of age/ twenty/ two years.

of age/ twenty/ two years.

I turned twenty recently,

in the past,

I would be “of age.”

No debutante, am I.

I don’t feel more adult than I did

a week ago,

but looking back, I know I am.

two years ago

this blog began as

a place to

vent my spleen,

show my poor, lacerated teenage heart

to an anonymous and unknown audience.

Unbeknownst to you readers, I am more adult now.

Two years ago,

or even a year ago,

I would agonize over text messages to boys who ultimately did not matter,

composing them scores of love and affection that could never be reasonably returned.

Now I agonize over emails to recruiters,

and currently I am more anxious about

gaining a job this summer and a lease for next fall

than my nonexistent lovers.

I loved the balloons,

they were perfect when I chose them at 17, when I turned 18, and still good

when flew into 19.

19.

Brick wall, mountain to climb.

Window to jump through,

doors to lock.

Chances to take,

friends to make.

People to meet,

hands to shake,

hands to hold.

Felt abject terror,

love, grief, and compassion

after I turned 19.

Good bye 19.

I turned 20 recently.

Thank you for reading Poems by her.

Today is the two-year anniversary of its birth,

and I want to say thank you, whether you are a first time reader

or have followed me through the rollercoaster of absences and depression and pure joy and poems.

Thank you!

the difference between October and Febuary.

the difference between October and Febuary.

You know what’s the worst part of this breakup?

The person I was in love with didn’t exist for more than flashes of time, was mostly a figment of my imagination.

This guy was barely a ghost, barely gave me anything emotionally for more than two years, yet I thought that behind those stony eyes there was so much more, and maybe, for a couple of days at a time, there was, but most of the time, I don’t think so.

I made him one of my characters, elaborated on him so deeply in my mind, but he barely resembles the guy who was in front of me the entire time. Man, that makes me sound like a psychopath, doesn’t it?

Let me explain. I thought he was this dorky guy who was very sweet, very quiet and calm, and was always interested in what I had to say. He thought I was boring, he thought I was dull, he thought I was self-absorbed. He said to me as we were breaking up, “I don’t think you know me at all.” Maybe he was right. The guy I was really in love with was only sometimes there. He stopped telling me that I was beautiful a while ago. He used to every day. He stopped holding my hand while we walked up the stairs. He stopped smiling at me, ever. He stopped answering my texts, calls, and ‘hellos.’ He stopped asking “How are you?” and he rarely answered it beyond a single word when he was asked.

He used to tell me he would always love me. He surprised me with a picture of him at an airport, on his way to see me. He would tutor me in physics during lunch, keep me company on the bad nights, and just hold me.

He’s not here anymore, but maybe he wasn’t ever really here. Maybe he just changed, and is so different from who he was in October, that I don’t even recognize him in Febuary.

I don’t miss the guy who filled the seat next to me in the movies. I don’t miss the guy who didn’t even attempt to make sex easier for me. I don’t miss the guy who never answered my texts or calls, and didn’t seem sorry afterwards. I don’t miss that guy.

I just miss the guy who would look forward to our dates, who I saw Argo with. I miss the guy I could spend all night talking to on the phone. I miss the guy who would laugh with me and find my cat noises hysterical. That guy who always got Beef fried rice when we went for Thai food, hated pasta, and loved sci-fi movies.

I miss him, I don’t miss the asshole who strongly resembles him but isn’t at all the same.

He told me, when we broke up, “I don’t regret going out with you.”

I laughed and sobbed at the same time and said, “Of course YOU don’t regret it!”