My Relationship with Words.

Hi lovelies! Recently, I’ve had a LOT of thoughts running through my mind. Normally, I would jump straight to journaling and academic writing to express myself. That’s all I’ve ever done, or rather, all I’ve ever allowed myself to do. When essay outlines and daily entries fail me, I never really know where to go. Sometimes I text a friend, record myself talking on Snapchat (permission to laugh), or just sit with my thoughts until I fall asleep. However, something clicked recently. I was listening to the A24 podcast episode with Lorde and Hunter Schafer titled “Divine Frequency”, when Hunter and Lorde discussed something that put my creative expression into perspective. In addition to being my celebrity crush/current obsession, Hunter Schafer is a pretty established visual artist in addition to acting and modeling. Of course, Lorde is an esteemed music artist, creating certified teenage pop bangers like Ribs, Supercut, and The Love Club. They both talked about how their creative manifestation presents itself in doodles and music. Hunter said herself, “I’ve never been good with words.” Both of these pop culture icons found oasis in their respective creative outlets, and not in writing. Hunter explained, “I wish I was good at writing. I’ve always found them (words) too constricting.” This lead me to reflect on my creative outlet, the very thing they avoided: words.

I was recently informed that one of my essays from last semester was unanimously chosen to be published in my university’s undergraduate academic journal! You can only imagine my excitement: a published author! Has a nice ring to it, if I don’t say so myself :) Academic writing has always been a strong suit of mine; if there’s ever an option for an essay over a test, I am the first to advocate for it. As I began to evaluate my newfound success, I thought about other forms of writing I enjoy, this blog being one of them. We’re The Stars has become more of a playful writing outlet for me than anything else, and for that, I am super grateful. Amdist all of the writing I do in my life, I noticed a lack of space for ideas that are a bit more serious.

Poetry was something I heavily connected with in 6th grade. Now I know that sentence sounds kind of counter-intuitive, because it totally is. I wasn't very good at writing poetry in 6th grade, as one can imagine, but I’ve consistently found comfort in the infinite amount of meaning a poem allows. There’s always something you can find in the cracks between lines. It’s hard to say what the author wants you to think — and I think that’s the beauty in it. Poetry is so innately personal. So, with all of this in mind, I decided to give it a try. I was nervous— I have a few very talented poets as friends (hey Khloe :). For a long time, I convinced myself I could never measure to those I knew in terms of poetry. But I realized that my poetry doesn’t have to, and probably won’t, look or sound the same— and that’s the point. As I was writing, I found myself listening to certain songs as I wrote each poem. I decided to include these so feel free to listen to them as you read! Without further adieu, here is some of my recent poetry! Enjoy :)

hugs, maddie <3

click— (lo vas a olvidar- billie eilish & rosalía)

Insert. Turn. Click. The lock stuck to the right as she pressed her left shoulder into the brassy yellow wood of the door. An inhale; an exhale. One last body check through the doorframe allowed her to spill into the L shaped box in the sky. It mimicked a home. But it wasn’t home. It was merely a room. It was a physical space, holding in its walls a coursing loop of anxiety that only renews during each 2 month bout of breathing, living Manhattan. 

A breath of stagnancy left her mouth as she fumbled the key out of the lock, catching her lanyard against the handle. Aggravated, pulling, pulling again, yanking it harder as though the metal would suddenly morph around the red woven strap, allowing her to escape. It didn’t, of course. Physics stood her rightful ground again.

She gave up, turning back to unlace her lanyard from the stark metal of the door handle. Scalding hot tears of frustration bubble into her clear blue eyes, only amplifying the rage of the ocean that courses through them, day and night. The force of feminine fury only the ocean can depict. Sailors take warning. 

She wipes her tears harshly towards the nose of her ancestors, one that she once despised, yet now looks to for force and reassurance of her purpose. She remembers to wipe inwards because God Forbid she wipe outward. No, that would create lines on her face. Lines telling of her age, the age of her mind that so far exceeds that of her body. How frustrating that even in her anger she upholds statutes that are not her own. Is she ever to think for herself?

Dumping her bag onto the filthy ground she cleaned mere hours before, she avoids the mirror with great care. Knowing that if she were to turn, she again would allow herself to take an ugly throne on her own shoulder, only to whisper things into her ear she didn’t even believe. Not today. Not today. Not right now. She has to think she is stronger. Even if it is a weak, weak lie. 

A shuddered sigh. A tight pressing of her eyelids. The ocean’s ravenous tide escapes from her eyes, again. Left leg. Two arms. A push. Okay. She’s there now. A miracle.

In two. Out two. In two. Out two. She tries to recall the counting she whispered to her younger sister over the phone. How is she a teacher at her age? Eighteen? What does she know? More than anyone cares to hear. She knows she takes greater care in her baby sister than she does the world. The tide does not stop. Wipe inwards. 

It’s snowing now. Was it not the faint scent of spring under her nose two days ago? Another reminder of the fate of her generation. How can they be expected to incite revolutions when they are outrun by the clock? Wipe inwards. 

She watches it fall. At some point around the skyline it changes. White to gray. It almost looks like ash. She convinces herself it’s only water. She won’t let herself picture ash before it becomes a reality. Too soon. Not now. The tide comes again. Wipe inwards. 

She scolds herself to collection. Present yourself. It’s a matter of time before another click in the lock. Be there for your friends, your sisters in the face of danger. She hears it. A click. There it is again. The tide. Wipe inwards. Push it inwards. 

eye contact — (seventeen going under- sam fender)

Only one earbud. Only one hand in your pocket. Running shoes. Balled fist. No eye contact. 

Rocking back and forth to the beat of the distraction in my ears, I look up. At least it isn’t an empty platform. Stand near the middle. Is that another?

There she is. A light in the uncertainty of the future. Another girl. Eye contact. Eye contact is okay now; eye contact is a life line. 

A slight nod encompasses our bond, an inviolable understanding. We see each other. We acknowledge our place in this world, in this city, on this platform. Her eyes beg, Look out for me.

I will. 

It’s coming now. The rumblings of arrival shake the platform. Stand near the center, I think. I hope she hears me. A bell tone. This is an uptown D train. Next stop: 42nd Street, Times Square. Eye contact. We enter the same car. Sitting square from each other, watching the other’s back. This is womanhood.

Threats of misogyny come from both ends of the metal cabin. Frantic. Eye contact. We pull out our phones in perfect silence and synchrony. It’s almost as if we’ve trained for this. It’s almost as if we’ve been told this would happen. It’s almost as if this has happened before. 

At least we have each other. 

It’s time for me to go. My stop is next. Eye contact. We pull into the station. I only hope my eyes can convey my frantic apology as I stand up. Thank you. I’m sorry. Look out for yourself.

I step off the train, only to exist again on a different platform. 

Running shoes. Balled fist. No eye contact.