Pinedaless by Amy Miller (15, Guam)

I hate writing. 

I hate how every noun needs to be fresh, 
Needs to sound like a C-major scale from a world-class pianist
who just went through two divorces and five mental breakdowns,
Needs to be mellow like the heavy raindrops​

---

that mar your skin with wry lullabies, 
Needs to be yellow-green like the school jacket 
you got the other day from a friend 
—the same friend that hated red-purple. 

​I hate how every adjective needs to be learned, 
Needs to be treated like princesses 
who spent the nine hours of their day 
“laboring” in that God-forsaken ivory tower, 
Needs to be loved like the forgotten teddy bear 
you swore you’ll never hug once you turn 16, 
Needs to be eyed like those ambitions 
you swore you’ll reach after you turn 18. 

​I hate how every adverb needs to be berated, 
Needs to be treated like the mold that 
eats at your disorganized pantry and your 
equally disorganized room, 
Needs to be effaced like the deer that leaped across
the road as your cousin drunkenly drove, 
Needs to be obscured like the secret your cousin 
was trying to hide by drinking. 

​I hate how every verb needs to be blindsighting, 
Needs to be planned like the blueprints 
that inhabit your dad’s desk 
—the same ones that fuel his workaholic habits, 
Needs to be asphyxiating like the chemistry class
​you decisively took up in junior year 
--the same one fuels your workaholic habits, 
Needs to be burned like the jungles in Guam
And displaced by Americanized franchises 
—the same franchises that promised 
to be more “eco-friendly” this year. 

​I hate how every preposition needs to be mature,
Needs to be taught how to talk 
like the boy in your class who asked 
why girls were so aggressive, 
Needs to be grown like the plants you killed 
Through your inherited black thumb 
—the same plants you were supposed to grow for a contest,
Needs to be disciplined like you once were 
when you failed yet again to get the blue ribbon for said contest
--the blue ribbon that (they’ve) you’ve always wanted. 

I hate writing, 
But I can’t dismiss how she flawlessly describes
​My frustrations with her existence, 
Like she fully knew she was going to be 
Mocked, chastised, and censured 
By plebeians like me 
But chose not to care about it either way 
Because she knew she’d be 
Praised, respected, and nurtured 
By the restless, the fearless, and the endless. 
By the careless, the helpless, and the hopeless. 
By the joyless, the quenchless, and the Pinedaless.