“Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.”
“it was junior year and
i was given a slip of paper
asking what my grades were,
what sports I played,
and what I wanted to be.
naturally, I filled them out,
because that’s what high-schoolers are supposed to do.
the fourth question kind of stumped me, though.
“what are you good at?”
it’s so general, I didn’t know what to say.
im good at riding a bike with no hands, and driving 80 miles per hour on the highway with my windows down and my music up.
im good at pushing people away, and wondering why they don’t talk to me.
im good at listening to stories and seeing the spark in their eyes as they tell them, and feeling fireworks every time I kiss you and hold your hand.
im good at feeling lonely and crying because I can’t tell anyone how I’m feeling.
but, naturally, I answered math, because that was my highest grade, and that’s what high-schoolers are supposed to do.”