Marty is a man from space that walks the Earth.

He earned his shape shifting ability from the cosmos,

and he uses it to his advantage.

His friends know him as a loyal dog.

He is mans best friend and can be easily excitable.

The world is bright and the sun is warm.

On his own he is a deer

wandering aimlessly through the forest,

wary about what coud happen next.

He is a ghost on his lonely nights,

where not even he knows where he'll end up.

Luckily he always finds where he belongs again.

The stars watch over him and remind him what he's made of.

Marty was made from moonlight and tasked with a job he's done well.

He makes everyone feel at ease and a little less alone.

I am ivory-skinned with a yellow spirit.

I am a quiet person, calm and seemingly simple.

Yet my heart is full of joy and optimism.

It is always a summer day with friends inside of my soul.

My eyes and hair are brown like the earth.

I am one with the outdoors and I stand on stable ground.

I've been told that I am a source of safety.

I am comforting and reliable, a home away from home.

Some days I feel more like the color black.

I always associated it with bad days and dark moments.

But there's also power in it.

I have overcome more than I believe.

I have earned my striped of color.

I feel like a bumble bee off to help lonely flowers.

Laura had a knack for spreading peace,

It came naturally to her.

She didn't even know she was doing it sometimes,

But the palm branch she carried acted as a weapon.

On she flew, with angelic wings and a smile of sunshine.

Her hair sweet as chocolate, her eyes ever so welcoming.

Even doves were enchanted by her grace,

Humans by her crystal heart that reflected all things cheerful.

Fairytales say that angels live in heaven, and birds live in nests.

Laura? She chose neither.

You can find her anywhere that attracts the fae

Sunbathing on treetops and singing to wild cats.

Back in my childhood days I would dream of when my time would come. My mother would brush my hair and tell me about her blossoming ceremony. Family and only the closest of friends would gather outdoors and shower their loved one in fresh spring water, unearthing their first personal foliage. Flowers would sprout from anywhere sunlight could reach. Heads, faces, arms, legs, shoulders, hands, feet, sometimes even ribs and backs! It was all so fascinating to me back then and I used to crave the gardenias that my mother had on her thighs and the azaleas on her chest. I would braid her hair and color pictures of flowers and run in the grass barefoot.

When my time came, I was a late teen. I invited two of my friends to attend my ceremony and I fell to my knees upon being showered in cool water. My first blossoms were peach daffodils, a linear patch going down my left leg. Later, in my twenties, I received purple calla lillies that framed the back of my head as they sprouted. My thirties brought me two beautiful children and the same gardenias that my mother had on my stomach.

My mother fell ill in my mid-thirties and her flowers wilted three months later. My tears grew pink carnations that flooded my cheecks like freckles and her grave grew mossy. I still think about her when I look down, and it brings me solace that we shared blooms.

I look to the future, excited for my childrens first ceremonies. Excited to see what kind of people they become and how their flowers reflect their experiences just as mine have. My daffodils, marked as a renewal from when I had finally found myself and was comfortable in my own skin. My lillies, ever so vibrant and captivating, shown the passion I felt for my partner that I was already certain I’d grow old with. Gardenias that represented strength grew clustered on my stomach after I finally welcomed my beautiful children when we were told there was a low chance that they would make it. The carnations upon my face, I firmly believe were my mothers parting gift to me. We still are unsure of how we came to grow these natural beauties, but I know my mother gave them to me. I always get asked how this could be, and I tell them that the pink carnation carries the meaning of a mother’s undying love. I carry her with me everywhere and all that I ever hope people see now when they look at my face is just that. A flower that will never truly wilt even after I am gone.

Love.

Like a freshly planted seed, I have bloomed.

My roots strengthened, my stalk firm.

I have felt the warmth of moist, sunlit soil.

A lot can change in eight months.

The seasons, the wind, the time,

I too have changed.

The plant I thought to be decaying,

I misjudged it, misjudged myself.

For I had only experienced the rain.

My eyes are brown chrysanthemums.

Doe shaped, bold, captivating, and warm.

I am still learning to let myself sway in the breeze.

Not so long ago, I was overwatering myself.

Never letting there be a chance of sunshine.

I have been through so much, sometimes it gets me down.

However, I have chosen to keep the seed once presumed defective.

I learned how to revive the almost-dead, and I am a new farmer.

I am proud of how I've been growing, I will continue to thrive.

i just keep letting myself

fall

fall

fall,

and every time i pick myself back up, it happens

again

again

again.

maybe it's time to face facts.

you are the never-ending sea,

and i'm drowning.

The ceiling twinkles with the dancing light of your favorite candle,

The soft glow of monitors still fizzling out.

The rustle of heavy blankets under a fan’s powerful hum.

The sound of slow, deep breathing after a long day.

The pitter-patter of soft feet from creatures stirring in the night.

The coziness of a bed, creaking with every move.

The color of your hair in a dark room.

The way your eyes look peering out from under your sheets.

The way your mouth moves when you laugh.

The feeling of your cotton-covered skin grazing against mine.

The warmth of a shared bed.

The safety of us.

The memories.

The nights that I must prepare for without you.

The days that await where I won’t be able to see your smiles.

The thoughts of kissing lips that I’ll never be able to touch.

The images of your happiness without me.

The desire.

The passion.

The love.

The realization that I will never be able to call you mine.

Someone approached me on a sunny afternoon and asked me,

"Do you think he still thinks about you? Would you want him to?"

It took me off guard and years of dwelling, thinking, imagining,

and I still can't give just one answer.

I think he doesn't think of me. When he wakes up in the morning,

he brushes his teeth, puts his pants on, kisses his fiancee, and drives to work.

He plays video games and goes out with his friends and calls his sisters every weekend.

He makes a living for himself and he pays his bills and he lives as he always has. Carefree.

Would I want him to think of me? No, not really.

I wouldn't want to remain on his mind after I was glued to his hands for so many years.

I wouldn't want to be thought of as the one who slipped away when I ran for my life.

I wouldn't want to be craved like I was still that same piece of candy he once tasted.

I want him to see me. See what's left of me after nights spent fighting my own body.

Go back in time and see the way I cringed when I saw him walk into the room.

See how I drew back every time he reached for me when he thought he was dishing love.

See how my eyes were never open because if I looked at him it would become too real.

If I lived in a dream world where people got what they wanted, I would shrink him down.

Make him small enough to crawl inside my head and see the interworkings of my brain.

Reverse time and see how my thought patterns changed like a 4-year time lapse.

I would make him feel every time I flinched at the things he said.

No, I wouldn't torment him too long. I would hear him beg to be let go.

I would hear him scream and fight and it would echo through my ears.

Thinking about that fantasy world, I don't know that I'd have the heart to do anything.

He would say no, and I would listen.

I met a boy once who was addicted to heroin.

He always laughed as if it were actually a joke, saying that he was forever lost.

Nothing could make him want to get sober, not even his lover.

His boyfriend wanted to get married and have a family someday. Said

he was a hopeless romantic, craved intimacy. Connor, was his name.

Outcast by his family, he thought a man could save his tattered soul.

Kyle and Connor thought they would be together forever, a gay Shakespearean romance.

For Kyle showed Connor how to fly and before long they were in the clouds for good.

Romeo and Romeo wanted to be heroes of love, but instead they went up in smoke.