1. Does your poem "Advice for the Chubby Girl In Highschool" draw inspiration from the poem "Unsolicited Advice" by Jeanann Verlee?

    I didn’t think of it while I was writing, but afterwards I realized it was definitely a subconscious nod to Verlee’s amazing poem. Thanks for asking!

  2. Your poetry brings me to tears. Your writing is beautiful. And from reading it, I can tell that you are too.

    Wow, thank you so much. You have a very beautiful heart.

  3. Your "Advice for a chubby girl in high school" post is so, so beautiful. Thank you for writing it.

    I’m glad you enjoyed it! Thank you so much for your kindness. 

  4. Advice for the Chubby Girl in High School

    1. When you find yourself sitting for an hour
    in a bathroom stall,
    wishing happiness could be as simple
    as pushing your fingers down your
    throat,
    Get up.
    Go home.
    Throw your scale in the street and
    watch the cars run over it.

    2. There will be times when you
    wish you could cut the fat
    from your body with a cleaver—
    Step away from the mirror.
    Hug your thighs,
    thank them for always
    taking you where you needed to go.
    Wave your flabby arms like a protest sign.

    3. When the girl with pink hair
    and rosary bead necklace
    says you have man hands, show her just
    how tough your middle finger can be.

    4. When the boy you love won’t kiss you in public,
    leave him.
    When he asks you not to go on birth control because
    it will make you gain weight,
    leave him.
    When he tells you at dinner you’d be pretty
    enough to model if only you lost twenty pounds,
    order three desserts.
    Then leave him.

    5. There is nothing poetic about the
    baggy of sleeping pills and goodbye
    letters you keep under your mattress
    Flush the pills.
    Burn the letters.
    Hug your mother.

    6. People will tell you that high school
    is whatever you make it to be.
    You don’t have to make it anything.
    You just have to make it.
    Get out of the bathroom stall.

  5. Here, in The Room of What Was (2/30)

    You are holding a small glass horse

    in your hands, turning the figurine

    over and over,

    breaking off each jagged limb

    and letting the pieces

    fall at your feet,

    joining the sea of coquina shells

    and dead wasps.

    On the bed there is a pillow

    that smells like seawater

    and if I press my ear close enough

    to it, I can still feel the brush of

    your eyelashes closing.

    Love has been hiding in this room,

    in the stuffing of the toy elephants

    in the dark corners under the bed

    in the echo of the windchime in the closet

    in the lines of your shaking palms,

    but neither of us are allowed to look for her—

    not anymore.

    On the wall there is still the faint

    trace of your handwriting,

    the messy scrawl

    where you once told me

    that I say the most beautiful things without

    ever opening my mouth.

    We have both tried to burn the words away

    but the smoke singed them into our lungs

    and with every inhale

    I can still feel them smolder.

  6. (1/30)

    my mother keeps her old wedding rings

    tucked away in one of her socks,

    like the decaying knuckles of a shameful skeleton—one

    that was drowned in a sea of liquor and spit and the blood of split lips.

    her current one still grasps her finger like an elegant manacle,

    anchoring her to a ship that has long been sinking.

    “you don’t have to find your soulmate”

                she tells me

    “just find a man who still loves you after you’ve poured out his whiskey”

    she laughs as she says this, but in her fragile inhales i can hear the

    sound of beer bottles breaking,

    and in the spaces between words

    there is still the dull echo of a fist making contact.

    “sand is pretty lucky, you know”

                she says to me

    “it can crumble and fall apart all it wants, and the ocean comes back anyways.

    don’t ever be the ocean”

    she leans forward in her chair, looking hard at me and

    reaches out to stroke my hair, to run a finger down

    the curve of my jaw—

    finding my father’s features.

    “or, i guess, it’s okay to be the ocean,

    if you really love him

    and as long as he doesn’t drink

    and as long as he’s gentle”

     

  7. Einstein’s First Time

    He knows the physics of it of course:
    friction, inertia, two forces acting upon each other,
    but god he has never found a way to measure
    feeling. There is a living equation draped over him,
    running her fingers through his
    premature greys and he wants
    to tell her that the circumference of her
    breast is equal to pi multiplied by diameter
    and that the slopes of her face follow Fibonacci’s
    sequence perfectly. He has spent so long studying
    how space curves only to find he was wrong—
    space is a woman
    space is a long-haired vixen with her hands on his skin
    space has so many impossible curves and
    she will always remain an enigma.
    All of the laws and truths he has
    shared will be replaced,
    He will be replaced.
    Someday his memory will be lost
    between constellations,
    and he knows this because in one
    moment this woman has overshadowed
    every word he has ever dictated—she
    divulges the meaning of life in a broken,
    incoherent gasp against his neck,
    and he will spend the rest of his life
    trying to make any other idea
    be as beautiful.

  8. NaPoWriMo

    So I know that I only wrote 25 poems in 30 days, but I do not regret this. Poetry used to be something I couldn’t stand to write, and when I did manage to choke out a few lines it was every few months or so. I wrote more poetry this month than I ever have and definitely grew in confidence as a writer, so even if I didn’t accomplish my original goal, I achieved more than I ever expected. I’d like to thank all my old followers who stuck with me on this journey and all the new ones who joined along the way. You’ll be seeing more from me.
    Love always,
    Summer

  9. Advice to the Girl with Clouds on her Ceiling (23/30)

    Darling, I know you keep trying to find your wings,
    but a boy now has a mouthful of your feathers,
    and the sky is a lonely place to be, anyways.
    Learn to love the ground.

  10. Across the Border (21/30)

    How nice it must be
    to dig your fingernails into the dirt
    to learn what sweat feels like when it beads below your back,
    to smear your face with whitewash paint.
    Whenever a camera comes near you make
    sure to throw yourself in front of the lense;
    you get double points if you can manage to pull one of
    the native children into the shot—
    triple points if they gaze sadly at the camera.
    Feel the pride swell in your chest as you say
    “Hola” and “Gracias” over and over,
    rolling your R’s with extra emphasis because
    you took Spanish 1 and you’re practically at home
    across the border.
    Sit in the one-bedroom shack with the family
    of five you’re helping and pretend not to notice
    the smell. Be bothered by it anyway,
    Be a martyr.
    Flash your winning smile as you
    are loaded back onto your air-conditioned bus.
    Brag about your service over dinner,
    sit in the shower longer than necessary so
    you can admire the water running down the drain,
    shut the door to your own room,
    and press your clean white body into the sheets.

About me

Summer. Nineteen. aspiring actress with a little bit of a poet on the side.

this is a collection of rough, unedited original work, posted here in the hopes that someone out there wants to read it. if you're looking for my personal blog, you can find it here: still-is.tumblr.com