Finding Paris

I wish I could have gone to Paris this year. I watched from afar, though, and that's good enough for now. I'll be there for real someday. Soon, I hope.

But even though I wasn't all the way there, Paris still taught me. It taught me that beauty can be found wherever you care enough to look, and that I feel alive when I realize that just maybe I am beautiful, too. 

I learned that being in love is not always a good thing and that all the darkness in the world can be forgotten by just one ray of light. 

In Paris I wandered into places of death and even though I wanted to leave, I stayed because the death reminded me of the value of life. Your life and my life and his life and her life and our life. 

I found out that growing up isn't as glamorous as I was told it was, because when you don't know what comes next, it's really hard to be happy about it.

I realized that drowning in my tears never got me anywhere and that silence isn't always golden but it is precious.

I discovered that the words 'I love you' are the most powerful words ever spoken, along with 'goodbye' and 'thank you.' I learned that I'm not alone even when it feels like I am because Paris is full of people like me who just want to be seen and heard and known.

Paris showed me that poetry can hurt without trying and the scars on my heart are so much more painful than the ones I keep finding on my arms. 

In Paris I watched the rain from the balcony. I thought it was beautiful. And then decided that I'd rather go stand in it, dance in it, shout my spirit to the world in it, and I did and was much happier.

I tried running away from everything that made me feel uncomfortable until I noticed that all my time was spent running. I didn't like that much, but it's hard to face your fears head on and sometimes it hurts, too.

I determined that I would remember the memories and savor the moments because they pass too quickly and are too easy to forget. The memories I miss the most are the ones I've forgotten.

And Paris revealed to me that everyone's Paris is just a little bit different, but everyone has one even if they don't always realize it. Don't miss out. The sun is setting in Paris, but you and me are destined, not to be revered, or to be powerful, but simply to be. Because the sun will rise again.

This Is Not A Love Poem

I thought we'd have more time. I thought if I just played the music it would become real. I thought if I ignored the pain it would go away. I thought so many things but I was wrong and now I can't sleep because of the words flashing through my head.

I hope I didn't annoy you and that you didn't think me too forward. Sometimes I think about the things I said to you and I wish I could disappear. You were always the one around to catch me talking to myself, and at first I didn't mind but now I do. I guess I was never meant for you anyway. 

Really I'm just confused. People told me white looked good on me, so I wore white. And the world said I should wear my heart on my sleeve, because after all, everyone else is doing it and I want to fit in... right? So I wore my heart on my sleeve, but it started bleeding where everyone could see it. That's the problem with these white shirts, I can't hide the bloodstains. That's why we wear black at funerals, you know. So you can't see our hearts bleeding as they break...

But I'm not talking about funerals, I'm talking about you, and halfway through this poem I realized I'm not writing about who I thought I was. Who am I kidding, this isn't even poetry. It's just words. Coming from a girl who drives home at 10:30 at night with the windows rolled down and her hands outstretched because she once thought she held the stars on her fingertips. A girl who keeps replaying those three songs because she can't forget and she can't let go. A girl with dirty, blistered feet because she danced like the devil was the judge. 

My emotions are running too high for me to think clearly anymore. My joints are stiff, my body painfully aware of its tired bones rubbing against each other, grinding themselves down to dust. I think I might fall apart if I'm not careful. But shouldn't I be too young to feel so old?

I'm just trying to find where I belong because I don't really know. But when I'm with you I feel like I belong somewhere. I know I'm an ugly crier but you looked past that and let me soak your shirt with my tears. 

It helped, but it still wasn't enough. I thought the church foyer would be empty. It wasn't. And still the tears find ways to slip out of my eyes late at night when I can't blame them on my contacts. But you still help me, except soon we'll both go our separate ways, and then where will I belong?

Ten more days, but I miss you already.