Dialogue: My mind is full of words that never seem to stop flooding in until I get them on a page, and when I can’t or don’t have time, I feel like I might just explode from all the words words words like air filling a tire. 

Digestion: To the doctor who stole my gallbladder: at least let me turn the stones into jewelry so I can have some piece of that part of me you took.

Dairy: Tell a child at age nine that ice cream will forever make her body ache and pizza will turn quickly to humiliating bathroom visits and she will never be able to enjoy a cheeseburger without knowing it will cause more pain than it satiates her hunger. Tell her no milk chocolate. Tell her no whipped cream.

Dog: Let her tongue be what reminds you that your love is not one-sided and ignore when people say it’s disgusting because to you it feels like love. 

Drown: The anxiety will try to crush my spirit but my therapist once told me that you are never safer than when you are having a panic attack because it means your body is putting itself into defense mode, just for no reason. It’s overprotective, like a helicopter parent. 

Diary: Everything that isn’t written has no proof, and I need to remember what I had for dinner last week. 

Declare: Although my voice may shake, it is strong enough to move one or two people or make them laugh. I cannot stay silent in the back of the class. I will tremble my way to something poetic, something strong, something that makes a difference.