numbers and labels and high school.

I'm watching my senior year wind down right before my eyes.

She stood up and talked about 124 days.

I wrote about 92.

And well, now we're down to 59.

So if time keeps passing the way it has. 

I've got 7 days left.

Im sorry,  I countdown to everything. 

I had a countdown to my 18th birthday since March 9th of last year.

For someone who hates numbers and labels, they seemed to consume my senior year. 

Numbers and labels, 

Numbers and labels.  

"You have 4 unexcused absences."
"You have 3 NC's."
"You have 2 friends that unfollowed you."

"You have 1 high school football game left."

"You have 59 days until graduation."

As for labels
"cheerleader" and "somebody's someone" always seemed to stick.
but I always wanted to be
"independent" and "happy"

High school may be about numbers and labels, 

but I don't think life is, at least i'm praying it's not.

Because the amount of people you learn to love won't come in numbers.

Stop trying to be her. 

Stop trying to be him.

Maybe I'm wrong.
Maybe were all just numbers,
Aspiring to be certain labels.


I know I'm praying were not,
but I'm praying for a lot of things.



x

Tuesday has always been her favorite day.

It was a Tuesday and she was driving on the freeway.

Rush hour, and nowhere to be.
The birds flying across the overpass caught her eye.

They sky was blue.


Blue like her favorite color since she was five.

Blue like the shade she painted her room when she was 15.

Blue like the color of his eyes.



But this isn't a poem about the boy with blue eyes.
and she isn't 15 anymore.



She was born on a Tuesday.
It was barely Tuesday.



She was born in the middle of the night, 2:51 AM.
With the moon above her head, and the stars in her eyes.


She likes to think that's why her best friends name is midnight,
and why she's a little too familiar with 2 AM.


It was a Tuesday 18 years ago she starting living,
and a Tuesday 7 months ago something in her died.



It's Tuesday, and August still hurts like hell.
But this isn't a poem about that either.



No, this is about Tuesdays and why they've always been her favorite day.

8 feet under

I turn my music too loud, 

in hopes that it could drown out these thoughts. 

But only making me realize that I am the only thing that's drowning.

 I am drowning. 

I am already drowning.


But I'm not blaming you.

Because the 3 foot deep shallow end never appealed to me,
and the 5 foot mark on warm cement never cut it either,
it wasn't until that 8 foot mark that I felt at home.

Maybe it's because it's easier to feel so deeply,
when you're already eight feet under, nearly skimming the bottom of the floor.

Seeing how deep you can go until the pressure in your ears is unbearable.

Treading water, and holding your breath for as long as you can.
I guess that's how I've always preferred it.


It's my fault for ignoring the no diving signs.

But I had to take a chance,
because I read somewhere to dive into the unknown.
And I thought if I just dove in head first and whole heartedly things would work out fine.


In the end,  I couldn't hold my breath for as long as I thought.
 And you can only tread water for so long.


But that's okay,
 I'm learning to swim.