Convincing Myself

I'm small

And thin

And fragile

Again

But my heart beats

Ten times stronger

Now

Dear Future Husband

Dear future husband,
I’m so sorry I’ve been so messed up lately, Whoever you are, I hope you’re as understanding as our Lord, because I am an absolute mess. You’ll figure this out, but I am 100% a creature of habit. I live for routine. And being with someone for one year isn’t going to mean very much when we’ll have been together for our whole lives... But it’s strange. This is very hard for me. This whole pleasing everybody when I’m not even sure what would make me happy. I’m not even sure what I want. I’m glad you’re out there, or in here, or wherever, probably struggling with the same kinds of things as me. Anyway, I’m sorry for being like this right now. And you probably don’t need an apology, but I can’t help it. You are going to be so amazing and loving and caring and full of life and love and happiness and hope and joy and peace and most importantly, you will be so full of Jesus. You will help me learn and grow and thrive in Christ, and I can’t wait to know you and love you as best as a wife can, and I can’t wait, but I will, to live and grow in Christ with you. I already love you so much.

The Best Policy

Humbling yourself isn't thinking less of yourself, but of yourself less.

love one year passed

It comes suddenly, out of nowhere, knocking you off your feet.

But it also comes slowly, softly, growing and whispering in your hands.

A sort of contradicting harmony.

A lovely confusion.

A blurring of stark white lines.

The sweetest of strawberries on the hottest of days.

Exactly what you needed, but what you never knew to ask for.

Outside

I forgot my keys when I went to my first class today, and I didn't realize until just now. I'm stuck out here until 11, when my next class starts. I'm sitting on this bench outside my dorm and the air smells like grass. It's warm but not hot. There's a breeze, but it's not windy. It's nice. I'm wearing jeans and a tshirt and my dirty old converse. I feel clean. I feel myself. I'm actually not stuck out here. I'm glad I didn't just go up to my room and watch netflix to waste time. I'm glad I can barely hear the birds muffled by a lawn mower cleaning up the quad. I'm glad I've smiled at about fifteen dogs in a span of three minutes. I'm glad my hair is down. I'm glad I'm alone right now. I feel present. I'm surrounded by bicycles and barks and beautiful shades of green and brick red. This place is intimate. I am whole here. I knew I was forgetting something when I left this morning, now I'm glad I did.

Hey

Dear Myself,
Hey, I know you're trying really hard right now to be you, and you're doing a great job.
But I'll be right back.

Here I, An Adaptation

here I made my first best friend.
But here I made my first friend with whom I still speak.
Here I sat in a desk and wrote and wrote and wrote.
Here we played COD and ate skittles until midnight
when you turned thirteen.
Here we jumped into the freezing lake and
here I was finally old enough to take him out on the jet ski, Nate & Kate.
Here I made my first paycheck and made my first "people skills."
Here I spent all my summer savings because I was too young to know
what money means at eighteen.
Here I broke my nose and you busted your head and we played four square and
cops and robbers and you taught me how to shoot a basketball and
how to get payback for pushing me in the pool,
but that's a different story.
Here I learned the definition of drama, and here I still return. It's fun.
Here I have traveled and sang and kissed and cried and nearly died several times.
Here I stayed two months out of my whole life until
Here I feel safe.
Here I will be in less than six months and
here I will live and write a whole 'nother poem like this.

The Spoken Word

Poetry
Words on paper
Ink on prose
Ink on a canvas
a Painting
not paint but lead
not images but Imagery
not seeing but
Feeling
Feelings
Spilled out on lines or
an empty space
filled up with
Words
wind, whistles, worthless
stories
striving
standing and expressing
every thought that flows from your mind
through your pen
and creates a
story
a story
full of love and life and loss
and Reality
Real people
Real happenings
What's happening?
to the written
word.
words
writing written for rights and
wrongs
twirl your medium on
an empty space and draw
with vocabulary and metaphors
instead of shapes and colors.
Sing your story or
yell from yearning
just
get
it
down
and out.

A Friday in April

Sunshine and new pencils,
your hair feels clean and healthy.
Blue skies and blue jeans,
your blue eyes hold worlds within them.
Fluffy clouds and a bright smile,
laughter infiltrates the warm air.
Fresh tulips and pink lip gloss,
a soft kiss placed on your rosy cheek.
These are the days we live for,
the days filled with comfort and familiarity and sweetness and color.
Seeing the world one day, one minute at a time through the two green frames of your glasses is simple and smile-inducing.
Feel the warm rays cut through the cool breeze and caress your skin to bring out the strategically placed freckles spotting the bridge of your nose and your forearms and everywhere else.
With a nude colored journal and a yellow pen,
under a big, motherly tree a sweet, sweet tune lulls you to rest.

forever is scary for a lot of reasons

I was fourteen years old, completely innocent and lost and struggling.

I was in a dark place literally; emotionally and physically. I still am sometimes.

Chronic means never going away, it means always, it means "sorry honey, there is nothing you can do about this for the rest of your life."

I am not my favorite subject to write about. My illness is not my favorite topic. But it's easy for me, all the things I dare not talk about easily flow from my pen.

I'm having a hard time writing today. I keep forgetting that this is a journal, not a final draft.

In some ways, I try to find the beauty in my defective colon and my body that hates itself.

And my in some ways, I mean that just now, I am trying very hard to find the beauty.

The beauty and uniqueness, not the tragedy or romanticization of it all. I'm looking for the practicality in it, the okayness in the words "forever" and "sick." I think the beauty and saving grace don't lie in the illness itself, but in remission. Remission and hope and normalcy, all foreign words any chronic disease sufferer longs for.

And I hate that this comfortably ends in a preposition.