the year

one.

i want everything to have meaning right now, but i’m pretty sure none of it does. i suppose we

are the creators of meaning, sketching it with our tightly gripped pen, forcing it into the frame of

our camera’s worn lens.

two.

is it gluttonous to consume without creation? i search for poems and art that capture the gaping

hole in my chest rather than attempt to understand it myself. is it gluttony or is it survival? is

detached introspection my saving grace? it is a mere translation, not comprehension. but maybe

when the party died down long ago, and once again i was reminded that i only have myself, it

was all i could stomach. i think that’s okay. and i think it’s okay that i want more.

three.

just don’t stop. fall and falter, rinse and repeat, but don’t let the candle be snuffed out. this

existence is a mirage, anyways so please don’t worry about the sound of breaking glass. It was

always yours to break. the silence was deafening, dulling even. and you are many things, a

favorite song and a fallen angel, but you are not quiet. now carry me to bed and tell me the

world isn’t crumbling, even as the earth beneath us rumbles.

four.

genius is regarded as a blinding headlight in life, and remembered as effervescent starlight in

death.

five.

both autopilot and aesthetic are foreign to me.

six.

i crave every last drop of the ocean between us.

seven.

no apology accompanying the absence, simply the expectation that i will answer the next time

you call.

eight.

realizing i deserve better wasn’t like waking up, it was like coming out of sedation.

nine.

blue nails, waterlogged paperbacks, and explosives.

ten.

do the shadows dancing in the firelight know how near the end is?

eleven.

it’s strange how goodness is such an envied trait. i’m no fool. i know you are not jealous of my

beauty or my eloquence. rather, you wish their clenched fists would unfurl in your presence the

way they unfurl in mine. you chose to let this life harden your edges, whereas i chose to allow

my heart to ripen. that can’t be taught, bought, or replaced. and that’s what makes me a worthy

subject of your desire.

twelve.

allow yourself ot tear through the caution tape surrounding your soul, ignore the alarm sounding

at the intimacy i offer. i know i am passion, not time, but don’t we at least owe that to ourselves?

youth wasn’t built for longevity, i hope you learn that, with or without me by your side. i promise

to always light your cigarette, to always brush away your tears with the pad of my decorated

finger. what more could you want? you’re many things, but i don’t remember selfish ever being

one of them. i’ll be where i belong, with the other bleeding minds. give me a call when you get it.

xx

thirteen.

nothing is safe and no one will love me! but i love this song, please turn it up.

fourteen.

god isn’t real but i am. imagine what could happen if you spent as much time looking for me as

you do for Him.

fifteen.

i’m running out of time. i’m running out of time to make you mine. or is it let you make me yours?

because at the end of the day i think i desire to belong to another with far greater desperation

than i wish to own, conquer, and claim.

sixteen.

no but actually this can’t be good for me anymore. sorry to disappoint the masses! surprise! i

choose safety and isolation over possibility again!

seventeen.

my favorite version of myself is the one who loves and admires the life she is living. i think she is

easiest to love when she smiles as the sun bakes her skin, when she laughs too loud at her

friends’ jokes, when she messily paints her nails the color of cherries, when she tells a stranger

she loves them and means it with every fiber of her being. i love her best and i’m trying to coax

her out of the shadows more frequently. she holds my light in the palm of her hand and i slowly

begin to hate myself when she stays away too long. but i’ve also had to accept that she was

created in the darkness’s womb. she may love the sun, but she will never belong to it. and that’s

okay. i think the darkness has a particular gift for giving life to the softest versions of ourselves,

at least for those who don’t run from the possibility of unfairness.

eighteen.

i think divine femininity is when women choose to ride a stationary bicycle to carrie underwood

when they’re upset instead of yelling and breaking things.

nineteen.

nineteen is one of the craziest things that’s ever happened to me! every day feels like walking

on the ceiling and getting my hair caught in the zipper of my jacket.

Isabella Pamias