skkkkkkrrrrrrrrt.

Take it at face value, I want to be friends.

I won't accept your friend requests,
but I like all of your Insta posts.
I send snap chats to your little brother,
but I won't sit next to you at his best friend's house
I won't even be at the same end of the room.

I'm in the 6th grade
and
there's a boy in my basement who gives me 2 cents more than any other 7th grader
and
he txts me later,

 he found my number
in a cearel box,
 where prizes hide.

I'm in the 8th grade
and I borrow his jacket
we walk home from school together,
that's all.
He has eyes for a blonder beauty
sometimes,
she walks home too.

I'm in the 10th grade
He's never been coupled up like his friends
I'm still waiting for the 7th grade boy and his penny thoughts
so I give him my own,
more than 2 cents
more than 50
everything I have.

on my 16th birthday,
I think I have the world

In the 11 grade he left the world behind
went to learn about romance and God.
I wondered every day.
he never wrote back.

I am a sophomore in college
he is reaching
and reaching
I do not know,
if there are words to reply


I am still in the 6th grade
I won't answer his friend request to see if he notices
I will like all of his photos to see if he notices
I will wait for his penny thoughts hoping he notices
I will ignore his efforts,
in an effort to be tragic like the movies
romantic like his Italy,
mysterious like the magazines,
independant like the blonde he wanted to so many 8th grades ago.

hoping,
that he'll work for 2 cents again.

College Assignments Dude

He and I

He is waking up on Christmas morning without a gift,

 without decorations, without stockings stuffed, without cookies fractured.

 He is an empty tree, with empty branches; nothing but a single strand of popcorn wrapped around his arms­­—

I hate popcorn.

            I am a new puppy.

 I will follow where you walk, big brown eyes fixed.

 I am anxious and excited about every small thing: every car window, every open door, every scrap from the dinner table,

 every time you come home.

He is a big red bow. I am tugging at the ends.

 He is an empty box. I am still hopeful.

            We are a mountain filled with hot lava and our past is that of Pompeii.

I try to justify the damage by building a city on the ruins and using the old name, but the demolition has yet to lay dormant. 

I wonder if the city was just a beautiful way to see destruction meet hard work.

We erupted. 

When the ash clouded our eyes we must have mistook vacancy for a vaccination. How did we believe the doctor’s empty offices and excellent service fell hand in hand? How did we decide the red matter was no longer toxic in our relationship?

He was all kinds of red, but his red wasn’t just the lava, wasn’t just a bow; his red was how I filled in the pictures. It laced my thoughts and controlled my time. I watched Wizard of Oz and hoped if I clicked his red and my heels together we could find a way home.

 But he was more poison and I was more granny smith.

 His red was always his.

            I waited a hundred years for a safe place to build. He waited a mere two before he found his way back to the city.

 Looking back I can see the fences and the warning signs, the radio alerts and the way the history books were supposed to make you afraid.

 I never believed such a small mountain could be hiding such terrible things. I just wanted to build.

  He is a million lights hung just before the first snow, but one by one he will burn out in the cold.

 He is candy canes that taste like black licorice and he will tell you he tastes like sugarplum.

 He is cheap glue at the family gingerbread party and he is always one gum drop too short.

            I am too young to know better and too new to understand.

 I will make a mess of your carpet and I won’t learn the rules until the third scolding.

 I will be left behind for family vacations, soccer games;

 I will be put away for birthday parties, fancy dinners, movie nights; 

but I will show you the same love as our very first day every single time you pick me up.

  I do not wish to fit so easily behind a fence, or behave so poorly in front of your new friends. 

He does not wish to be remembered as the wrong shades of red.

 We do not wish to numb the city, but we know nothing better.

Dreaming

Pearly white gates of the airport, the last place I thought I'd be standing with you. 

He takes my clenched hands, unfolding them in his. Our eyes are sending signals and I knew I should have learned morse code before this moment. But it's too late. 

It's too late and he feels the weight of those words. He wraps his newly stiff arms around my back and begs my heart to lighten up if only for a moment. 

"But darling, I'm just flying south for the winter."  He whispers, "Come June the snow will melt and the flowers will stick their pretty little faces out of the gloom and I'll be running off a plane to get back to you."

He squeezed me in for one last moment. One last sign. One last glimmer of hope to make the snow worth it. He tapped his lips to my forehead in the shortest show of affection, to place the softest kiss on my trembling nerves. 

and all at once his suit coat was trailing behind a mass of people in bright colors and nice shoes. All rolling their dues to escape the same world. 

"Take care of him" I try to whisper but only mouth, "he's one of the good ones."

Find it.

Your Art Matters.

   Whatever is brewing beneath your veins

the clock hands that make only you tick

The secret talent you have yet to tell your mother about

It matters.

The shine in your eyes when you present your masterpiece

The music that shakes below your bloodstream--that gets your worn out legs out of bed in the morning
 the ideas that keep your heart racing at night--

and you eyes gasping at night--and your soul grasping at night

they matter.

They are your heartbeats put on display as passion.

They are the sunshine that will go down in history next to your name

forget the yearbook

this is so the little boy who wants to be something thinks of you.

So the curly pigtails walking down the 2nd grade hall right now has dreams for tomorrow.

You'll be on billboards and magazines and those stupid posters in the library where celebrities pretend to read

Because you gave a voice to something that matters
Because you showed the reality TV shows that the earthquakes in the way we feel are universal,

and history will forever be grateful.

You, are the modern day Monet.

The dance the sky does when you've made the perfect play

or created the perfect concoction

the bubbly you feel in your fingertips when you hold a pen

or a ball or the strings.

The sheet music that lives on the inside of your forehead

The recipe that is bursting from your taste buds

The floor plan your feet are anxious to walk

The greasy engine your fingertips are tinkering to tinker with

the turns your calloused feet are itching to sway

the heights your shoulders are panting to reach.

they matter.

they make you, you.
they are your DNA in the universe
the perfect way to shout your fears and your hopes and your anger out
 to stop you from drowning in the abyss of what feels like an ocean.
Your art is what makes these hallways bearable, those long days wearable, it is the only tunnel that escapes the terrible. 

There will be friends, and teenagers on the edge, and crowds of people just looking to feel something

there will be dark corners to crawl out of 

and lonely winters to melt out of

and isolated mountain tops to fall down from

and your art will do that. 

I was once told lonely is healing if you  make it that way.

and you will.

The philosophies and the things that make your brain turn

and the help you give and the words you share

the pieces of your heart that you scatter on anyone who will listen

they're like shelters

and laughter for the masses

they're like umbrellas and golden grilled cheese sandwiches on a rainy day

they make    a difference.

You will be the poster child for courage

and the PSA for passion

and the little girl with pigtails will ask you to sign the picture she puts on her wall.

Your art matters.

Your poetry, whether you are spilling secrets or perfecting grammar

whether you are the Rothko or the Ruben or the Rembrant

Your poetry,  whether it comes out of your feet or your hands or your eyes-

whatever way you decide to photograph your soul-

You putting your heart into something besides your claustrophobic rib cage,
it matters.

Heaven in the air

Its days like today that get me sentimental 

The mountains disappear into the clouds and I imagine heaven is touching down on earth for a few brief moments

Like a train stop for everyone who has ever passed, like a snow-globe-peek into our world.

"Last call for earth, last ticket call!"

And our loved ones file one by one out of the white,
coming on a day long excursion to spend a little time with the lives they don't get to live in.
It's why on rainy days I like to be on my best behavior,
What if they're comparing the past they remember with the present they're observing?
I never want them to feel I've gotten lost without them.
Like I was a distant responsibility they could never dimension right.

And they're not supposed to take souvenirs 

But some angels can't let go of the things they left behind
So I'll leave out a cold can of Pepsi and pull up basketball stats on my idle computer while I blast Elton John from all angles of the house.
    and I think it's okay because we get keepsakes and journal entries and prized possessions,
and all they get are rainy afternoons, one season of the year.


And before we know it the last flight home will drop its weight across the horizon.

It's can't be time to go already..
The sky is dumping its anguish, the clouds are darker than we appreciate and the air is brushing by fast and cold as we lose our guardians to the only ride home.
because God can't give them back. No matter how badly we want him to.


Regardless of our shooting star wishes and our desperation prayers and the silent eye pleas we try to hide on rainy days.
God can't give them back. No matter how badly they want him to.

Rubik's cube night.

my breath smells like tuna fish
 and he doesn't care.
He leans in and places the softest kiss on my lips
  like placing an artifact on the coffee table,
  like falling into a dream

 and tells me never to doubt that he loves me.
never to doubt that the stars wake up every morning for me
and the skin on my bones breathes because I deserve it
He tells me that no amount of tuna fish
or showerless days
or past tense secrets
could make me any less lovable.

He tells me I'm irristable.
 and he kisses me again

Sunshine

I wrote 'funeral - 11 am' at the top of my planner.

I couldn't write the name.

And 11 am didn't write his name either.
It wrote his personality and his gift and his hair,
oh that hair.
It was the casket and the attire and the program—
They screamed his name,    so we didn't have to.

Because no one should have to bury a little brother.

The choir left his space
and Spencer couldn't speak

and Chan did the missionary thing

No one should have to bury their little brother.

The Suits in the graveyard 

The cemetery packed with tears and tributes.

    God, this a warrior.

The car alarm that let us know Hunter attended his own funeral.
The man who couldn't let go of the casket.
And the way they stood together, like a broken family, missing the last thing they called home.

And they buried their little brother.

At 11 am the entire high school showed up to say goodbye to what they'd become.
but they haven't dug up the graves that line the lockers, yet.
They say he was depressed,
and they'll keep saying it to make themselves feel better.
Just more medicine that doesn't treat the right problem.
headaches on innocent minds that don't want an acceptance letter to the next four years.

We buried their little brother.

Go back to the support on a Sunday night
   paired with the mother who sobbed into a sharpie signed condolence.
Or jump ahead to the father with stress centered conversation the first week of December
   paired with a comment about ward choir and baked potatoes.



There's a Christmas tree going up in the Dahl home.
And they'd like anyone to bring by an ornament that represents him or simply a memory.
And with that hair,
 I expect all of you there.

They need us now more than ever.

Silent Car Rides

You're busy admiring the leaves today, forgetting they're not the only ones dropping in the cold.

You didn't see the chapel scraping to fill halfway,
                                            or the heartbreak of people smiling through tears.


There's something morbid about little girls in a graveyard.
Something about pink sweaters against pale bodies and taking roses to take them,
                                                                                                              not to put them on the casket.

I've seen too many funerals in my 18 short years.
The first time I met death was at 7 years old:
and here I thought I paid my dues.

but the painful decay of a hospital is something I haven't learned to deal with,
and I think God will keep giving me silence filled Emergency rooms, until I learn.

the florescent fish in the hallway are the only things that look remotely happy,
but if you take a closer peek, you'll see they're just as miserable as the rest of us.
Cooped up like prisoners in this clown house of grief

Shiny floors and green flashes of life and death. life and death.

 life and death.

Oxygen monitors. Complimentary cheese cubes.
                                                              Questions and prayers that God can't answer.

If you think your few months of college have seasoned you into adulthood,
wait until you hit the grill.

In Loving Memory 

- Jones Kay Christensen -

Cafeteria food

Downturned eyes and fidgeting hands,
pulling at the edge of your shirt to look busy.
Everytime I see bodies who don't fit the media's definition of thin
I worry that I'm seeing people who don't believe they are beautiful.
Who don't believe they are talented, strong, wonderful.

The lies we post on walls across America are starting to tell lies of their own.
Big eyes and a big heart hear mixed messages from a size 0 rack.
Little girls are painting pictures of what shouldn't be there instead of what is.
Little girls who don't believe they are beautiful.
Who don't believe that they should grow up to be big and strong.

Clocks tick like seconds are ants scurrying for crumbs
and we're not doing anything about it.
Crumbs are all anyone eats anymore.
Teenage girls who don't believe they are beautiful.
Who don't feel pretty in a prom dress or a profile picture.

Shifty comments and watery eyes,
They have to believe they are beautiful.
Paper dolls with paper thin waists plaster their pictures across the news
The runway can be so much worse than a plane crash
.

.

A green couch and a checkered shirt, what have I left behind?
We're trying for a normal conversation and when we come up for air all we have is adequate
I was taught you can never be too careful with your words,
But I'm just now learning that careful and tedious have different definitions.
Your voice is strained and mine, forced
And there's enough road between the two of us to make a weekend away inconvenient

 I put my hand on your chest the last time you told me you wanted to dance
and I didn't want to dance
And the aftertaste of a lost moment in the middle of the street is a feeling I can't wash off.

And I've showered for that purpose alone.

The streetlights probably laughed at me
'Kid, You'll regret this.'
and the night was just another night and I went home just the way I do.
But that street is no longer another street.
It's the one where I drop my sister off once a week
and it's the one I never got to dance with you on.

Around 6 o'clock the only people on campus are the ones holding hands with diamonds.
Or the ones that will be soon.
& it's hard not to think about you when the leaves change the same way they did when you let me in.
I remember the canoe date I didn't go on, twice.
And now I believe they're just another street light moment.

It's not so much that I need you,
but the world stopped spinning when you left and I've been dizzy ever since.
You left holes in walls not yet built
and everywhere I go you've have a fingerprint

The color of you chases away my favorite dreams and I wake up to sore eyes and isolation.
Mini March madness and a piano bench perfectly made for two.
It was like the puzzle was our best bet.

I talk about you often and I don't know if it hurts or heals
You puts rivers in the ocean and somehow your water always comes back to you.
I've been washed with the waves on a delicate cycle, just waiting to be put in the dryer.
And I'm ready to come home, but history has a way of deleting itself.

So I'm in college. What's up?

if you Google my school the only thing that comes up is the basketball team. And people everywhere will ask if I know the stars. But naming a constellation doesn't mean you know it's background. Orion only made it into orbit because he failed his day job,
and no one remembers his day job. They only want to know which electric current you can send them on to make their average lives feel glorious. They want to touch the moon without the years of preparation for the white suit.

The washed out treat friendship like a stepping ladder to that elusive minute with happiness, but I'm too low a rung to swipe my I.D. card for something to do on Friday night. They think a pair of sneakers can tell you everything about the benefits, like my alarm clock is some kind of advertisement for my profit. The early bird only gets the worm when no one else chooses to embrace the rain. Because God answers more prayers with thunder than he does with early morning skies.

Life is a balancing act and win or lose you touched the wire. I'm not saying it was worth it and I'm not saying it wasn't. I just know if you choose the irrelevant and come away unhappy no one wants to wipe your tears, they all have birthday parties to go to.

And if you think that the scratched walls they check once a month are anything but home you're in for a stiff 8 months. filled with people you probably should have gotten to know better and people you'll never see again. You're in for questions about the highest level the ladder reaches and you better get them right. Because the people digging themselves mountains don't realize there won't be treasure at the bottom of the trench. It's just a steep hike to a view of all the other somebodies who had to make themselves known.

And I guess that's a little harsh to say, because I don't know their day jobs either. But when it comes down to it, people stopped caring about what's behind the followers a long time ago.

Lake P.

It's been a year since we last talked but I spent the last week of my time with your little brother and instead of sleeping I looked at the stars, scared of how much I saw you.
It was the past I locked up in dreams and regrets and the thread came undone with a tug at simple mannerisms and genetic phrases.
It was you but it was all wrong
and I missed every second of right.

I thought I could tell you Happy Birthday.
Because you never seemed to forget.

But a simple reply and I had a spiraling staircase at my feet and for some reason I tried to walk down on my hands. No one's balance will last forever, but a girl can dream, right? And you didn't have to see the tumble or clean up the scraped knees under ripped jeans and you didn't watch your younger brother dig up our grave with jokes and patterns and a smile that is too close to the one you gave me when we danced.

"you always smile when we talk about him"

Don't tell me that. Don't you dare look me in the eyes and tell me the oceans he put between us and the years I put between our hearts didn't save something. I don't want to be rewarded with memories and rainy nights and car rides that made streets stand still.

But this isn't about the 16 year old who had earthquakes in his veins and firecrackers to throw at my feet. This is for the 19 year old who took me to Cafe Rio and asked me not to be stupid senior year and lit a match beneath my dreams with a hot air balloon ride tied to the future.

 I dreamed about your arms.
I dreamed about the way you held my hand like you were the first man on the moon and history deserved celebration. But when my eyes opened in the morning all I saw was his red shorts to match your old red jacket and a smaller wingspan with less of a history.

I think I'll write you a letter today, but only to remind you how much your mini is just like you. And how proud you should be of the person he's becoming.
And partly because I think I'd like to test my balance again.

I had an open house after graduation. I invited all my friends.

They didn't come.

They all went away this weekend.

"Oh my gosh we totally forgot to invite you, but you're probably working anyways, right?"

And I can honestly say it was the first time I didn't leak because I felt left out.

I wasn't sad.

I wasn't angry.

I was slightly hurt, but mostly

 just done.

Done with the high school cliques and the high and mighty games. Done chasing a pot of gold they were never going to give. Done with the girls who claim I'm invited but drop the conversation after "cute shoes."

You voted me Prom Queen, and President, and the most competitive senior superlative. 

I was a track team record holder and a cheerleader and I tried so hard to be so nice to everyone.

I did everything I could.
But it wasn't enough for you to want to see me on the weekends. 

You folded me up and put me back on the shelf until Monday morning rolled around and you needed something dark to cover the bloodshot whites.

I never had girlfriends in high school.

 And maybe that's why I was so upset over my boyfriend. 

He was my only best friend because no one else would be.

All I ever wanted was to be your friend.

But when I was looking for someone to call to calm the shock of Monday night, not a single one of you made the list.

I was searching for reliability and it was a closed audition - not that you wanted to sign up anyway. 

My mom wants me to throw an end of summer party and invite all my friends.

But I don't want her to get excited when I know the dusty way they accept my invitations.

TUESDAY COME SOONER.

I waited too long to tell you, and too long to realize.

(Technically it's not too late because you haven't died quite yet,) but something about screaming into the void doesn't sound appetizing. I cried driving to Provo today. I smashed my car against a wall that said you weren't coming to Provo. Not today or Ever. I'll walk campus alone and you'll walk the streets with people I'll probably never meet. and it's the way it's supposed to be.

Cause this, money can't buy this. and we, we are something special.

You don't want to mess with a lunar eclipse. You don't want to throw off the rhythm the rocket ships beat in as they pass through your heart. You just want to watch the music.

But open a bottle of the perfect wine too early and you've wasted a lot of value. No, I'm not saying we're the million dollar wedding, I'm just saying it wouldn't hurt to find out. And if we only get halfway there we can split our differences and go back to growing.

3 hand written letters and a box of old T-shirts. I have 3 pictures of you in my room and it's not enough to keep you around. Your mother told me to come visit, and your sister will always keep in touch, but it's not you. it's still not you.

You, who made wonderful synonymous with a smile. You, who was the first to hold on longer than I. You, who made the first hard goodbye and the only person with their own dedicated album. You, who made it all go away and all stand on the front lines at the same time. You, the man worth a weekly occurrence. You, the one I can't stop racing for. You, You, You, the one I have words for.

Words that stuck to the back of my throat like fly paper. Words in the form of thick honey, too sweet and too slow moving. Words that would change things. And that's all I have left now, words for you that I was always too afraid to let walk home alone.

Cats.

Places you should not take your cat.

• The swimming pool
• The dentist
• A First date
• A second date
• A 3rd, 4th, or 5th date
• A cat play date. 
• Seriously, don't have one of those.
• Graduation
• A funeral
• Hawaii
• Your closet
• Antarctica
• The mall
• The shower
• The office
• Rock Concerts
• Facebook
• Outside your house
• Inside your house
• Seriously
• Just don't have a cat

JFCV

A little bit happy and a little bit worried.
Overthinking is my specialty and your smile is the soup of the day.
Tonight your eyes went from locked to laughter and I caught a peek of the boy who turned his life around.
I don't know what changed you, but I'm glad you found it on the side of the road, or in your cereal box or wherever good things hide.
I could walk a park with you for days and still not recognize the swings we've passed more than we've breathed and I hope I get the chance to.
There's a someday somewhere inside your talk of the future and I don't mean to push the edges of the package but I'd like an invite to your plans. Wherever they may be.
And maybe now was the perfectly wrong place to start because we're both a little jaded from people who said they'd never hurt us but still managed to pull the trigger. People who shouted their love, only to choke on their words.
Maybe now was the perfectly wrong time because the countdown to 6am days has already begun and you don't need someone to get you in the habit of midnights.

All I know is I looked into your eyes, intimidated, too many times before this moment, you've given me a bursting mold and dripping apologies for the way I read you differently.

What are the chances you would lean in and let my lips do less than breathing for just a few short moments. One. Two. Three.

We'll never know if we picked the same number, but the last second before your mind picked will tell you if you wanted to train me to fight wars I don't know that I believe in.
and maybe I don't understand vulnerability quite like you cause I had wishing wells instead of puddles in the 4th grade. But every race has a last place finish and I wouldn't mind the end if there was a hand to hold in the crossing.

She is five feet of trouble and she's asked every bank in the nation to make change.

She watched her pile of dreams work it's way into the teenage campfire as 'kindling,' and 'fuel.'
Fuel that was supposed to fill her car and take her across America
   but maybe she'll waste less gas money with less weight in the car.
No one can seem to break the hundred her sophomore year made her save and save and save.
No one can break the mentality that one hundred is more beautiful alone than with a cherry on top.

They think she's a fraud and won't pay off the loan.
If she temporarily believes in saving up, don't dash away her delusions.
On the 4th of July she put on her dreams and even her mother knew she wasn't ready.
She looked in the mirror and saw fear instead of excitement.
But don't tell that to the 2nd grade journal wishes.
Don't tell that to the 7 year old dressed up for Halloween.
Don't tell that to the beating heart who thinks he's done his part.

She is an addiction. And a relapse. And a piece of work.
She sheds more tears than light and that's surprising because people look at her for sun.
She is five feet of trouble and five years of insecurities.
She is a size 0 that is too small and never small enough.

and she's asked every cashier for cash back
All they say is 'Sorry, we don't do that here.'

MM-ZB

To the girl who had her heart broken by another one of them.

To the blue dress and high heels today that were just a charade in case he was around.

High school relationships will never be worth the tears we lay down and the anger and the bitter and the gossip. oh heavens it will never be worth the gossip.

and we think venting is a good way to out, but then venting turns into a habit and we keep keep keep talking about it 

and talking about him

and the more we keep keep keep him on our mind the harder it is to watch him keep keep keep leaving.

forget about him.

You have a smile and a humor and a pair of legs he would be lucky to take with him in his pocket. If his memories find their way to your doorbell, answer, but don't invite him in. You deserve a man who waits at the door in the rain with a bouquet and a box of chocolates and I know that doesn't happen in high school 

so forget about him.

You're going to find better men with better taste in wristwatches and right now you don't care but in 3 years it'll make him refined. You're going to go to senior prom with someone who makes you forget them. and it's going to be alright because it's just high school. It's just trial and error and I promise you aren't coming out with success yet, so just keep keep keep learning and making errors and spending too much time on stupid decisions. He doesn't matter. He doesn't matter.

no cheese

Today I watched pressure sit on my shoulders until I let it have it's way.

The smiles and the curls and the salmon bruschetta and row L,  

they were supposed to be the happiest day on the perfect dream-come-true Saturday afternoon.

It was one comment about a messed up order. but it was so much worse. 

It was all the starlit nights I spent under thick ceilings and all the boxes I never checked off because the mail never did seem to bring me invitations.

It was the time frame and rubber gloves and the alarm clock and the drain pipe that kept getting plugged along with the promises that left without saying goodbye.

It was the rainy windows and the dirty Friday night floors and the locked door in Salt Lake at 4:30.

It was the way I've heard more profanities in the last two weeks than I have in my whole life.

You can call me a mess to my face because I know they all said it behind my back. 

I threw water down in every sense and strangers have never been nicer to a minimum wage salad girl. 'So done with today,' doesn't even begin to describe my mood. and they didn't give me a list of chores, but no one showed up with glass slippers either. 

When they handed me my diploma I thought I was done living under a cloud of people that only see dirt below, but lucky me, I get to serve them tins of satisfaction in regular or small and an extra dose of fabrication for just fifty cents more

 And I know I only have 14 days until I forget this feeling and 28 until they give me a higher view,

and maybe jealousy just makes for lousy manners ,

and small talk isn't a strong suit for people who spend money that they've never earned,

but 14 days is a long time to spend doing laundry and restricting free spirits 

and I'm ready for the tension to sit in idle so I can enjoy the A/C without the lane changes

7/5/2014

I'm losing followers like no ones business and I don't think I care anymore.
I finally gave up the fight I have to put up inside myself to be included in plans that were never planned around my attendance.
They won't be the roommates or the best friends or the lunch dates to weather the years with,
so I'm done buying new eggs to put in a broken basket.

It's bottomless, really, the list of things I've started to notice decaying.

The alarm clock ringtone came in the form of a car ride and a snapchat and a wake up call about choices versus intentions. The mess of shells and whites at my feet weren't going to be worth spreading on all my newest shoes just so I can show BYU I had some sort of friendship in high school.

As soon as the need for a picture of every possible interaction was buried, my wasted moments flew out the door. Living the fireworks of 4th of July will always be better than a picture of them. So why lose a second of excitement to get your 'perfect angle?'

The skyscraper list of things I've not let myself try alone is shrinking at an alarmingly beautiful rate and the ease of my being has bought out the property. If I could go back to the first Easter where they told me to collect as much candy as I could find, I'd tell myself to forget about the competition and enjoy the chocolate. 

Just enjoy the chocolate.