Dear August,
I am not ready for another heartbreak. I swear I am not. But my best friend who I’m secretly in love with told me that he will be confessing to the girl he loves when you finally come, and he is planning to court her. I lost him again, and I know its my fault because I never actually told him that I loved him, or even made him feel that I do. I know its my fault that now he’s starting to slip of my fingertips. I never told him how his smile is so beautiful that I cant help but stare. I never told him he’s the one I get up everyday to see, I never told him about the butterflies in my tummy that flutter when he’s around, or how his voice is my favorite song, his laugh my favorite sound, and how I love him to the moon and back, or even to the ends of this infitely expanding universe. I didn’t, and now I’m loosing him. ’m afraid of your coming, August,I honestly don’t want to see what’s gonna happen next. I don’t want to see my heart shatter in front of me again. I want to sleep, and close my eyes, and not hear and see anything. I don’t want to feel this way.

Please august, just tell me when you’ve finally left. Tell me when you’ve ended. I’m not ready for this.

Sincerely.
Niña

When I was four years old
I didn’t pick up a doll
I picked up a pen
And wrote my first poem about the stars.

I was four.
Now I’m sixteen.

I’m sixteen, and I stopped writing.
Because I just can’t seem to blend in.

I stopped writing because they said my poems weren’t to deep and interesting
Because they said it didn’t contain aggressiveness
Because they said it didn’t contain rants about feminism or sexuality.

I stopped writing because they said my words were too light and easy to understand.
Because they said the words that I choose aren’t those words that you have to look up in the dictionary to find out its meaning and it is not more than 8 letters long.
They said my poems are lame and me taking a profession in writing is wrong.

I stopped writing because they said my stories were about learning a lesson and they said stories like those are just for kids.
They wanted stories that strike out rebellion and hatred and darkness and pain
and not those that speak about true love and friendship and care.

I stopped writing because they said Im not good enough,
because my poems
My words
My stories
Don’t blend in wit the others.

They told me I was no writer.
They told me I was just a girl with a pen and paper, living with empty and meaningless words
And pile of works that will never be red by anyone.

Im just a girl with a pen and empty words
I’m no writer
So I put down the pen
The ink
And the paper.

And stopped..