Oh Hiiii.

You intruder!
How dare you enter into my boring, scheduled life without warning.

Its true that I might possibly be staring at the LCD screen of my laptop waiting for pages about philosophy to drift onto the white blank page of a word document.

It may also be true that I'm listening to the Frozen soundtrack even though people who do that constantly tend to drive me insane.

It's true that I have done nothing productive for two and a half hours, and I've been watching Christmas videos and daydreaming without a care in the world.

{It's also true that I have a five page paper due tomorrow. I don't even know what I'm writing it on yet}

And yes, this is an atypical, journalistic post. I'm mixing it up.

Mostly I'm writing on here because otherwise I'm going to say something really embarrassing to someone about how I can't focus because my mind is on one thing.

Also, I just went outside without a jacket on to 1) have an excuse to make hot chocolate and 2) see if possibly you were out there.

Why would you be outside?

And my letter with my blood type hasn't come in the mail yet.

How on earth am I supposed to focus on anything when I don't even know my blood type for sure? This is probably a conflict that every hard working college student goes through every day.

Anyway, I just wanted to say that you are on my mind,
Always,
Every day,
Every minute,
Every time I say you aren't,
and every time I go to sleep.

Nobody knows why, or how you did it, but you did. You penetrated my mental walls (that resemble a prison) and entered in without a key. Who do you think you are? Get out, louse. Get out.

Either that or come help me write my paper.

lies

Shred my cheeks to pieces,

Tear my thoughts,

Bleed my veins.

Something untold is clearly irrelevant and something forgotten longs to be remembered. The porch swing rocks in the chafing wind and I stare at it with an eternal hatred that fills my lungs with noise. If only I could blame it on its peeling paint. Blame it all on the creaking chains that dangle from the trellis above. What I wish could be simple sighs morph into screams of disgust and pain and while you bury yourself in a pit I hold the shovel. 

I sit alone forever in a room full of eternal promises that have never been kept. I claim your words as my bread and meat but find no solace in your actions. A divergent mind plays upon my emotions and I dance with the unlucky ghosts of her former suitors. A silken hand runs across the nape of my sunburned neck and I cannot control the shiver that runs deep into my hairline. I want to whip around this instant and scrape every lie off your face with my fingernails.

Impale me.

Crush my bones and

leave me for dead

but please 

never forget me.

Those flaming eyes that once burned the oxygen I breathed are now nothing but rotting pits that need to be removed. I long past all longing for the past, salvaging the last remains of my memories and sensory experiences before all turn to sandpaper and sawdust. I roll up my sleeves and begin to polish each one with a meticulous carefulness that would put glassblowers to shame. My knuckles crack and bleed and fill each memory membrane with the dark red fluid that startles even the most innocent creature. They no longer taste sweet, and I realize what they've been this whole time.

LIES
LIES
LIES
LIES
LIES
LIES

Hateful post because you Aren't.

{Found saved as a Draft on 2/13/13}

I'm thinking of how you aren't.
How you aren't the same person I knew
Who dreamed of the world and
knew he couldn't have it.
How you aren't the only one who cares,
or even someone who cares at all.
You aren't you, and I'm not me.
You aren't the narcissistic maniac who,
sometimes,
had a moment of sanity for me alone.
Instead the sanity is opened to an apathetic audience
who applauds your normality as you crowd-surf on their bias.
You're attempting individuality but only conforming to the norm
And I hate you for it.
I'm thinking about how you aren't.

about a nobody.

Interlaced in your fingers is a twine made out of stars, twisting and swirling their light between your rough knuckles. Your hands remind me of the kind of worn-down sandpaper that tingles your skin when it makes contact and is thrilling in a strange, whimsical way. Euphoria and insomnia are your favorite words and, as much as I hate to admit it, I love them because you do. Your hair reminds me of the spun gold in Rumpelstiltskin, and your eyes leave traces of forever in every place they wander to. I think it's the freckles that invite me so willingly to remember and the never-changing smile that reminds me of the nearest future.
Please, start running and never come back.
Please, find a portal and enter in without hesitation.
Please, give me a reason to rent a moving truck.

JUST LEAVE ME ALONE OKAY

I never want to see those handsome dimples again.

If you think you know who this is about,

it isn't you or anyone else.

It isn't nobody.

sweet apple cider

All I'm thinking about is them, and you, and spices that smell like Christmas Eve in Germany. My senses are imprisoned and all I can think about is that sweet apple cider, sitting, steaming in a mug, waiting, wanting me to sip until every ounce of me is drenched in Johnny Appleseed goodness. Pour it over my worries, refill until my anger is emptied and my sadness is dissolved away into a solvent of apple cinnamon. It warms my stomach, and heart, and head, and I'm happy. I'm happier than you were on the day your dad bought you your first piece of piano music, and I'm even calmer than your mother when she knows you are sleeping safely at home. Puncture my heart, bleed my veins, enslave me with your scent, all can be undone in one simple sip. The image of your face no longer ripples my memories and I've almost completely forgotten (except some days when I'm leaving the house without a key and want to tell you how much I love a certain morbid poem). All I'm really trying to tell you is that I'm drinking hot, sweet apple cider without shame and hoping against nothing that tomorrow it will snow glory from the skies and delay the long weeks before Christmas. All I'm saying is that if you could dance outside right now, I would dance with you, and I might even leave my apple cider behind for you, unless you might want some, because you like it as much as I do.

filth

I'm swimming through the filth of disgrace,
                                                  disappointment,
                                                  degrading
filth that clouds my vision and penetrates my skin,
                                                                   flesh,
                                                                   veins,
eating away every bit of sustaining meat that surrounds my
                                                                                  your
                                                                                  their
faces and I cringe when I see the skeletons of their thoughts, sleeping away their time in a corner and eating their cake like it just came out of a warm oven and laughing when it burns away their tastebuds. The acid that once scalded their membranes is seeping out of the soil and they've learned to live and breathe every bit of it while whistling endless tunes such as "Blow the Man Down" and "London Bridges." And every once in a while they look over at their companions in the public tomb of humiliation and remind each other that "It gets a little dark down here, mate, but you'll adjust." After all, they are missing their eyes,
                                                                                                                      hair,
                                                                                                                      hearts.
Sleeping away every minute of their mindless, dead existence and waiting for new rotting flesh to join their crypt of faith. If only they could hear the world only seven feet above them, whirring,
                                                                                                                  spinning,
                                                                                                                  racing
ahead, past morals and past technology and past every imagination they could have ever imagined in their lifetime. If perhaps they could glimpse the present, they might understand and be grateful for early death.

StarZ

He stared into perplexity as her eyelashes closed over the orbs of her eyes.

"This isn't it," he whispered thoughtlessly, "this isn't what we ever thought."
A feathered willow branch kissed her cheek as she drifted into dreams and 

while he talked she thought of the sound of his voice. 

Within his barrier there was a wall that covered more than his desires and 

all of his love. Somehow she could tear it down, with pleas or lies or

kisses planted atop his unbelief. Her fingernails grazed his rough knuckles

and he shivered with some unknown emotion that she wished with all her

heart that she could discover and capture within her, keep it forever in a

jar like an innocent firefly prisoner in an old, used plastic cup that she 

drank out of before it became a useful trap. His eyes were less than a river

and more of a black, all-seeing vortex that sucked in her thoughts without

a consent form to control her emotions and read her ideas to everyone in

the room before she could stop him. So she closed her eyes and he stared

at her transparent eyelids, waiting, wishing, hoping to glance that part of her

that he only could see and violate.

I keep looking for things

Where is the shock?

A flash of lightning, a spark of light and hope, a lingering feeling of tingles.

White light spreading through consciousness, erasing all doubt, fear, hopes, 

Doing spring-cleaning on your imagination and tap-dancing on your creativity.

It stops to stir your mind into a stew of mystery meats and lost words while

running ovals around the index of your memories. 

Leaving nothing but the mush which we call 

a brain.

Where is the excitement?

Racing faster than adrenaline through every muscle, tightening your grip,

leaving sweat on under your eyes and in every crack of your palm.

Your eyes search for something reasonable, but can only digest

COLOR
COLOR 

COLOR

Colors of flushed faces and crowded bodies, colors of sweat and 

anxiety and love.

Where is the expectation?

The hope of a butterfly hatching or the standards of every Mormon girl.

The yellow-gray muck of failure mixed with the navy-blue-brown of 

disappointment. Its nothing you thought it would be and everything you 

hoped it wouldn't. It finds the space between your heart and those

hairs in your nose that grant you smell and it cuts it into pieces so 

you are left with nothing but a nose and cold, wet veins.

You can find it here if you look hard enough, tucked beneath the 

lukewarm of my coat pocket, next to the old gum and bobby pins.

It's here, though silent, haunting a silent girl with nothing but reddish 

hair and a knack for the unusual. It's friends with the lice and fleas and 

likes to pester at one's skin and becomes a tapeworm digging into 

the flesh of you. 

Where is the cure?

I haven't thought about love for a while

whispers of broken dreams crawl into the cracking walls I call my heart.
I've tried to fill it with
                          red balloons
                          peanut butter
                          wind
                          touch
                          work
but the cement never holds.
I'm ever-turning towards your endless gaze like a sunflower that worships the sun and
I think you are burning me and I think it hurts.
Caress my wilted fingers between your palms and speak nothings onto my cheek,
carry me down the sloped hills we call adventure.
I've been consumed by love and fear and everything between and
I can't catch up with your rough, calloused soles.

The fireflies are the prettiest and they are the easiest to catch. I would imagine them quick, but they lumber on with the weight of a protective light. They are easily snatched from among the leaves of sleeping branches and caught between the chubby fingers of the little ones, captive until their dying days.

I'd tell you how to catch me if I knew how. I'd tell you how simple it is to hold my careless gaze and read my mind-waves washing onshore my face if I knew where to find you a snorkel. Smiles always frighten me but eyes tear me away from reality.

Really I would imagine running away from the world and all of its distractions into salty air with your calloused hands and soft eyes nightly, if my dreams would allow it.

Yours

A SLAM BY ME

Yesterday I looked in the mirror and remembered what I wasn't.  My face was tired and sunburned and different and not cool.

Because the cool is for the champions and the swag is for the the players

The pretty is for the blondes and the beautiful is for the rich brunettes who drive old cars with new speakers.

Sometimes the smart have a grasp on control and the techies have got a definite hold on the future.

The girls who keep knowledge in a little box on their bedside table always forget where the key is in the search for pretty, and

The boys who are lyrically gifted are endlessly searching for strength and recognition.

Yesterday I stared back at the mirror and tried hopelessly to look into both my eyes at the same time to see if they matched.

But I'm sure it doesn't matter what you have as long as you've got it, and it doesn't matter where you are going as long as you are moving, and the power of growth is more important than whether you're going straight up or not, and it doesn't matter if your eyes match as long as you can see the world around you. Find what you've got and write it on your nametag, tape it in your notebook, slap it on your car bumper.

wear it like a tattoo on your arm, 

Or your chest,

Or your face.

Definitely wear it on your face.

Use it to intimidate people and to scare away gangsters. Use it to expose yourself to love and life and living, because it is your ticket to ride the plane to the stars, where you are so enveloped in light that nobody can see anything but the intensity of your good. 

Hold its hand and don't let it stray or  get kidnapped or get hit by a car. Because your cool makes you a champion and your pretty is your own and your smart is your future. Your face belongs to you only and your hands are yours to use. So Forget about the mirror and see yourself in the reflection of your stars, untainted by the world and perfected in the white light in their corners. Think less about the skin and  more about the flesh, less of the body and more of the soul. Stop wishing for Nutella and find some money to buy it with. An idea is the stone, but the labor becomes the masterpiece. Shatter the mirror, break your mold, YOLO, senior year. Put it in your pocket and keep it safe because now it's yours.

SENIOR YEAR:

                                                       

 

The Majestic

Trampled feathers lie on the ground
where the wings of the Majestic once spread;
their greater span reaching the tips of the continents
and warming the slightest complaint.

The Majestic, now naked, shivers under the weight
of the ocean breeze whispering over the mountains.
A pitiful figure, once the queen of the skies,
now hunched with a burden of pain.

Silently, silently, her pride is diminished,
as onlookers ogle the previously omnipotent.
A wonder that such as the Majestic should
fall so terribly and so quickly.

Never to soar, or whip past the rooting birds,
the Majestic weeps with shame, filled with
past wishes and endless regret.
A standard for the world, now burnt.

And as the Majestic crumples, she only
wishes she were a Phoenix.

goodnight you beautiful girl

Typing nonsense to memorize that I'll forget two weeks later.
Working for the grade, working for the numbers.
Always the numbers,
Numbers make sense.
I'm holding a mango flavored popsicle in my hand and I don't have enough time to lick the drips running down the dense, cracking wood of the stick and onto my dry knuckles and flaky skin.
I'll never have the time to make a peanut butter sandwich for a starving child in Africa
or order a pan pizza from Dominos.
I'm running out of seconds in my never-ending tetris game and I'm counting the days until I can stop taking my vitamins. I can feel salty wet under my eyelids but I whisper, Stop. We can't have that. It doesn't fit in our schedule.
 7:20 Drive to school
7:22 Honk at the person who cut in front of you
7:25 Make eye contact with a lamp
7:28 Park
I'm sorry, I can't fit that smile into my schedule.
I'm sorry, I can't fit that boy into my schedule.
I'm sorry, I just simply can't fit you or thoughts of you or anything or any person or any glance or thought or moment into my schedule.

Sometimes I feel like I'm walking into planned nothingness with no ultimate goal or purpose, swimming without water wings and drifting into space without a lifeline, calling for help but gasping for oxygen.
My sternum breaks under the pressure of all the lists stacked on top of me that I've never completed.
Literally I feel like I have a collapsed lung when I see faces of the past in my nightmares.
Last night I dreamt of you and your wonderful touch and your knowing hands. Hands that caressed my face and touched the hollow of my waist and begged me to forgive you. Hands that made bracelets in a weird sort of way and always bought me Roxberry. Your breath in a whisper caught me instantly and suddenly I was in love with a boy who I never see and talk to like he never left when I see him. And all I hear is love, love, love me. And I trip and fall and stumble and never blush. I wish I could blush.
And all the time you are drifting away, still softly humming, "Goodnight you beautiful girl. Goodnight."

Examination

She has a chin with a little cleft in it from her dad and a round nose that hates the constant pinching. She wakes up and smiles at herself in order to prevent any further distortion, but her smile is fake and altered and she only liked it when she had to wear a retainer. He thought the lisp was cute. Her white blood cell count is normal and she always has a temperature of 98.7 degrees, precisely. Her toes bother her and she wishes people noticed her freckles instead of the pouch around her middle that was constantly there, just a little reminder. She loves making lists and goals and schedules but stores them away in a little box for lists instead of completing them. She wants to leave so bad, so bad. Leave and run from the people who make her feel secure because she needs to feel challenged and helpless and humbled. She made this hard to read on purpose. She keeps and hoards everything with meaning. She still has that poem you wrote her in ninth grade that was son wonderfully terrible and she wishes you told her more. She keeps everything she hears about herself and about others and puts them in Manila folders because sometimes she forgets who she is. She has three clocks in her room because she is afraid than one day time will stop and she won't be able to progress. She's afraid of them. Of all of them. Them who point and them who jeer and them who never understood. She's terrified mostly of herself and her impulses and she's worried about becoming a boy. She touches the lockers as she passes by because they hold things that she will never see but they belong to someone and she wants a piece of that belong. She wants a hearty helping of belong served with compliments and a rich dessert filled with love and real friends. She wants carpe diem and hakuna matata and Jane, Jane, Jane. She waits at the same corner every day, watching the same cars, hating the same people, and wishing she could love them the way everyone else does. She, the mortal mess who roamed unconsciously through an honestly grand adventure.

Emotionally, yes.
Physically, no.
My greatest fear? Death like people dying.
My greatest desire?
Don't judge me, because it may indeed be to die.

I hope you're kissing somebody on the Brooklyn Bridge right now.

Some different writing

remember that time when i was infinitely happy and used cliches.and remember when you did too.
I used to play with your mind like you used to play with your baby brother.
I
          was
                          so
                                                                                    ....superior
and reluctant to admit it and in charge.
I think that really
I think that maybe
I think that even if
I think that I know
I think I'm sorry
I think that
I think
I
I
I
I
.
Okay I don't think I act I'm impulsive I'm emotional I'm unstable
O.K. I ruined it but I think I ruined it a long time ago.
Oh Kay maybe this is eccentric and weird and awful but maybe this is how I'm feeling and maybe I'm feeling unbroken and broken at the same time and somehow the cracks make me whole.
Okay maybe I'm stuck in the memories but O.K. I think its repression so just ignore it and let it be.

I have a wild imagination and I'm not good at hiding it.
Maybe I have schizophrenia because I'm carelessly wandering into alternate realities where you are always,
and he is always, and we are always.
Always.

I'm too afraid, I'm too scared, I'm too frightened, I'm too excited.
Excited?

Cheater cheater
wears a wife beater
pumpkin eater
Peter

That rhymed but you never cheated on me because its impossible to cheat on a test that you never prepared for or maybe for a test that you never even took?

maybe the reason why i am stuck is because i never tried to get out.maybe now i am ready to catch trout.
Trout?

Seriously though

I moved on a long time ago but it took my head a long time to catch up to my heart.
I have low blood circulation.

It was just always.

"Oh honey, it was just today."

Only today, only tomorrow, only yesterday. Only always. Forgive me for being cynical but I'm reaching for something that nobody can understand and for a call that no one will hearken to. I breathe slower and pedal faster, going nowhere, finding you. Always finding you. At every corner, in every book; my story is getting anti-climatic and you are ruining the plot. Mouthing the words but never speaking them; glancing but never looking at me. Touching your finger to my lips but never daring to linger longer, assuming independence. 

"Oh honey, it was just today."

Just today when he glared and thought I was preoccupied. Just today when I was the dramatic one and it meant less than pennies to anyone else. Just always. Just always. Your narcoleptic limbs amaze me; one moment rushing towards me with the force of every gale that ever gushed through the canyon, and the next indifferent and unaware of my brain studying you and willing you to remember. Your words softly land on my shoulder but are never directed to the source, never attain their full interpretation. Narrow your eyes and focus on who I am for one moment. Remember my name, remember my face, but recognize my deformed figure in a crowd. 

"Oh honey, it was just today."

When I'm transformed into an imaginary voice and an imaginary opinion and he likes it. When I somehow know and he somehow knows too. My fears are worth more than my desires and I despise it. I am contemptuous and unforgiving, and I cannot draw the veil from my eyes. Read me and remember, draw nearer and discover a girl who is different but the same.

I have an explosive temper

My temper is explosive, and my heart
wrenches when you call my name, but
I scream at the bird who chirps at midnight
and the Swedish Fish who disappoint with
their unsoftness and overchewiness.

My temper is explosive, and my ears
ring with the tinge of regret and the
faint outline of fear in the border of
Mexico.

Don't call me in the wrong way and
Don't prod my ribs with the toe of
your steel tipped words. The
negatives of my film are appearing and I
don't believe in what I used to. When I remember
the words I shouted at the mirror and
the reflection I smashed with an attitude
of recalcitrance and stubborn imitation, it
haunts me around every corner and within the concavity of
every spoon I eat with.

When will my endless rhapsody sound its
last note? I force it upon those who
destroy the lined paper that hold my secrets.

My temper is explosive, and my mind
tells me I'm the dictator, the ruler, the queen.
But my only subject disobeys my commands
and the nation of my emotions is
constantly in revolt.

The loyalists are few and the revolutionaries
will soon overtake.

Beware the revolution; beware the free,
they only speak their mind, without a thought
to future consequences.
Mexico.