Things I learnt in May as advice for the signs.

: Be the person you needed when you were thirteen and sobbing into your pillow. The kinda person you’d like even when the lights are off and the world has stopped watching. 

: You can’t run away from everything. I wish we could. But trouble has a funny way of catching up to you. And if you pretend your problems don’t exist, the answers won’t either. It’s time to face the music. 

: Don’t stop dreamin, darlin’. Construct us a better world. Be the purest daydreamer there is. Lord knows we ain’t got to many of those anymore. 

: You want a clear ending. Something you can look at and say, “there’s nothing I could’ve done”. But you need to understand, you won’t usually get those. Sometimes you’ll just get sadness and silence and doors slammed in your face. Learn to create your own closure. 

: I know it’s his birthday and you can not just ignore that exploding feeling in your stomach, but you’re going to have to. I know it’s hard, but I swear it won’t be there this time next year. The months will fly by like paper planes and love will come again. 

: Stop looking back; some things are better off buried. They say only dogs go looking for bones and hell, maybe they’re right. But I promise, the future holds prettier skies and sweeter memories. 

: Forgive yourself for your mistakes. You keep hanging your self on a cross, but baby, nobody deserves that kind of ache. You paid for your sins. Now let go. This is how we grow. 

: Listen, I know you’re scared of all the places you’ve never been before, but you have to explore. Maybe you’ll find a place that you can actually call home.

: Put yourself first. Hold your own damn hands. Make your own altars. If no one is around to say “I love you, baby”, say it yourself. 

: Lately, the world seems like a horrible place and you can almost feel the sky come crashing down around you, but I just want you to know that there is always hope. You just have to know where to look for it.

: Spend time with people who make you feel alive. People who remind you what your laugh sounds like every time you’re with them. People who love with ease. There’s no time for anything less. 

: Not all of us are destined to go to the moon. Some of us are the reasons people get there. Others are the reasons spacemen come back. We all fit in. You are important and please don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. 

[Part 5/12 of the 2016 Series]



Dear April,
You were so good to me. You were all blush and adrenaline rush.

Dear April, 
You hurt me bad. Such a dirty fighter; always kicking me when I was already on my knees.

Dear April,
On the first day, you were sitting on the kitchen counter sipping tea like you knew stories I didn’t. Now that we’re done, the mystery’s gone and I don’t know how I feel about you anymore.

Dear April,
You showed me that rebellion could be soft. That music could be violent. You taught me how to write like I had never had my heart broken. You gave back what December had taken. Thank you for that.

Dear April,
I heard that NASA found a galaxy so small that if you were to stand on the surface of a planet in that galaxy, the night sky would be lit up with a million stars, each of them visible to the naked eye. This month all I do is wish I could there. Which is to say, I think the world looks better when it is ablaze.

Dear April, 
I see you as a little girl running through the rose gardens and losing yourself in the petals, but still remembering the prick of the thorns.

Dear April,
What do I do with all his secrets? All the things he said to me when he was clenching his teeth? The words that fell out of his mouth and searched for asylum in my ribs? The things he said when his chest was heaving and his heart was crumbling? Tell me, April, what do I do?

Dear April, 
It’s exactly one year today. The anniversary of our ruin. The anniversary of the violets and the violence. Maybe someday I’ll say I’m happy for him and actually mean it. Maybe one day he’ll say he forgives me for all the dents I left on his heart. Maybe our someday is already here.

Dear April,
My summer’s like simpler times. Summer like rolling down the fields with flowers in my hair. Summer like mango juice dripping down my chin. Summer like ain’t got no shoes, ain’t got no worries, ain’t got no blues.

Dear April, 
All this forgiving is exhausting. I wish people would just be more gentle. 

Dear April, 
I want to say this is a love poem. I want to say I’ll never forget you. I want to say your name will be tattooed onto the back of my mind. But if we’re being honest, it probably won’t. You were my joyride, but it’s time I get off. 

[Part 4/12 of the 2016 Series]


Final Examination Paper, February, 2016. 

Explain the way you look at the pink February skies in 100-150 words. Talk about why you think it’s colour of your guardian angel’s soft, soft wings. Talk about how the rain drops tasted a little like candy cane. Give examples of that time you ran down your apartment slope laughing like you had riots in your lungs. Write a brief note on how your neighbours scowled but you didn’t even stop laughing.

Construct a Venn diagram of all the things that you love about her and everything that makes you have revenge fantasies about her. Show that it is a circle. Try to explain to the examiner why you ever believed that one tangled bunch of thorns could somehow soften another. 

How will you justify your late night texts?
A) Blame the night.
See, maybe it will always take me a full moon to say your name and not make it sound like a battle wound. This night sky makes me remember the way you kissed me goodnight, and the way you left blood between my constellation teeth. I’m not sure which is worse.
B) Blame yourself
. See, I was the fool. My love has always had teeth and I’m sorry I let it devour your heart. Please, I can learn to love on a leash. Please, I can tame this wild heart. 
C) Blame him
. See, you were looking at that picture of him on his Instagram and god, it makes you want to reach through your screen and hold him again. If it weren’t for that pretty little smile of his, your words wouldn’t be bleeding through his phone right now.
D) All of the above
. You always thought February was a mystical month. The odd one. February always had a cloud of mist around it. You still see it as half month; half real, half dream. 

February is the month your best friend decides to come home to herself. See she’s dusting all the covers and smoothing all the wooden edges. Why doesn’t anyone else understand that your best friend bleeds ichor, and while it’s chrome is brighter than orion’s eyes, you’d rather she not bleed at all? 

How many times have you replaced your emotions with equations? How many times have you replaced your feelings for formulae? Is the answer too many? Are you nodding?

Describe your grandfather. Recall the time he showed you his bullet wound and laughed like it was a dandelion seed tickling his skin. Wonder if you should mention the time you caught him staring at the blackhole in his knee and despising it for taking everything away.
Describe the way you miss him. You found out at 4 am. You tried convincing yourself it was a nightmare. You tried so hard to go back to sleep but when you finally did you cried so damn hard you woke your sister up. You will miss him in the smell of pumpkin seeds and in the warmth of the sun and while looking at your toes that always looked a little too much like his. 

In February, the girl asks you if your poems are paper poems or spoken poems. You say neither. You say mine are handprints on wet paint. Mine are footprints in wet cement. You say your poetry is neither a fleeting word nor a paper plane that can fly away. You say your poetry is concrete, constant, complete. Do you believe yourself?

Write a letter to everyone you are leaving behind, or the other way around, or both. (Keywords- Our flame will not be smothered. We are a runway that never ends. We are royalty, my loves, and this will not be the end of our reign.)

This is the month you realise you will be okay. True or false? 

[A/N- Part 2/12 of 2016 series]


January screams fight.

This one is revival. This one is my winter sunrise. This is me gritting my teeth and stomping my feet. I will rip the ground, and rise. The curtains are drawn and the light is breaking through. Repeat after me, I am going to dance; dream; dive. Repeat after me, I am fierce; fast; free. Repeat after me, this is rebirth; revelation; revolution.

January sent love.

You turned my body into a burning building and I never even thought of leaving. I build a home out of the flames and slept amongst the smoke. So when a boy with forests for eyes, offers me his heart as fire blanket, I do not take it. You had matchsticks for fingers and I still crave the slow burn of my skin when you touched me. I do not want anyone to choke on the ashes of our love. I do not want anyone to burn with me.

January meant nostalgia

Some names sound like words my tongue has forgotten how to pronounce and I am still learning how to deal with that. This month I play archeologist. I dig up old letters, old messages, old photographs. Excavation has me holding on to the past in the dust of fading memories. I am left crying in the middle of my own dirt storm. I went looking for gold, but all I found were bones. 

January brings death.

Death is no longer some mysterious hooded figure when I meet him for the third time. He laughs and it sounds like he is swallowing the words left unsaid. He eclipses the light, and leaves no apologies. I am tired of watching him run into people in my school hallways. I wonder if he is tired of it too. 

January was answers

It was understanding that sometimes, you kiss your mother with the mouth that bites. Sometimes, i hold my sister with skin that wants to burn. Sometimes, sometimes, we build cathedrals out of hands that crave ruin. But I promise you, darling. You are not nearly as monstrous as you think you are. 
[A/N- Part 1/12 of the 2016 series. ]

“Let’s be royals for the night.”

They call us the generation of fuck ups. The kids that are all parts messy and none careful. The children that’ll go down as nothing but plastic in a history of gold. They said we’d never be royals. And we almost believed them.

See, we’re the kids who grew up in the aftermath of two wars. We’re the kids with iron for fists and duct-taped mouths. We never needed to be taught how to fight, we already knew it. We built an empire from everything we touched and sit on thrones made from dust. We drink cheap wine and wear cheaper perfume; we’ll leave both on the clothes of someone we won’t remember come morning. We are the people making drunk phone calls from gas station pay phones, and we are the strangers giving them the quarters to make the drunk calls. We rule with a tongue that doesn’t forget anything but you still crown us with the words we do not remember saying. We played hopscotch in liquor store parking lots and sang along to police sirens. We kiss the asphalt beneath our feet with magma on our tongues; we don’t care if we burn our only path. We traded in our robes for little lace dresses, and we traded in our heels for shoes that light up when the moon’s too sad to come out. 

We’ve got 4.0 GPA’s with baggy eyes, we’ve got pretty smiling lips with broken teeth behind them, we’ve got castles, but not homes. We leave our glass hearts behind and hope that person who finds it, won’t shatter it. We slow dance under the flickering lights and leave bloodstains on velvet floors. We eat too little or eat too much. We’re all grease and gluttony, or all starvation and emptiness. It doesn’t matter if we’re at a house party with everyone from school or home alone, we still feel lonely. These teen hands have seen more than they can take, and somedays they shake so much we think they need casts. We’ve got monarch butterflies in our stomachs, baby, and maybe we can call ourselves nobles at last. We’re the girls with red lipstick on our teeth and boys with wildfire eyes. We’re reckless and clumsy. But goddamn, we’re brave. We’re the girls who’ll stop running from an axe murderer to pick another girl off the floor, we’re the girls who’ll take care of each other, we’re the girls with hearts like hearths. We’re the boys who’ll cry on each other’s shoulders, we’re the boys who’ll stop fighting if a kitten came in the way, we’re the boys who’ll love like honey.

We are the generation of fuck ups. But we’re also the kids who are all home runs and wild flowers and eternal stars. We are the generation who never got to make our own mistakes because we were too busy learning from another’s.  We are the generation walking on the tightrope, one fall and we lose it all. 

Long live the kings and queens of infinite hearts and broken parts.

Long may we reign.