Inner Speak

In the morning, my inner monologue wears mismatched pajamas with one button that doesn’t line up

And in the afternoon, a black blazer and patent leather pumps that click against my veins

And at night, she dazzles in a teal chiffon prom dress that twirls out full and wide and maybe has a bit too much glitter

My inner monologue speaks in a british accent after too much Downton Abbey

And gets a little dramatic- and a little latino- after too much Jane the Virgin

And says things like “my hands grasped the cold brass doorknob” after making a bed cocoon, binge reading books until emerging in a butterfly of tied up pages and burst open metaphors

My inner monologue talks in tweets and captions and song lyrics

In tiny nibbles of poetry belonging to missing authors

It speaks in soft smiles and flowery whispers

Barely there

Vapory ideas for smoke cloud dreams

It speaks loudly and proudly

It screams things for the people in the back

Angry and excited and sometimes rambling

Often times rambling

Okay, Always rambling

It takes big, gasping breaths between phrases

Loading up with air to belt and pelt words at me

Telling me to stop

To listen

My inner monologue says things it doesn’t mean

Says things it shouldn’t mean

My inner monologue can be a real bitch

And yes, my inner monologue cusses

Which is why I have to put her through the purest, pickiest filter

Sometimes, I just want her to be quiet

When she stutters out thoughts of failure against my heavy hitting heart

As my hands slick against my racquet

My fingers shake along the keys

My tongue dries against the words that beg to be let out

I listen to her berate me

Degrade me

Tell me I could lose a few pounds

That Nobody will ever look at the lines of perfect people and chose to love the mess of red hair and long legs and lostness that is me

That I will fail every time I try

That those girls over there, they do not like me

And those boys over there, they never will

My inner monologue nags me, says that my body's a temple I am gratifying with chocolate cake and six hours of sleep

And I am breaking the environment with every carbon footprint I place

And I should be helping more

So I push her down

Until she curls up in my pinky toe

Small and afraid

I feel bad for her

She is lost without my brain

Lost without the colorful inspirations that fuel her

I tell her to come back

I tell her it’s okay, I will not hurt her

She peeks up from my ankles

Checks twice to make sure it’s all clear

Then she sprints up my legs

Bounding about my body

Speaking tongue twisters that unravel rapidly and wind around my mouth

Yelling like a tiny child, learning a new trick

“Look!! LOOK! Did you hear what I said???”

And sometimes I just want to yell

SHUT UP

Grab her by the collar and push her up against the wall

Because she is never, ever silent

And I wouldn’t mind some quiet

But she is endearing

And she keeps me alive

She is the pageant mom in the stands of toddlers and tiaras

Pushing me when I resist

Telling me “I can do this”

Believing that I deserve the world

Celebrating when I win it

She holds my hand when I am lost

Nudges me in the right direction

Coaxing me to figure it out

Get stuff done

My inner monologue is the most hypocritical

Passively political

Averagely atypical

Infuriatingly fickle little voice

And sometimes, I wish my inner monologue

Would chose to be a bit more outer

Exposing opinions and injustices

Dreams and Ideas

But she stays inner

Private, waiting

Perched on the tip of my tongue

Ready for when I finally decide

To speak out

Teenagers are just so dramatic

We are teenaged girls

The ones believed to be moody and rebellious and beautiful

The ones who slam doors on television and sneak out to wild parties

The ones who are always texting their boyfriends and mending broken hearts with a pint of Ben and Jerry's

Who scream “I hate you” at their parents and cry rivers of mascara and blue eyeshadow

The ones that every stereotype seems to know

We are teenaged girls

We are empowered

But too easily offended

The voice of change

That talks too much

The girls who can do anything

Especially a STEM career

Because, you know, there aren’t enough women in the work force

So you should take that extra science course

Don’t be a teacher

Don’t be a nurse

You’re settling, be an engineer

Who cares if you hate math

Women need to take a new path

We are independent

But should submit to our husbands

We are unique

But all are believed to be the same thing-

Moody, rebellious, beautiful

Caught up in boy bands and reality T.V.

Dreaming barbie dreams with Ken doll men

Men who force us to break and bend

Except for the good guys, there are still a handful of them

The teenaged boys

Taught that they are only hot if they know how to play sports and use tools

But if they are too much of an athlete, they may get called a tool

And they’re cute if they're sensitive

But gay if they cry

Or dress nice

And if they’re normal, they’re boring

But teenaged boys

They're a whole other story

We are teenaged girls

We like white converse

Or are ashamed for liking something as basic as white converse

Or think something is wrong with us because we don’t like white converse

Or would rather converse

Converse about something substantial

As substantial as the love that we have for our parents

Because no, we have not all yelled the classic "I hate you" at our mothers

And then there are the others

Who are not as lucky as they may seem

Who may have genuine reasons to hate their mothers

Whose lives are like the set of a play

A frothy, glittery production

Thin as cardboard

A facade ready to crumble in a mess of circumstances and missed chances

But even if the pictures we post are fake

We are still real

As real as the tears that come when we think we are ugly because nobody catcalls us on the street

Or the tears that come when we are catcalled on the street and feel like a piece of meat

As real as the muscles that stretch taut when we run

And the lungs that shake and laugh when we have fun

And the skin that glows and freckles in the sun

We are teenaged girls

And we are real

And different

And resilient

And refuse to all be carbon copies of the same sitcom archetypal sixteen year old

Because we’re more than just boyfriends and slamming doors and hair dye

We’re 51%

Of the future

Dates

I know who I am.

And I know who I’m becoming.

I am becoming someone unafraid.

Unafraid of what people think of me,

Unafraid of the actions I do,

Just unafraid.

Yet I’m still terrified.

Terrified of who I used to be,

What shadows lurk behind me,

What people have to judge me upon.

And I'm terrified of my future .

Not of what I do in the future,

Just who I become in the future.

Will I suddenly suck on a microphone,

Just to get my voice to be heard.

Will I start flapping my hand,

Just to get my visions out.

Will I just lay on the river,

Without a care in the world.

Yeah, Maybe.

But it’s because of that very fact that I’m terrified.

Because I don’t know what my future holds.

I’m a human,

I like a list,

I like my things charted on a calendar.

So hey future if you can give me the dates,

That would be great.

The dates of the important things,

Do I find love?

Do I find a job?

Do I live long?

Just write my life down for me.

That would be great

But I know you won’t.

That’s why people only plan two years in the future.

Because our future is unwritten,
And people are also afraid of what it holds.

Our future is a math equation,

With infinite solutions.

That’s why we can’t solve life,

Because life is the biggest math problem in the world.

I’m afraid.

Afraid to find out I’m not good enough.

I’m afraid to share myself with the world just to be shot down,

Shot into a million pieces,

That no one will ever pick up,

And piece back together.

Scared that the pieces will drift

They’ll fall through every crack of the earth

Ever small incision they can find.
I am petrified of not being able to escape those cracks

To slither out of them cracks

But mostly I’m afraid that no one will help me out

Because in that point of my life
I want to know if someone will be there

To help me when I fall

To catch all of my tears

I want to know that someone will give up their lives

Just to help me

Because that’s what I need

I’m afraid of my future

But I’m not afraid of what’s going to get me there

I just hope there will be someone there

At the end of the finish line

Waiting

To give me water

To give me a towel

And say

You did it

Then I know

I won’t be afraid

So future hold back on those dates
Don't tell me yet
I'll tell you when I'm ready
I just hope
You're ready for me.