I wrote this poem as I was beginning my healing journey from mental illness. Originally, I meant it to be about someone breaking away from a toxic relationship-- an awful partner. However, it wasn't until I was further into the road of recovery that I realized what I really want this poem to be about. Note how I never use gendered pronouns. That is purposeful. This poem is about an individual breaking free from any person, feeling, habit, or addiction. After the darkest time, I finally understood that it is important to remember that there is light at the end of the tunnel. Any time I find myself reverting back to old habits, I remember that there is hope. My only wish is that, to whoever reads this poem, we remember that we are, or will be, Dancing Women: liberated, naked, confident, and flowered. Dancing Women Inspired by "Dancing Women" by Franz Bischoff And now that my life is drained away, I am surrounded by canvases. People crowd around them, observing the artist’s creativity. The other paintings are stunning, I am sure. But this one-- I can taste the yellow sunlight; I can smell the sound of their feet playfully dancing on the pavement; I can hear their buoyancy. Is this what it is like to be free? How these Dancing Women look... Is that freedom? Liberated, Naked, Confident, Flowered? I think so. Mozart’s “Requiem” is soft, playing on the speaker overhead. I find myself with you again. I thought I outran your embrace. I guess not. “It took you long enough to come back; you drained my life away. You want to be like those Women, but they are made of oil and pigment-- made to last; you are made of flesh and blood.” So now my freedom will rest in my memory, and I will rest in your arms because you like me there. Oh my God-- your arms-- now stiff. still. Turns out you aren’t made of oil and pigment either. They will remember your glory at your requiem mass on Sunday, but I’ll be at the museum-- Tasting the yellow sunlight; Smelling the sound of my feet playfully dancing on the pavement; Hearing my buoyancy; Liberated, Naked, Confident, and Flowered.

Mental illness made a large part of my life debilitating. After beginning my journey towards better mental health, I decided to embark on writing poetry. The most vulnerable and visceral form of written word. Hopefully someday others may read my poems as well, and they will realize that there is always light at the end of the tunnel. The Being The Walls alone were terrifying. What happened in that box scalds my memory-- branding it, claiming it. It was standing. Blisters formed on the Being-- an impassable, excruciating pain mended to the mind. It was screeching. Arms burst from Its brain-- reaching out, searching for something greater… something beyond the Walls. The Being’s mouth opened wide-- the corners of Its mouth began to bleed. It was screaming. Millions of eyes rolled to the back of the Being’s head. Blood seeped from Its eyes. It was pale-- almost as white as the Walls. A limp, lifeless, meaningless Being stuck in a box. Then suddenly, silence. The Being collapsed on the wet, crusted, maroon floor. It was distorted, exploded, finished. Every horror that filled the box-- it wasn’t just in front of me-- it was everywhere (just not on the Walls. They were pristine, clean, and white). Years of scraping organs off of the floor (Never off of the Walls. The Walls were pristine, clean, and white. Always.) Years of composting the Being bound to the center of the box-- Years of surgery, removing its blisters. Years of carefully dismembering the thousands of arms that outstretched from the brain-- the very arms that believed what the Being needed was beyond the Walls. The pristine, clean, white Walls. The impenetrable Walls. The Being is now fully decomposed, now embodying the soil that inhabits a garden of Daisies, and the floor and ceiling finally imitate the Walls. The pristine, clean, and white Walls. I am alone in the box. The box whose Ceiling, Floor, and Walls are pristine, clean, and white. My Daisies are here to keep me company, but they have blisters, too. They are the Being, too. The Walls are no longer terrifying, and what happened in that box scalds my memory, but I am lucky. I am alive.

A Deserved Punishment We fueled the fire that now kills us, and she joyfully watches. We’ve seen the bruises on her heavenly hellish body. We’ve seen the scars. The scratches. We’ve heard her scream into empty space, begging for anyone to help. We watched her suffer. We let her suffer. We are her suffering. We enjoy it. And now we sink deeper into her as the creatures of our beloved home prepare for her victory, inviting us to the deathbed we have created.

The River Erodes the Stiff Mountain The river erodes the stiff mountain, flowing through the very organs that compose the rigid rock, seeping clean, crisp water between each nook, then gently greeting the ocean as it meets its sandy base, refreshing the beautiful, lively sound of the ocean waves. The tide breathes in and out, twirling gracefully as if it were a symphony of ballerinas being spun by the celestial moon-- a lovely dancing partner.

The Being The Walls alone were terrifying. What happened in that box scalds my memory-- branding it, claiming it. It was standing. Blisters formed on the Being-- an impassable, excruciating pain mended to the mind. It was screeching. Arms burst from Its brain-- reaching out, searching for something greater… something beyond the Walls. The Being’s mouth opened wide-- the corners of Its mouth began to bleed. It was screaming. Millions of eyes rolled to the back of the Being’s head. Blood seeped from Its eyes. It was pale-- almost as white as the Walls. A limp, lifeless, meaningless Being stuck in a box. Then suddenly, silence. The Being collapsed on the wet, crusted, maroon floor. It was distorted, exploded, finished. Every horror that filled the box-- it wasn’t just in front of me-- it was everywhere (just not on the Walls. They were pristine, clean, and white). Years of scraping organs off of the floor (Never off of the Walls. The Walls were pristine, clean, and white. Always.) Years of composting the Being bound to the center of the box-- Years of surgery, removing its blisters. Years of carefully dismembering the thousands of arms that outstretched from the brain-- the very arms that believed what the Being needed was beyond the Walls. The pristine, clean, white Walls. The impenetrable Walls. The Being is now fully decomposed, now embodying the soil that inhabits a garden of Daisies, and the floor and ceiling finally imitate the Walls. The pristine, clean, and white Walls. I am alone in the box. The box whose Ceiling, Floor, and Walls are pristine, clean, and white. My Daisies are here to keep me company, but they have blisters, too. They are the Being, too. The Walls are no longer terrifying, and what happened in that box scalds my memory, but I am lucky. I am alive.

The Antiques are Trying to Tell Us Something “There is no Frigate like a Book” -- Emily Dickinson I remember being young-- small enough that I still had to use a stool to be able to reach the top of the kitchen sink-- when I finished my first chapter book. It had a bright, sparkly pink cover and the main character, a fairy, posing fabulously on the front. To complete such a sophisticated book was a massive feat on my behalf, and little-me was ecstatic. What began as a light victory soon morphed into an ever-growing appreciation for literature. I began immersing myself in timelessly celebrated novels and beautifully written narratives from many authors, so I had quickly become fully engrossed in the art of language and its boundless possibilities. A couple years later, when my family and I were headed to the coast, we spontaneously stopped at a small, local antique store on the side of the road. Immediately upon walking inside, we were crowded by old trinkets, aged postcards, and classic novels with hand-written notes. As we began perusing the shelves, I found a silver tea-set consisting of a teapot, sugar bowl, and a milk pitcher-- all of which were engraved with the dates “1877-1902” front and center. Why are the years printed there? They are so proudly displayed. Is this really that old? These questions alone were enough to entice me to buy it, and the whole rest of the day I engaged in hours of Google searches that taught me that the set is at least one-hundred years old, and that there is no other model with those dates engraved on the front-- it is entirely unique. Why would the previous owner take the time to preciously press a span of twenty-five years on a tea set? Instantly my mind was flooded with the notion of a story-- possibly it was a gift to a happily married couple to congratulate their twenty-fifth anniversary, perhaps it was for a monumental twenty-fifth birthday celebration, or maybe it was meant to commemorate someone after they had passed far too soon. The concept that this simple, antique tea set had a history before the time we met left me absorbed in the knowledge that story is everywhere-- whether or not it was recorded. From this, I had the epiphany that heirlooms have been eternally sharing the tales of all that they have seen, and finally I could hear their voices. Finally, I understood that narrative lies far beyond written text. I will forever be enveloped by the way this vessel can gracefully sail the wisdom of others through the centuries, and the way it can preserve the memory of our traverses through vintage wardrobes, loved stuffed-animals, yellowed-papers, and treasured relics.

When I Grow Up In the early weeks of the new school year, every student in my English class was standing statue-like in the pouring Washington State rain, each of us afraid to move else our body-heat would escape out from under our coats. The tardy bell rang a solid five minutes ago, and my hair was starting to get frizzy-- that was a big no-no for a thirteen-year-old girl in eighth grade. The class asked in jumbled unison when our teacher would come and let us into the heated portable, “there’s no way she would leave us out here for the entire period… right?” After what felt like a billion-million minutes, we heard the creak of the ramp that we called The Cheese Grater. The ramp got its infamous name after a student landed on his knees running down it. Thanks to the sharp, raised, metal holes meant to provide grip, he grated his shins like they were a block of cheese. That event was gruesome enough for us to never run on the ramp again, but still funny enough for a group of tweens to call it The Cheese Grater-- capitalized and all. The creaks grew nearer and we began to hear keys jingle, and finally we saw Mrs. J practically jogging up the terrifying ramp. After reaching her classroom door, she said something that I will always remember-- something that I am certain no one else could hear. As she began unlocking the door, she said confidently under her breath “it is okay that I am late-- I am the queen.” It was this moment that I realized I was going to love being her student. Throughout the year, I learned enough things from Mrs. J that it would take a hydraulic press to fit it all into this one-page response. Of course, she taught me about basic grammar and punctuation rules-- curriculum stuff-- but what stuck with me, and will continue to indefinitely, is that being a teacher is not simply assigning homework, grading it, giving tests, and grading those, but rather it is an opportunity to share knowledge with hundreds of growing people, it is the ability to learn from people who are dismissed because they are young, it is the pursuit of teaching the new generations to do better than us, and it is persevering until you exude enough pride and confidence to strut on The Cheese Grater. When I grow up, I want to be a teacher; I want to be like Mrs. J.

When I Grow Up In the early weeks of the new school year, every student in my English class was standing statue-like in the pouring Washington State rain, each of us afraid to move else our body-heat would escape out from under our coats. The tardy bell rang a solid five minutes ago, and my hair was starting to get frizzy-- that was a big no-no for a thirteen-year-old girl in eighth grade. The class asked in jumbled unison when our teacher would come and let us into the heated portable, “there’s no way she would leave us out here for the entire period… right?” After what felt like a billion-million minutes, we heard the creak of the ramp that we called The Cheese Grater. The ramp got its infamous name after a student landed on his knees running down it. Thanks to the sharp, raised, metal holes meant to provide grip, he grated his shins like they were a block of cheese. That event was gruesome enough for us to never run on the ramp again, but still funny enough for a group of tweens to call it The Cheese Grater-- capitalized and all. The creaks grew nearer and we began to hear keys jingle, and finally we saw Mrs. J practically jogging up the terrifying ramp. After reaching her classroom door, she said something that I will always remember-- something that I am certain no one else could hear. As she began unlocking the door, she said confidently under her breath “it is okay that I am late-- I am the queen.” It was this moment that I realized I was going to love being her student. Throughout the year, I learned enough things from Mrs. J that it would take a hydraulic press to fit it all into this one-page response. Of course, she taught me about basic grammar and punctuation rules-- curriculum stuff-- but what stuck with me, and will continue to indefinitely, is that being a teacher is not simply assigning homework, grading it, giving tests, and grading those, but rather it is an opportunity to share knowledge with hundreds of growing people, it is the ability to learn from people who are dismissed because they are young, it is the pursuit of teaching the new generations to do better than us, and it is persevering until you exude enough pride and confidence to strut on The Cheese Grater. When I grow up, I want to be a teacher; I want to be like Mrs. J.

Dancing Women Inspired by "Dancing Women" by Franz Bischoff And now that my life is drained away, I am surrounded by canvases. People crowd around them, observing the artist’s creativity. The other paintings are stunning, I am sure. but this one-- I can taste the yellow sunlight; I can smell the sound of their feet playfully dancing on the pavement; I can hear their buoyancy. Is this what it is like to be free? How these Dancing Women look... Is that freedom? Liberated, Naked, Confident, Flowered? I think so. Mozart’s “Requiem” is soft, playing on the speaker overhead. I find myself with you again. I thought I outran your embrace. I guess not. “It took you long enough to come back; you drained my life away. You want to be like those Women, but they are made of oil and pigment-- made to last; you are made of flesh and blood.” So now my freedom will rest in my memory, and I will rest in your arms because you like me there. Oh my God-- your arms-- now stiff. still. Turns out you aren’t made of oil and pigment either. They will remember your glory at your requiem mass on Sunday, but I’ll be at the museum-- tasting the yellow sunlight; Smelling the sound of my feet playfully dancing on the pavement; Hearing my buoyancy; Liberated, Naked, Confident, and Flowered.