The end of the high (school) roadBy Brooke Kimbrough

I am ready to uproot some weeds. People, "friends", will dig into you like freshly moistened soil.

You trust them.

You don't recognize how vulnerable you've let yourself become, until the first weed sprouts."What happened to the daises?" you wonder as the sun begins to rise.

The weed starts to grow. From casual jokes to blatant insults. They have thorns now. You weren't always so needy but you are now. They have sucked you dry. Dry from your giving.

Are you giving tree?

You once enjoyed the youthful playing. But now, it's not a game anymore. I have no branches, or apples, or help, or comfort, or understanding because my lawn is matted.

"It's a jungle out there" they say. I can't help but draw the parallels between the jungle "out there" and the jungle "in here".

They are one in the same.

You are not the proud tree; you're a chameleon.

A common character in jungle.

Average. Standard. Expected?

These are the best years of your life they say. So you blend. You blend like the eye-shadow on the first pair of your four eyes.

Blink.

In that second we see something that you've been hiding. "Who is there?"

So you blend again. You grab the paintbrush and get some colours and mix. That's not the colour you wanted. But you are painted already. You are the master chameleon. The giving connoisseur.

Or is that even who you are?

"Who are you?" I wonder. You have a grip on pieces of you. It's like going to build-a-bear workshop in a lot of ways. You pick out a body suit, it's not fit or slim, in fact it's kind of squishy and soft. It's cute. You stuff it with a bunch of white shit because there's nothing real to put in there. Then a heart. Sew it without putting the insides in order because, to be honest, it doesn't really matter.

You walk around and find ridiculous clothes to put on and call it a day. You pay for the expensive nothings and walk out just as empty as before you walked in.

You're all there, visually speaking.

So why are you so. . . incomplete? You're hopeful though. You remember the days when your garden was beautiful; branches full, canvas clean, and just you.

In a few days you'll be moving away. Who will mend the garden while your gone?

This garden is a cemetery now.

It is death of insecurity.

False entitlement.

Shallow friends.

Sheltered life.

And captivity.

You are moving to your own jungle. Pulling the ropes of nature and starting over. And this time you'll look down and see (unfortunately it's mostly cornfields in this jungle) a budding flower. You can't distinguish what it is, but it is beautiful isn't it?

Water the soil.

Wait for the next memories to grow.