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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World Mental Health Day/ A Poem

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We’re holding on as tightly as we can.
Fingers gripping on to feeble articles of meaning,
Trying to ground ourselves within this mess of this spinning globe we call The Earth. Continue reading

Stepping Stones

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He liked to chew bubblegum, kept it underneath his tongue, he said it made him feel grounded. More in control. Scrunched up poetry in messy handwriting strewn across pages in white he would hold them in his palm before it melted into a fist and it was almost like the words were written to be washed away. Continue reading

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