What do you say when someone dies?

When the supermarket flowers aren’t enough.

And the food I bring begins to grow old,

Placed on a table, buried by piles of stuff.

I could buy a million roses,

But in a week, they would have died.

They might crumble in your hand,

and they won’t fill the void inside.

I know that the calendar won’t change months,

And the clock will freeze in time,

And the bells will softly taunt you,

when they begin to chime.

So I stand upon your doorstep,

But my hands refuse to knock.

I usually know exactly what to say,

But now, I’m afraid to talk.

I look to the heavens as if they’ll answer,

Today, the sky is more gray than blue,

And I whisper to whoever is listening,

“He cries every time he thinks of you.”

I wish we could fill your hollow bones,

With food, flowers and some dessert.

But you already seem too heavy,

In your eyes, I see all of your hurt.

I guess this is part of life,

I’ll be honest, we don’t know what to do

So I’ll just silently stand here by your side,

I’ll always be waiting here for you.

I’ve always said life moves fast, but,

Buying these roses today was never planned.

And now I’m standing at your door,

Staring at the supermarket flowers in my hand.

This will not be like my other posts, this one will lack poise and refinement, but it will be as raw and real as anything I have ever written. The morning is cloudy, it's just rained, but the clouds linger over us. So, what's special about this morning? Nothing. I had plans to go out with a friend, a friend who won't reply. My dad asked me, "How's college? How are your friends?" and all I could ask is "What friends?". My adventures are always alone, but my deepest secret is that I want a group of friends in college more than I could ever imagine. The last few weeks have been a steady stream of people ditching me for something better, reinforcing the notion that I will always be 2nd in someone's life, even if they come first for me.

The only good group of friends I have is scattered across the country, weekly facetime calls are the only thing that reminds us that home is made of people, not a place. And under the veil of my online identity, I will tell you my biggest secret. Last week, one of my friends asked us, "If you could be granted one wish, right now, what would it be?", and that was the first time I've ever lied to my friends. We laughed, more happiness, more freedom, maybe some Taco Bell, we joked. But here it is, here is what I wanted to wish for, so horrible that I haven't even been able to say it out loud.

I wished everyone would forget me. I wished that no one would feel pain if I left. I've wanted to run, disappear, leave, drown, and the harshest one of all, I once wanted to leave this earth. But there is a thought in my head, that the people who really love me, might feel a irreversible pain. It's like a safety net, and they will never know how deeply, they are the only thing tethering me to this world. But, by god, sometimes I wish that no one knew me, so it would hurt them when my feet break out into a run and I disappear.

It's a horrible thing, I know, but I can only be lonely for so long. I'm sure it doesn't feel like the end of the world to you, but to me, I think that the world would keep spinning and it wouldn't make a difference. The only thing that stops me from just disappearing is that it might cause more pain than my freedom is worth. Will this be my life? Adventuring alone and telling myself that I like it better than being with people? What is it that makes me want to run away? I'm looking for something different out of life and people my age aren't seeking the same things. I can't pretend the alcohol makes me feel full, it only leaves me feeling empty. I can't cope the way they do. Because if I do, and I reach the bottom of the bottle, it'll be as empty as I feel.

I'm sorry, if you are reading this, I am sorry. I am sorry for the tears that are falling from my eyes and I am sorry for the pain I feel. I know you don't have to be reading this, but my god, I appreciate it. It means the world and more to me. This is my safe space. This will be the secret I take to the grave. It's a cloudy morning, and I still can't see the sun in the sky.

I think parts of me are different ages, you could tear me apart, limb by limb, and you would be able to never guess how the parts of me belong to each other. I am a paradox by my very existence. I am old and new at the same time. My fingers are old, they hold the earth like they have felt its waters a million times over. They drum along to old songs from the '80s, the '40s, and the '20s, then to hymns that were first sung thousands of years ago. They touch the ivory keys on a piano with the same fervor and curiosity that Mozart and Beethoven had. My hands are the oldest in the way they hold a paintbrush, only wanting to capture raw human emotion as softly as possible.

Yet my eyes are young, they have life and light in them. Yes, they show the heaviness of my pain but do not mistake that for a faded spirit. The youth in my eyes is only filled with possibilities. I look up at the stars and the universe with the same astonishment and child-like awe that you can see in cracks through the professional facade of astronomers when they send satellites into deep space. My eyes will show you all the things that you can be and everything you have ever wanted to be.

Just like that, I am made up of different pieces. My feet are old, they have walked this earth hundreds of times before and they are no strangers to the soil. I can walk anywhere, however long it takes me, I have no objections. My smile is that of a 19 year old, forever on the edge of adulthood but still standing in adolescence. I will hug you like I am 78, and this may be the last time. I will hold your hand like I am 2 and you are all I know and have in this world. I will love you in multiple ways. I will love you like the 8-year-old who needs her father's hand to jump across a river, and I will love you like we are 15 and have never known hurt before. I will love you like I am 18 and see the rest of my life with you. I will love you like I am 29, creating our life together. I will love you like I am 35, where, in the mess of life and chaos, I still choose you. I will love you like I am 50, still in love with your smile and the glitter in your eyes. I will love you like I am 83 and not even death can pull us apart. I will love you in all these ways, all at once.

I have no fear of turning 20, or 30, or 50, or 80 and I especially, have no fear of meeting death. For my soul is without age, it floats and it dances. It belongs to futuristic dreamers and impressionist painters. It reads the articles of tomorrow and falls in love with the classics of yesterday. My soul is not a diamond to be valued, it is simply beautiful because it is. I could guess my age in every mirror, but each time I would see something different. In one, I would see my mother's face, and in another, I will see my younger sister. My face, my features, and my aura were generations in the making and will be seen for generations to come. My eyes are hundreds of generations old, and my nose will be there for generations to come. You have seen me before and you will see me again.

I suppose I couldn't say how old I am, just that I am of this earth and in the most earth-shattering and unnerving way, I am human.

I watch the butterflies dance around the oak tree,

Fluttering in and out, with the breath of the breeze.

But if I am silent enough, If the blood stops rushing,

I can feel wind from its wings, like waves in seas.

Let it be silent, in always reminding me,

That the leaves will fall, and I am like the tree.

The flowers are long gone, now I bear fruit.

And as the branches empty, my heart follows suit.

I think back to climbing trees, my knees always scraped

but my hands became strong, holding roses and thorns.

Soon, the butterflies stop dancing, they land one last time,

Falling like leaves, but the tree never mourns.

I suppose it knows, what we would all find out.

That butterflies will be born again, it does not doubt.

But I will sit, in the dead of winter,

And long to feel the tree, this ache much like a splinter.

A dim sun rises, over mountains made of mist,

And we became cold in the rain and dark in our towers.

Until the days become long, they whisper to me,

That the butterflies are dancing again, and I finally have flowers.

I met a boy who said he lived in an old house.

Later I learned that his parents cared for a historic home.

Shrouded by autumn leaves from Virginian trees.

I wondered if, in the shadows, he'd ever seen the spirits roam.

I still think about him, that small boy,

running through old hallways and crashing into fragile walls.

His laugh bouncing off dead wood and skeletons of childhood.

Him and a shadow, the light never makes it to the end of the halls.

He wrote stories about old families and kids who were once there.

"it makes me feel less alone," he told me, under a dying oak tree.

Perhaps they became friends, he kept the roses, they kept the stems.

but I was scared of the ghosts, they stirred inside and tried to flee.

I told him once, that his house was haunted.

It always felt like someone had already stepped into my footprint.

Maybe that's why the carpets were deep red and he pulled at the thread.

Its history was filled with things we could have said but didn't.

He said, during raging thunderstorms at night,

he would hide in the closet, so I asked "were you scared to be alone?"

But the little girl with whom he'd hide would sit at his side.

Flashes of light came through the creaks, softly filling his bones.

Years later, I thought that Virginia, warm and historic,

would always remain haunted, by the dead and alive.

Some things echo on the floors and others create locked doors.

I could see the ghosts in his eyes even when we were five.

Once, he dreamt that the house swallowed him whole,

so he ran to my bedroom window, his face pale and flushed.

I held the window open but I felt that something was broken,

he told me stories about the family, his whispers hushed.

Then he closed the window, and ran back to the historic house,

I think he never really found the house to be his own.

Living in other people's shoes his feet became bruised,

Maybe he was scarred by the history that was never shown.

you know, I have to live this life. I have to live it. I have to. I have to live it so much and so intensely, that it breaks my heart. I have this ache in my heart, and it sits there, every moment, getting deeper, bigger, darker. I need to live this life the way that my heartbeat feels in my chest, echoing into every hollow end of me. I want a story to tell, I want the wind to tell me 'you are alive' every time it kisses my face.

I am alive.

I am alive.

I am alive.

This moment to the next. I think, even if I hold my sadness in my eyes, and the knives in my chest, I also hold happiness in my soul and healing scars on my back. I am made up of losses, but I am also made up of victories. The scars on my skin and the hurt in my eyes are moments that prove that I am living. They are the stories I can not bear to write and the things I can not cry about.

My life was meant to be lived, and that it is, unconditionally and unforgivingly. Here's to my mistakes, the moments of intense pain, where the world seems to rip open. Here's to my head, heavy in doubt but carrying the wonder in my eyes. Here's to the many lives I've lived, the way they flow in and out of each other, and with every breath, only to say, you are alive.

you know, I've played the graceful warrior,

time and time again.

only to be reduced to fallen ashes,

and the whispers of my pen.

but as the clock slowly ticks away,

and I feel it fast within my heart,

we're playing on the chessboard of life,

but I long to have a different part.

maybe this time, I'll get to be the one,

and things will finally work out.

I won't be fighting until my hands turn blue,

and my heart won't feel like a drought.

Today, I put my mask on, but tonight-

tonight, as the sun rapidly falls,

I'll watch as my eyes slip into longing,

listening to my heart's lonely calls.

I wonder how it must feel,

to be just the princess in the castle.

because even when I am her,

I can never leave behind the hassle.

can I find a piece of this complex world?

that'll fit into my painted curves.

to remind me that I belonged once before.

bleeding electricity into my nerves.

will I ever get the sand out of my lungs?

before the time runs out.

or should I break the glass, to feel the air,

is that what life is about?

I guess I don't want to have to break the glass,

I wish the sand wasn't there at all,

for the obstacles, they keep coming,

but I won't read the writing on the wall.

So I see my eyes, the way they painfully slip,

and I falter, dolefully, on my exhale.

Is it too much? I softly whisper,

To only myself: "I wish I had the fairytale”

the city, it sparkles from decadent dreams

built by the dreamers, tearing at the seams.

and if we’re all falling,

I missed it all, darling.

I had my eyes shut from the start.

sometimes i hear it calling,

the whispers, so enthralling.

it feels like I’ve been shot through the heart.

i suppose in some ways, we match,

my heart’s a concrete jungle too,

and when we step onto the sidewalk

the rain paints us both blue.

but the other day, from a massive crack

a white rose emerged,

waving in the wind, a quiet surrender,

like a yellow wood diverged.

my god, it came from a shadow, and it lit up like the sun.

Promising a warmer world, for the night was almost done.

So maybe thats how we heal,

chasing the pain until it feels real.

a harrowing feeling of being grown up.

trapped by the thoughts that I feel,

growing roses from the deal

of the very thorns that tore us up.

So how about we pretend we’re not so cold,

and widen the endless cracks?

so that someday, the roses may grow,

from the deepest scars in our backs.

and maybe then we won’t feel so empty,

or hollow in our most vivid dreams.

may the roses block the dizzying city lights

to show everything is not as it seems.

I wore your crown, didnt I?

the thorns embedded in my head.

and I smiled like a homecoming queen,

as my tears painted me red.

I became some fantasized dream,

of what it meant to be alive.

but the narrative written in ink,

it was all a treacherous lie.

heavy is the head,

that wears the crown.

yet worn are my shoulders,

from the fears that hold me down.

why didn’t you tell me?

that the world would cut me up.

before I sat in my satin dress

crying and torn by the world I made up.

What would happen, to my little world

if I traded my crown for a flower?

and I petaled the dress away,

upon the stroke of the midnight hour.

Maybe I’m not always golden,

or radiating light from within.

perhaps I’m a mirrorball,

reflecting the world as i spin.

for all my shades of red,

and my raging hues of blue,

the times I let my heart turn purple,

just to fit the colors of you.

i hope you see me in echos of rose,

and doused in pastel green.

and in my chocolate beaten eyes,

i hope you understand the world I’ve seen.

I was set upon your precipice,

always destined to fall,

maybe you never knew, but

I never wanted the crown at all.

so what happens if I take it off?

can I be a queen with out my crown?

I wonder, will I still be me

if I release it in the water and let it drown?

there have been guys before you,

who’ve danced sweelty in my head.

The ones who never understood me,

And never noticed how I bled.

I held the pieces of their hearts

yet they were never able to hold my soul.

and I fixed their open wounds

but they never made me whole.

you see, the guys before you,

I loved them, intensly, like a child.

and just like I did with you,

I fell in love with the way they smiled.

The thing is, I thought I loved them

as if I had never known love before.

but in hindsight, I wonder if i ever did.

or if they were just so easy to fall for.

With you, I suppose it feels so different.

as if loving you is like breathing.

If I never had faith in the universe before

then seeing you was like believing.

Yet once upon a time,

I was wrong about them too.

but I hope there will never come a time,

when I realize I didn’t love you.