Ceramic Dreams

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My skin is porcelain, ceramic dreams draped in white that find themselves hanging from my back weighing in on my spine and a pool of downward spiraling self-confidence glued under my eyes/dark circles personified.

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Eighteen Years Old (There’s Still A Lot I Don’t Know)

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I’m eighteen years old and there are things that I feel like I know more than anyone ever could, like how much the color yellow infuriates me and how I can never get tired of my mother’s voice, my friends are the closest I’ve ever had to a home and my father’s temper is almost as understandable as the Rubik’s Cube on my bedroom floor that I never could learn to solve. Continue reading

I Built A Home Between Airplane Rides Across The World

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By the age of thirteen I had been in six different schools, staying in each for up to three years at the most. It wasn’t because I was bullied or because I couldn’t make any friends but it was rather because my family just moved around a lot. Along with every school that changed so did the house we lived in and the street I had grown familiar to or the neighbors that were always nice. Continue reading

Ink

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Boys with lungs collapsed and egos bruised, if you love her then you are lucky because the girls like to ride their bikes down paths carved in childhood scars, picture perfect smiles framed on walls melted like crayon wax in colors that stuck to the wallpaper of her bedroom. Had paper thin dreams that she learned would blow away with the wind in her chest someday. She often folds into herself until salty tears spill like waterfalls carved in her cheekbones. And if you dream about her than you are lucky. Because most of us lost her before she even waved, hello. She walks in fear of leaving behind footprints and if you love her than you are lucky. Because most of us are too drowned out to believe that she’s still got the fire in her heels. Paper dreams ablaze, she brings them back to life. So if you love her, I hope you know that you are lucky.-H

The Weight Of My Youth

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Wrap me up in polythene plastic. Saran wrap around my lungs, and I do this to myself too often.
Build cages of fractured bones and punctured skin, music to my ears the flattening of thoughts that burn up in my head. I could let my youth take the blame, the hollow timeframe of adolescence carrying the weight of every reckless choice I had made. From fifteen to eighteen, regret built a home inside my skull, a parasite I could not rid my body off. I’m still trying, trying to fight it.

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