for sourdough and fireworks

as a birthday gift.)

i cannot fit the whole thing in my bio + authors notes i tried i really did. i guess i still can answer questions from the prose crowd as well

ROSI WILLARD

favorite youtube video: youtube is such a large platform i don't know if i could choose a singular video? i mean i doubt i remember many of the vids from my history (mindless media consumption my beloved) but charlie slimesicle's 'corn' is always a classic. i always watch a ton of fandom related animatic/animation as well so thats a thing

YELLOW SWEATER

how i found my niche: still finding it. but what has personally helped me is just like,,, reading what i like, writing what i like, and getting feedback on that writing? particularly when people go 'i really like x line' or 'your writing is always so x!' because i cannot critique my own artistic ventures if my life depended on it so i'm always like, 'oh cool that worked then'

CHRYSANTHEUMS&INK

process in finding niche: see above haha. still an ongoing process though

what changed the most since the great migration: man that seemed so long ago. idk, wtw just feels a lot less. personal now? still friendly, but (with exceptions ofc) a lot of things seem like the sort of 'we work at the same mcdonalds so we should be courteous of each other' sort of friendly. there is a word for this and i do not remember. also missin' wtw highlights + all the transitioners every day sadge

how i'd describe my writing style: uh idk i cannot look at my own art particularly objectively like i said above. a lot of people tend to use 'raw' to describe it, and i definitetly wouldn't disagree? i have difficulty describing how people (including myself) feel emotions in an eloquent way, so i guess at one point i thought i might as well stop fighting that. im not sure if this counts as style, but i also tend to like (and write well) story-driven poetry? a lot of people write what i would almost be inclined to call one-shots- like snapshots of a little universe, which is more than perfectly fine, but i find myself preferring people doing things or something. maybe cause i come from a background of writing novels, or more precisely, thinking about writing novels.

favorite song: depends on mood. tend to like edm, vgm, jazz, and indie; i'm expanding my taste though! my time by bo en is always a good bet. reminds me a bit of your piece 'decay', maybe if the piece was high and on steroids.

ANNE BLACKWOOD

personality type: entp, also known as NeTi. not a lot of thinkers in wtw ('n poetry in general), i will readily admit (yellow sweater had always struck me as one though their work screams some combination of intuition and thinking), likely because it tends to be an emotionally-driven genre. i guess that Fe needs an outlet somewhere?? theres a reason i publish anonymously though heh

fiction character i identify with: used to kin ness from earthbound in 6th grade. its not particularly relevant to the conversation but i thought i'd say it. besides ocs i project emotional trauma onto, i just tend to like a genre of characters? any character that gets a found family i am now you

WISP

how i came across wtw: don't remember if im being completely honest. probably just saw an ad for one of their contests or something? its possible i saw something about it on ywp nanowrimo.

finding inspiration during writers block: i actually don't read a lot of poetry during writers block? besides scrolling through wtw and all. mostly just consume other forms of media- video games, animation and tv shows, fanfiction if im in the mood. art inspires art, it'll come back to me eventually. i hope.

first thing i ever wanted to be when i grew up: probably a princess or something lol. i also wanted to be a stage magician too, or an astronomer. don't remember which came first.

how i'm so brilliant: bounce your thoughts around in your brain like a dvd logo, when it hits the corner it will form an Idea™. hope this helps <3

Tell me a fun fact!"

"Well, what should I say?"

- I'll admit it right now: I'm not an artist.

- I'll tell you how my hand sculpture broke and since that day my eyes have sat glazed and fixated on the idea of a certain institution that won't accept me without unless I wear a costume made of latex and lies, and

- I'll tell you how I left acting because I realized I couldn't keep up with the character I'd adopted and that I quit music because I realized it's a rich kid's sport I'd never win without real training.

- I'll tell you I'm unintelligent. I'll tell you about the fundamentalism ingrained in me from knowing too many real-life Duggars and Plaths,

- going to church in a place where they told me the world was ending,

- and the folks who just like niceness are directed to burn under the devil's sheets.

            Yes, I fight over misogyny that I've been the one to tell myself.

                I have to remind her, "be decent!"

            Yes, I try so hard to get better but I don't know if I can.

And it all makes her so ashamed, but aware, but if nothing else in about less than a year

                               it'll be a hell of a college essay.

"A ten paragraph statement."

"About anything I choose?"

I am sick of my world not being comfy with me. I am sick of being the outlier. 

The higher education, go on get higher,

go on get higher and I still can't stray from their bodies

that sit on the sidewalk and wait for their next move to come in tongues

with a small side of fries, please.

They beg of Him and him and he.

And the way that one of the three texts makes me scream, the way that I have to

figure out what I'll say to the pastor, "your son is a creep,"

feels like a plea, am I crying for help or for him?

I can't even ask hushedly when

my friends condone a patriarchal society and embrace the males that I once loved

and once loved me enough to do regrettable things, but

"Boys Will Be Boys And He Will Be One Of Them!"

My head will stay down, I won't open my mouth again. I won't try to warn 

my (ex?) very best friend of it and the way that he got in my head. His name even rhymes with a drug.

But the car that I drive out of this place in will run off of stories from women who survived

times in their life

when they weren't sure of anything but desire to up and get the hell comfortable

past the state lines.

             (My car will be red. Red like a crucifix.

                      Red like a bloodied cross,

                           red like a car crash.

              Red like how I imagine my voice sounds when I scream out

      this next phrase. Headphone users afterwards might need hearing aids...)

"Let's review your extracurriculars."

"Can I leave the church without leaving religion?"

Am I going to Heaven or Hell?

                        I've been told I'm going to a socialist camp,

            I've been told I'll be among the first taken to the barracks when martial law kicks in

but they don't ever answer my question.

    God is clear, God is clear, God is clear.

So the fact of the matter is that I may or may not be burning as I stand here anyway,

I ask myself if a thousand years more could make any difference and shudder at the thought that it could.

I am not the change I wish to see in the world. My family is not proud of me.

My friends have all left me, they preferred when I wasn't a hypocrite.

    God is clear, God is clear, God is clear.

I was fun when I condemned feminism and handed over my body to the old men in power.

I was fun when I paraded around in my homemade Donald Trump mask and talked about becoming king of the world.

Those tapes are deleted. Those friends have stopped calling.

And this is a program I don't want to get into, this is not an interview I wanted to have.

I've seen your people and they'd never accept me, 

look at my history for yourself and don't try to put a triangular peg into any other hole than which it belongs in.

    "Riddle me this now, what color is God?"

"Anything else you'd like us to know?"

"I don't think so."

            - Do you ever wonder what I feel like?

People lay me out like it's biology class. They dissect my insecurities and take apart my brain just to see what's wrong with it.

They scour at the discrepancies and things I'm still trying to fix.

            - Some dreams are best left as they are.

Yes, I've dreamed of this moment, of talking to you. I've dreamed of showing off this school's shirt at graduation, of saying "see, I could always fit in, you just wouldn't have me!"

I've dreamed of coming and finding out I was everything like you.

No matter what you might say to deceive me, I see that I'm not.

            - This is not what I want for myself. I deserve something better where I can fall in

and I need somewhere where the people aren't screaming

and I am so sick and tired of being nearly near fake.

And everything I write makes me sound fourteen years old again.

I'm hesitant to use the words broke girl but is that what I am?

The first time it happened, I was thirteen and I watched the votes tally and the church leaders scream

and was the world ending? I don't think I knew

but as I fell asleep, listening to the folks on the phone, as they got quiet and calm and then much later, happy,

                     I said a simple prayer.

God, don't let the world end over something like this.

          Don't let the world end when I still haven't seen it.

That's all it comes down to. This is the end. I need to go to a place where I can fit in.

Where the world feels intact, where I can quietly sit.

Where the world keeps on twirling. Where I too can spin.