you are an unread map

and I'm starting to feel lost

there are too many rivers for my inexperience

but all I know is my hands are itching to travel them until I'm stranded in the bones of your wrist

your fingers curl around mine like driftwood branches and I'm starting to feel a little less lonely

I wish I could hike over the hills and planes of your back but I'm still finding myself ankle deep in the shallow pools of your collarbones

constellations map across your shoulders and I really want to run my fingers through the wildflowers blooming on your cheeks but I'm still wading my way through the canals in your cheekbones

your eyes are too deep of mahogany for me, like I'm standing in the middle of the redwood forest and I can't seem to find my way out

and here I am holding a half explored map, trying to find myself across the rest of it but I really wouldn't mind getting lost

here's to six summers of growing. Six summers of learning, finding, and creating myself.

here's to the summer of innocence

the summer of not needing to know who I was

here's to the summer of falling —

falling in love, falling apart

the summer I learned a definition for falling that I never learned in 4th grade

here's to the summer of wondering

wondering who I am

wondering if I'm alone

wondering why I feel and why I don't

here's to the summer of finding myself

the summer I learned to love myself

the summer I found myself in the bottom of a cardboard box covered with years of old yearbooks and dust covered regrets

here's to the summer of I love you's

a summer that finally slept

the summer when I discovered even if you don't love yourself someone else will

here's to the summer of I miss you's

a summer of sleepless nights

the summer that taught me what friends are

the summer I found forgiveness doesn't mix with forgetfulness

here's to the summer of now

the summer that leaves tomorrow

the summer I learned not to hide

this was the summer I stood on my own two feet and learned

this was the summer of me

and they tell me —

every summer has its own story

so I wrote my own.

water all your plants 

don't flood them 

some things are better in moderation 

plant your trees in rows

let people help you harvest them

apples taste sweeter hand picked anyway

separate your daisies from your daffodils 

only mix things worth mixing

sometimes it's better to just be yourself 

let the sun shine 

radiate positivity 

it'll help them grow faster

pull the weeds

don't poison them

it's better to just get rid of something instead of destroying it 

If you have to, set it on fire

don't let something toxic destroy your whole garden 

grass grows back greener if you burn it 

let your veins spread 

teach them to climb any wall they come in contact with 

we all need a little growing space 

plant your roses in heartbreak 

and your tulips in sorrow 

I heard challenge promotes growth 

show off your flowers 

don't hide what you've accomplished 

people will want to love your garden

let them. 

I wrote pages in my messy handwriting of our messy love, our tragically, beautiful, love.

I bought numerous pens just to bleed their ink in countless journals filled with all the unerasable words I could never tell you with my tongue. 

My ink stained hands bled red on white, on black words smearing across my thoughts written for you. 

No, maybe I can't show you how much you really mean to me but I can write you poems with the ink dripping from my fingertips because quite frankly, writing is all I can really do. 

but the girl across town could make you feel good when words wouldn't work. 

so I watched from behind the cross of the t in my signature and tripping over the l's in all the love letters I've ever written with your name. I couldn't move. 

trapped, like all the "I love you's" I've written in permanent ink on the white pages of my old journals. 

She has more curves than the s's in the amount of times I've said "sorry". 

I wonder if she can use her hands like I can with love running in my veins can she write better poems with her tongue than I could with twelve dollar pencils?

Can she make you smile bigger than you did when I showed you the first poem I ever wrote you?

I'd ask if she could dance better at midnight than my cursive words by candle light 

but I watch her effortlessly flow around you as I glance down at my thin words that have fallen,

and I don't think they'll ever get back up. 

my mother taught me how to stand up for myself. she taught me how to give speeches to rooms of hundreds with shaking hands, I learned to throw my voice off any wall I stood near. 

she told me eye contact is the best way to speak to someone. you don't need a heartbreaking story when eyes can reach people deeper than words will ever be able to. 

she taught me how to present myself, how to show somebody that I have something to say. my words are just as important as any they'll ever read. 

she told me that if I speak clear enough, stare hard enough, if I throw my words at anyone who is willing to listen, 

I will find somewhere to stand. 

but when I was fourteen she told me not to use my words. she took back every lesson she had taught me about throwing my voice across rooms to reach anyone I could. 

After being told to present myself in a way that demanded attention, I was told to back down, "step back, don't say that." she told me I was using my words wrong. I had chosen the wrong cause to stand for. 

After years of learning the importance of eye contact. I was told to look away. "don't look at them, stop staring." she told me eye contact made me seem defensive. I used to give my words to anyone who would listen, tossing them around in desperation. 

Now I'm saving them, giving them to those who need them, throwing my words like lifeboats to the drowning. 

I found somewhere to speak, and here I am, still standing. 

if Shakespeare had written you, you'd be Juliet 

   with fair features and soft hands, 

this whole world would love you like their own 

Maya Angelou could write you stronger 

   she'd pick you up and set you free 

you've always been a caged bird, and caged birds need to sing

Edgar Allen Poe would write you darker

  he'd give you pale hands and veins so dark they'd be rivers 

   he'd make you a Dream Within a Dream; with blue eyes deeper than his City in the Sea 

if Walt Whitman had written you, you'd be green 

   green with envy, green, like the Leaves of Grass in the sun

   your heart would beat Drum-Taps and your very flesh would be a poem 

Robert Browning would have written you with a whisper of confession 

   he would have written you with love, hope, fear, faith

  you would have been his humanity 

if Natalie Diaz wrote you she'd probably make you wild 

  she'd write you, babydoll eyes and bubble gum cheeks

  you'd be her journal of metaphors and her box of hyperboles

 Robert Frost would have made you burning 

   you'd be fire dipped gold and ice covered isolation 

  a beautiful mix of rock, water, bone

and everything else a mountain is made of 

but you wrote yourself hidden 

   buried yourself in the constellations and drowned yourself in grey moon reflections 

   you wrote yourself simply, when all these poets I've ever studied would have made you a masterpiece 

January is beautiful

She is the creator of dreams and the relief from nightmares

She's pure and silent and all kinds of lovable

February is the smallest sister

She craves red-hearted romance and only wears pink lipstick

She is wild and bold but too in love with everything to ever have any control

March is the golden child

He has warm hands and an even warmer heart

He is nighttime baseball games and the morning coffee maker

Doing everything and anything to make his mother happy

April is colorful

She has fire red hair and garden green eyes

She is a flower bed all on her own and she knows her mother's favorite flowers are daisies

May loves sharing

She hides in green trees and swings hand in hand with June

Her best friend is April and together they grow gardens

June is needy

She wants everything she can get her hands on and doesn't stop until she gets it

She is messy and restless and has drifted so far from sleep she's forgotten how

July had too much going on

He is loud and busy and his temper sometimes gets out of hand

But he is adventurous and determined and nothing will stop him from living

August is the procrastinator

He is always busy but never busy enough to get anything done

He is trapped between wanting something and being too comfortable to go get it

September is kind

He is cold fingers and warm eyes

He walks hand in hand with August, a graceful mix of cold hands and warm souls

October is the dark child

She is fierce stares with ice blue eyes

She is yet timid but bold like chilly breezes, she only whispers

November gives warmth

She is pale skin and auburn hair

She may be cold to the touch but she will bring you cider and pumpkin pie just to see you smile

December is happy

He brings relief and good vibes with small hands

His rosy cheeks and small smiles will rid your troubles and help you move on

This family is a little bit of too much

Kindness and warmth mixed with icy stares and bitterness

This family is some beautiful and some loud, a little quiet and a little wild

This family is twelve friends with the same last name

This family is built on dreams and aspirations

All things good and high expectations

This family will embrace us and tell us it's okay

This family will pass us from cold hands to warm hands and we will learn to love them each on their own

And that is why they are a family.