i am thinking and feeling so many big things

i love eleven boys,
two of them are holidays
and eight of them are home base
and one of them might love boys, too.

I don't believe my face has enough color in it, so I wear lipstick though my mother tells me not to. I don't believe in coincidences either, but I like the idea of myself stumbling about on an unseen map. I don't believe God sleeps well on the nights when my best friend loses herself in her own sheets, and it's become apparent that people remember me better if I specify "like the president" when they ask my name.

I spend afternoons in the periodicals checking for gold beneath my fingernails and I only take notes in Political Philosophy 202 because I find the idea of paying men to argue the validity of their own humanity terribly intriguing. And lovely. I find it lovely.

At 5 o'clock the Star Spangled Banner plays out across campus. I find no shortage of excuses to be outside at 5 o'clock. I correct people's grammar shamelessly. I've only successfully run away three times, and I don't believe that the individuals responsible for such really need to be aware of the roles they played. I got sunburned two of the three times.

 I wear my skirts above my knee but I pray on the way to class and I am constantly reminded that I wasn't qualified to vote in the last two presidential elections, but also I am surrounded by loads wonderful people. Actually, a select few are on various other continents, but that's alright. I like college because there are always newcomers, even during midterms. I keep a running list of people who made even just one of my days, and Lauren and I note the high and low and also tender mercies of our days every night when the lights are out. But she doesn't let me designate any of the above as a boy. Because occasionally days roll about when he's your high and your low and under your skin and in your hair and your reasoning and I don't imagine such a situation to be good for your health.

I have a dozen terribly important playlists with terribly specific purposes. I never have and never will buy vanilla ice cream. I used to be the one that had to go to class, but last week I ended up in the Pacific Ocean and also Salt Lake three times and also in the back of a truck up the canyon.

On a school night.

I get terribly concerned with explaining myself, and what I like, and what I'll be when I grow up, and why I sleep-talk, and what my plans are for next fall, and how I plan to pull off political science, and French, and design degrees and the fact of that matter is, I'd like to think that you, my dear,
you couldn't quite explain me either.

See I've come to realize that we are only pieces of the things we see, bound in skin and ligaments.

I am fragments of every 11:11, every moon boy, every full gas tank, and every other thing I've ever fallen for. I am quite good at listening and very adept at finding concert tickets in advance and I cried when I got my first A- last semester but my side of the room is the epitome of organized chaos and I only call home when I'm alone, walking in the dark.

And I am tired, but I am more than pleased with nineteen.
And I am more than grateful for the ones that never let me say no,
and I forever owe those of you who are continually telling me yes.


Loves.