If we thought we could do better

Almost everyone does the best they can do at the time. I see this in my own life and when I watch my friends struggle and grow. Some people are so ignorant. They think people are lazy or make excuses. Sometimes that’s true. But believe me, if we thought we could do better—be better—we would. If we thought we could jump higher, we would, we would soar!

If I thought I was a treasure, I would polish myself till I gleamed, and come out of that bottle the most beautiful genie. If they thought they were worth it, my friends would put down their razors and make their beds and sleep for eight hours. If we knew in our hearts that we could achieve something wonderful, we would. But we are afraid. We don’t think it’s true.

Sometimes it’s a struggle to get out of bed, make food, do my homework. So little things don’t seem important. They seem ridiculous.

How can my teacher be angry that I was 2 minutes late? I’m proud I even got to class. 

Someone wants me to sit them at a larger booth.

I have to use the term “folks” instead of “guys” bc it’s more inclusive? Get fucked.

I still care, which is the worst. I care too much about the little things and not enough about the important things. I am a zombie. So please, be considerate and communicative with depressed and anxious people. “It’s not like we can’t handle criticism,” said a friend. “I’m not going to kill myself if you don’t like something I’ve done.”

But please understand that I have a lot going on my mind, often things I haven’t shared.


Pomegranate Bees


for some reason you are gone
I have taken you away from me

I am going to tell you now
how it is to look at a friend
and not see them as they are
but what you are making them.

Cut the pomegranate skin.
Find not the juice-coated seeds
(kernels encased in ruby placenta)

but a world—thousands of bees
bzzz bzz bzzzzzzz
inside the papery combs
that stack,
lead into each other—





Note: This is a first draft. As I was writing, my spark fizzled, and I could not get past the ‘stacks.’ I didn’t want to compromise the poem by forcing wonderment, etc… 

Stream of Consciousness #2

I do not know why I wanted to cry. No. that is not true. I wanted to cry because i asked about his life and he gave me truth. and he did not ask much about me, except occasionally. he talked about his culture and lack of religion. we talked of race and religion and spirituality. i felt like i could sit on his lap and dip down to kiss him while holding his face. but then in his eyes i see genuine feeling mixed with a set professionalism. he does not want me as a close friend. he does not want to dig into my soul and sleep in it, like the little prince on the asteroid. and i want to cry because i do, i do want to tread on his soul and know it. i want to know it. i want to know everyone but i am afraid to let them see me. do i lie? do i only want to know men as a prerequisite to intimacy? if i could only see people’s souls from the inside out, hanging by their side like a heart or a fanny pack or a police baton, i would know them. and then i could decide to love them. and i would not feel bad, like that creeping maggot into your stomach into your heart and wrapping around your veins and i do not know.

I have stopped. am better now. its okay.

Breaking Up With Your Best Friend is Hard



A Platonic Love 

My friend and I were Yin and Yang. Or at least, I thought we were. We would hang out all the time, text or call regularly, and everyone said we were a perfect fit (Chloe+Zoe=Perfect, right?). Unfortunately, our love was not in the stars.

The Signs of Death

I knew we had our differences. I didn’t anticipate them to be such an issue, though. Looking back, we didn’t value the same things or share a similar disposition. I am a very passionate person who puts her family first and admires her elders. She…was not. She’d tell me, “You are too sensitive.” Or she’d say nothing, and act like I had a problem. I’d compliment her constantly. She didn’t even contact me after I had epileptic seizures in August.

The Breaking Point

She insulted my mother. Or at least, my mother felt very insulted, and said she didn’t want to be around  her if she didn’t apologize. I talked to her, she got mad, I asked her to apologize, and she said she might. Then I didn’t hear from her again.

Now What the Hell Do I Do?

Nothing. Make new friends. Delete her number, profiles, etc. It’s over. You had some fun, but if she doesn’t want you…why would you want her?


books on making friends


Need some help breaking up with your friend?

Breaking up with friends, Huffpost edition

WikiHow’s tips to the BFF breakup 

Buzzfeed’s steps to breaking it off with a close friend

A Face Turned Towards the Other Grave

You loved
sitting under the willows in autumn.
Staring at the setting sun,
your eyes like celeste blue clouds,
pupils resembling little angels.
Now your grey eyes are always here,
but never really
Like crows they shift
as your tainted lips curve
up in the lamplight.
And I know its not a smile
but a resignation, a withdrawal.
Those eyes are no longer my angels.

When your father died,
your angel eyes fell to earth and shattered
And the shades of shame
that covered those betraying eyes
now hang limply from your brow.
Day after day I would look for your eyes.
Are they in the pots? On the ledge?
Hidden in the snow?
But they’ve left me this winter.

Yesterday, I buried you
in the spring rain.
No flowers, no procession.
No church or priest.
Just an empty coffin
being lowered to new ground,
your face turned towards
the other grave, waiting for him.
I didn’t mean it, son.
It was an accident.
I was an accident.
I’m sorry, son.

I woke up this morning
to find your name
on my hand.
Just your name.
No message of consolation
or release, no
smile etched into skin.
Just a name—
pressed into my palm,
A few coins where once there was a fountain.

Today, when I was uncovering the mirrors,
I found those eyes.
Put together and bluer than before.
No grey.
They shimmered bright as the sky,
and as I stared into your eyes,
I realized
you were never really gone.