PenTherapy

Deflecting low blows, she is a breathing barricade—iron and steel, ever holding up in the face of adversity. Why doesn’t she falter? Because she can’t. Words fall on her, sink in like leaden weights determined to extinguish her spirit. She has many moments of weakness. She’s indecisive. She thinks back, ponders past decisions. Ponders the path she’s currently on. Are her strides sure enough to carry her where she wants to go? Oh, but she doesn’t run, she hides. Her fortress keeps her safe, keeps her distant. She always attempts to find a silver lining, but sometimes it’s so hard to see a glint in the endless grey in that metallic-tasting life she leads atop the tower. Her eyes are the only windows to the world she cares to peer out of. Every time a sympathetic soul offers a ladder for her to climb down, she grasps the handrails, desiring nothing more than to descend…but she ultimately denies the aid she so craves, every single time. The ladder goes clattering back to the earth in a cloud of dust and apologies. You see, she has to preserve her life the way it is, as cold and withdrawn as it may seem, because the only thing that feels right in her silent, clinical, private life…is wrong.

“The air is sharp, steel sharp”
The teeth of the oxygen are biting hard and sticking fast
Try as I might, I can’t wrench myself
     from the heresy of the blueblack wind
The call to return home echoes in the valley before falling on deaf ears
I’m carving
clawing
creating my own path
Neglecting the frozen footsteps with everything in me
Tonight, I reach my destination–
Tonight, I taste freedom–
Tonight, I bury the past in favor of a warmer future

My favorite color used to be blue; now it’s purple. I get caught up in the details and sometimes forget all about the “big picture.” I had trouble leaving my grandmother in the cemetery after the funeral. I am constantly taking pictures to document my ever-changing life. I spent the 4^th of July at the beach with my best friend. I still watch cartoons. I wish I had a pretty singing voice. I enjoy feeling like people think they know me and secretly knowing that they have no idea. I adore kids. I used to have a pony and a ground squirrel. I wrote my first poem—“Lonely River”—when I was five years old. I love the smells of Xerox machines and jonquils. My sister once locked me outside in the snow when I was wearing nothing but a bath towel. I could read and write before kindergarten. I only feel truly at home when I’m in New York City. I feel sorry for my mother. I was born after my parents were married for eleven years. I’ve seen three “real” plays, two of them on Broadway. I think that Howl and Sophie have a perfect life together, and I’m jealous: I’ve never been in love. 2005 was the best and worst year of my life. I get nostalgic at wildly inappropriate times. The first time I went to Starbucks, I was instantly hooked. I’m both adaptable and set in my ways.