Sixteen years of life and still,

I write.

Notebooks, journals, diaries

whatever you want to label it,

it makes no difference.

Different names, 

same reasons.

Notebooks we call it,

in hopes to divert and bamboozle

our parents and obstinate twelve year old brothers

from reading our secret entries and letters

to dreamy Drake and jocky Josh. 

Journals we call it, 

too scared to admit and accept that we still 

write about how our day is going to this imaginary friend.

Dear Me, Dear Danielle, Dear Mary.

Diaries we call it,

if we are gutsy enough.

"Dear Diary,

I’m loney. So lonely.

P.S.

Write back please.

Love, 

Dhia.”

We write to truly express 

what goes through our minds,

what feelings we really feel,

what words we can’t say,

in fear to blush, to cry, to smile.

What we fear most is society

and life itself. 

We are aghast, reluctant, destitute,

superstitious, confused, rebellious, 

too arrogant.

Too much pride.

At age 3, my grandpa died. 

To this day, I don’t cry about his death because I don’t remember.

I cry because of the unknowns I want to know.

Was he sweet, nice, funny? Did he smile from ear to ear like my dad? Did he like badminton as much as me?

Age 5, I had to move schools.

Age 8, I meet my best friend Paola from preschool one day at recess. 

We hugged, laughed, smiled. 

We never called each other “best friend” again.

At age 11, I have to wear this ugly polka dot dress to my 5th grade promotion.

At age 12, I am attending Cubberley middle school to finally be with my childhood crush, Austin.

At age 13, the nurse tells me I have scoliosis.

At age 13, I get into a fight.

It’s rainy.

I have a black eye and truth be told, I peed my pants.

I get home.

My dad opens the door.

I cover my face with my shirt, looking away. 

I tell him I got elbowed in P.E.

It was a tie.

At age 13, I steal Claire’s gray boots with suede bows sewed onto them. 

I planned this weeks ago.

How I would drop my coat on top of her boots and stuff it in my bag

only to be called into the office two days later, 

they found my notebook where I planned. 

I was sent to truancy for two days.

No charges.

The look on my dad’s face.

Deadly.

I was an embarrassment at home and school

for six months.

At age 14, I broke up with Austin after eight months.

We never kissed. 

My first love, 

maybe. 

Or so I thought.

And still, think.

I transfer schools. 

At age fifteen, I’m a freshmen at Long Beach Polytechnic high school.

Life is good.

I wear eyeliner now.

I have many friends.

I fail my first class ever, 

Pre-Physics.

My grandma has a stroke.

I skip a week of school for the first time ever, 

in my life.

Suicide thoughts. 

Some drunk guy talks nonsense 

at my grandma’s funeral.

My cousin almost follows him to the bathroom.

I’m sixteen. 

I moved to Fresno after I attended my first ever homecoming game.

Poly won,

no surprise. 

I start my advice blog. 

I’m lonely, scared, confused.

Still haven’t had my first kiss.

What we fear we can’t say, 

what we fear will make us barbaric, 

what we fear will make us a laughing stock, 

writing will always keep us sane. 

Writing will not judge.

Writing will not disapprove.

It will simply just listen.

In a way, it will make us realize 

that we make mistakes

for the best or for the worst

because we are sane.

Writing keeps me standing 

even if it’s on the brink of capability,

even if I think “I’m too tired.”

Poems are my saviors.

Writing is my safe haven.

It keeps me sane.