Power

The system broken, the school's closed, the prison's open. We ain't got nothing to lose, everybody, we rolling! With some light-skinned girls and some Kelly Rowlands, in this white man world, we the ones chosen. So goodnight, cruel world, I'll see you in the morning. This is way too much, I need a moment.

No one man should have all that power. The clock's ticking, I just count the hours. Stop tripping, I'm tripping off the power. 'Til then, that, the world's ours.

I just needed time alone with my own thoughts. Got treasures in my mind, but couldn't open up my own vault. My childlike creativity, purity, and honesty is honestly being crowded by these grown thoughts. Reality is catching up with me, taking my inner child, I'm fighting for custody. With these responsibilities that they entrusted me, as I look down at my diamond-encrusted piece.

Colin Powells, Austin Powers. Lost in translation with a whole nation. They say I was the abomination of Obama's nation, well, that's a pretty bad way to start the conversation.

I got the power make your life so excitin'. Now this will be a beautiful death. I'm jumping out the window, I'm letting everything go. I'm letting everything go.

No one man should have all that power!

- Kanye West

Past Life

You think I'm lost, but that's just how you found me. You saw me standing at the edge, mistook my stillness for uncertainty. But I wasn’t waiting to be saved. I was just watching, just breathing, just existing in a space that wasn’t meant to be claimed. Well, maybe, I'm the stranger after all. The one who drifts, who never quite settles, who always keeps a part of herself just out of reach. Maybe that’s why you looked at me the way you did - like I was something unfamiliar, something you wanted to understand but never quite could.  

Always wondered what would happen if I let you lose me. If I stopped holding space for you, stopped leaving breadcrumbs back to me. Would you even notice the silence? Or would you mistake it for peace? Always wondered what would happen if I let myself need more. If I stopped making excuses for less. If I let myself say, "This isn’t enough," instead of, "This will do."

When I'm older, I might decide that wanting more isn’t a flaw, that settling isn’t the same as staying, that love shouldn’t feel like convincing someone to choose me. Now I'm fine to leave you in a past life. Fine to let the version of me that stayed, that waited, that hoped—fade into something distant. Fine to walk forward without looking back. Maybe you found me once. But I don’t think you ever really knew me.

Ariana Grande was playing in my headphones last night, and my heartbeat matched her as she sung the new tracks on Eternal Sunshine Deluxe: Bright Days Ahead. Oh, the lyrics resonates with me at a depth that gives me goosebumps. Music is everything. The boys I've loved and lost, the best friends I've had close before they drifted away. It's a part of growing up, and life itself, but I have a hard time moving on. Until these songs, strangely enough. Thank you Ariana, sincerely, Lenna.

Dreamgirl

I don't know if it is a good idea to write this one, but I think it's beautiful and important enough to be posted. We all know the endless retelling of the story; an older man and a younger girl. While most of the tales are written in the mans point of view, we have the rare example of movies like Millers Girl. I have the opportunity to be desired strongly. Be a dreamgirl.

Today I was walking, and an older man stood in a window, staring at me with wide eyes and a faded smile, and when I looked at him, he waved. I waved back. He was probably left wondering if it was a daydream. It very much looked like it. In the library last week, there was a man sitting with that same look in his eyes. I sat down in front of him and opened the book Lolita to read. He was over the moon, but I walked away again. Anyway, when girls my age complain about the attention and stares, I love them. I know what they want, but I leave them out of reach for it. I never go too far, but far enough that I feel... loved? Listen to Lana Del Rey's debut album, dear reader. And let me apologize for this post.

Like a dreamgirl, Lenna

Perfection is a lonely crown

I suppose I could be careless. I could scribble my assignments in dull graphite, half-hearted and crumpled at the edges, like the girls who roll their eyes when I raise my hand in class. I could let a question pass me by, let someone else answer. But why should I? Why should I shrink myself just to make them comfortable?

I’m not sorry for my neat handwriting and perfect grades. I'm not sorry that my makeup and outfits are flawless every day, or that I wealth you could wish for. Weekends in luxury hotels and money lying in my room, forgotten. I’m not sorry for the way the teachers linger on my essays or the way I make it all look effortless—because it is. Perfection isn’t a burden to me; it’s a crown. And while they’d rather break it than wear it themselves, that’s not my problem.

I have forgotten who I am, and tried to blend in, become invisible. But I am no longer there. It’s funny how admiration turns sour so quickly. Girls who once whispered for help on tests now whisper behind my back. They call me names that don’t fit, act like my kindness is something sharp, something dangerous. And maybe to them, it is. But their jealousy is such a predictable shade of green, almost flattering in a way.

It doesn’t help that downtown, I’m something else. Shops ask me to model their clothes, drape me in silk and lace, let me parade in their windows. And oh, the way their faces burn when they see me in a new dress, light catching in my hair, attention falling on me like it’s gravity. They’d rather call me conceited than admit they wish they could be me.

But not him.

He watches me differently. Not with spite, not with jealousy—but hunger. Like I’m a question he can’t answer, a poem he can’t quite write. I feel his gaze in class, the way he lingers when I speak, the way he listens when others don’t. And when he smiles at me, it’s not like the others. It’s real. It's something rare, something perfect, something I might just let myself want. Late night texts leads me to lean towards him and ask if he wants to join a group project. He's half Swedish, half German, and a head taller than me.

Perfection is a lonely crown. But if he keeps looking at me like that, maybe I won’t wear it alone.

Yours Truly, Lenna 👑

Porcelain eyes

Don't you look at me like that, it's just too real. His dark eyes search mine, pleading, but I can’t let them linger. If I do, I might break. The wind is sharp against my bare arms as we step further into the night, away from everything I’m supposed to be. He reaches for my hand, and I let him, just for now. Just until the streetlights flicker behind us, just until the weight of my life fades into the silence between our footsteps. "Tell me something real," he says, voice soft, but I only smile, tilting my head toward the sky. "Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to."

His grip tightens, like he can hold me here, like I’m not already slipping. But I always slip. We walk until the city hums into the background, the noise of my thoughts finally quieting. His lips brush against mine-gentle, patient-but I pull back, tasting the words I can't say. "It's late," I whisper, even though I wish the night would stretch forever. "You don’t have to go back, Eleanor," he tells me, but we both know that’s not true. So I shake my head, stepping away, pulling my jacket tighter around me. "You knew what this was."

His jaw clenches, but he doesn't stop me as I turn. He won’t follow—he never does. Because no matter how much he wants me, I’ll never be his.

Just a secret. One he’ll never forget.