Woman Warrior

It was amazing.

I looked in the mirror and saw a woman.
I've never noticed age in such a way in myself.
My brain in unraveling, swelling and convulsing.
But I, I am a woman.

What's that writing on your everything?

Shipman, I allude you.

No.
No I won't.
Sometimes the world just makes it hard for me to exist.
The problems.
And no one even understands what I'm saying; I might as well be speaking a different language.

I like to be in my underwear and I'm betting you do too.
All of us just sitting in our underwear, hunched over, straining to read a screen.
It's a fact that we are not being sexy in our underwear.
We are existing in our underwear.

I clip my toe nails while I'm wearing my underwear.
I pop pimples while I'm wearing my underwear. 
I am not a sexy underwear-wearer.  And, I suppose, not sexy in general.

Conversation

I keep walking these circle, these monotonous circles. And I can't stop walking in these circles, these circles around you. But you keep walking straight, from point A to point B, so seemingly efficient. And sometimes I cross your line and I nod at you. Mostly because I'm sure I agree.
I keep trying to walk beside you, to walk your straight path, but inevitably I end up in the trench of circles I have paced deeply into the ground. I watch from below, jealously, as you walk your tightrope above me.



You're so beautiful as you dance from point A to point B; a wail, a bellow, a roar of sincerity.

Rigamortis

It's a cold, metal table and it's icing his back. There's no circulation; there's no blood, except for in his black fingertips and deep purple elephant ears. All that mattered is taped down and glued shut: his bright blue, enchanting eyes, his dinosaur teeth rimmed with metal, his heart that lapped up blood steadily for decades. There's nothing but a casing, a void, a volume, filled with embalming fluid. A body suffering of rigamortis. A cold, naked, hard body. A patriarch that ruled over 4 houses, that sat at the head of the table each night with a piece of buttered bread beside his meal, now lying on his back with nothing real left in him.

A good man died this day.

Posterity

What happens when I don't have class anymore?

When I'm not made to create, made to create those class things?

I am good at creating class things.

Usually the best.

But now, what about now? 

What will I make with these hands?

What will I see with these eyes?

Now that it's not a competition, I'm the only one competing. 

Well, competing with the world, but I don't think of it. 

Who will I create for?

Will I create for me? For selfish me? 

That's what it is now, and that's why it's my secret.

Will I create for someone else?

I hate the thought. I dread the thought. 

Not because I mind, but because I'll never get it right. 

My desires and feelings will always spill onto the paper.

What good is that too anyone if I can't control it?

¿Qué hora es?

Time is a double edged sword.

Although saying that may have just made my thoughts cliche and pointless, I feel the necessity to explore the duality of the paradox of time; a theme that has been rewritten and replayed to infinity. Time is very important, and when people fail to believe that my time is important, I steam. I've spent a lot of time thinking about time. More than I can be comfortable with after all of my conclusions.

Initially, as in all beings, time was infinite in itself. It's a necessary thing to experience oblivion, to disregard the offenses of time. To live in a moment when it is just a moment to be forgotten, a moment that doesn't have to be anything because you don't know that you run out of moments. It's bliss, but you are unaware. And although it is a necessary blank slate to build perspective on, it is also one of the greatest human flaws.

Our consciences are birthed into an illusion of immortality. Because time is a moment. And a moment. And another moment. Time, in our realities, is a serious of moments strung out so quickly that we don't even notice it, but, instead, mistake our frame by frame life for fluid body movements and 12 hour increments. It takes years to finally scope the proximity of time. Time is complex because it is arranged in fractals, and while it can be broken down into an infinite number of measurements, I believe there are two ways it should be analyzed that pertain to humanity.

Forever.
Time is grand, so large I cannot think of anything appropriate to describe it. It would be as impossible for me to explain as it would be for you to understand. I can't conceptualize eternity because it's not part of my entity. I won't experience forever so I cannot relate in any manner to this form of time. All I can do is acknowledge and appreciate its existence. The only thing this sort of time is good for, beyond the work of scientist and the likes, is a tool of measurement and comparison.

Lifetime.
We are not told as babies and toddlers that we were meant to die. We are not taught anything on the subject, really. We cannot be told about the abstractions of life because there are too many uncertainties that provoke the adult mind. Adults cannot answer the wondering child's mind so we must learn on our own.


This is what I have learned:
Time is constant; time is everything. The snippet of time that is allotted to me is nothing. A single burst of freedom. And what for? There is infinite time, so why was I only given 100 years? Is it the greed of the gods or is it a favor of them; my body will get weak and feeble. My first realization was just that: time is nothing. Then there's my second realization: time is all I have.

I'm petrified by the idea that I have wasted so much time. When I realized what every day, every hour, every second actually meant it threw me into hysteria. There were days at a time that I would refuse to sleep and use all means to keep myself awake. I wouldn't watch movies or spend time on the computer because that made time happen so much faster. It was as if I could see death approaching from 70 years away with every stride of the hand.

This was dramatic, I know, but I was a teenager.

Time should be valued because it is precious. Especially other people's time. When other people are willing to sacrifice any of the minuscule amount they have been granted you should be bubbling with appreciation for it.

Moreover, when people value my time, I adore them; when people don't value my time, it literally sends me into an anxiety attack... with tears, purple lips, concrete lungs and the works.

Make it mean something.

A Memory These Eyes Have Seen

"I can't do this," she whispered.
"If someone comes through that door, you won't have a choice though."
The wooden chair that Sara had been sitting in for the past two hours clung to her bare, shaking legs. She stared at the doorknob the whole time she talked, not noticing Alex's strung out appearance as he conditioned her to kill. Sara's head pounded with decisions while her fingers traced the cold metal on her lap.
"Here, take some of these," Alex advised, tossing her a bottle of blue pills. Xanax.
She snapped out of her daze just in time to catch the plastic bottle whirling strait to her abdomen. The pills sang two notes as she shook the bottle twice and Alex kissed her sweaty cheek.
"You know I've never shot a gun," Sara said a-matter-of-factly. A bead of sweat brimmed her brow for several seconds and then rolled down her fevered cheek slowly like a slug leaving a glossy trail. "Well?"
"It's going to be okay," he breathed into her ear.
In a swift motion she opened the bottle, shook four little blue pills onto her clammy palm, and threw them into her throat without a drink.
"It doesn't matter anyway," she retorted. "Get some sleep."
"Sleep?" Alex puffed. "You know I can't. Want to smoke?"
A single nod was all she could conjure.
He swung the baseball bat off of his shoulder and sat it on the couch beside him.

Lacquered, nimble soul.

Skin so tightly stretched over ancient bones. Bones intertwined with other bones with supple skin that masks their beauty. On the bed we lie; under sheets we lie.

Bones that bend and break and mend.

Symmetrical frames engineered by the gods of time and fate. Frames forged from fire and brim, draped with flesh and skin. Frames of bone; frames of dust.

Bones that bend and break and mend.

Skin so tightly stretched over ancient bones. Bones intertwined with other bones with supple skin that masks their beauty. On the bed we lie; on the bed we die.

Half-Blood Prince

I spend my time wondering which part of you is ethnic.  Is it the blood coursing through your veins, pulsating in your heart?  Is it your brown hair with copper wire and flecks of silver?  Is it the sticks that compose your frame or the tubular muscle wrapped around them?  Is it your soul ghosting through your brain?  What part of you separates you from me?  Is it that you haven't been orphaned by your culture and adopted by grease, arrogance, and apple pie? I'll die this way.

How did my soul get trapped?

What's happening to me? I'm trying so hard. I'm trying so hard. I'm trying so hard. And I'm trying so hard. Nothing's coming out, though. I'm just a child with scissors trimming at the components of my life, naively operating, pretending to have the skill of a surgeon. It's just a reduction of all of the extensions of me- a severing of unneeded appendages. A severing of unneeded people.

I have learned to control my hopes and in turn manage my disappointments.

While it holds true that anything is possible in a world of infinite possibilities,to be practical you have to accept this as a pessimistic statement rather than one of optimism. People like to entertain this as a thought of opportunity instead of exploring the other side of it- the side that explores the anomaly of the world essentially shitting on you (often) with no explanation. Or even with an explanation. You see, you have to understand that there is absolutely no one that owes you anything. If you believe otherwise I have to inform you that you are ignorant. But you... you.... you are nothing. You're a nothing plagued by rules laid out by other nothings. Plagued by rules laid out by your own psyche.

Ungratefulness. The problem I have with people complaining about others being ungrateful is that I can't help but pin the person as extremely selfish. Deductive reasoning can only point to the fact that whatever you did for that person that you thought they should be grateful for was really only done for your ego. Whatever goodness you thought you were achieving has no validity in my eyes because it was done out of a need for gratification. I'm certainly not going to agree that you deserved the edification you think you do.

The perception of what is edifying is another flaw in this I-deserve-the-world-on-a-silver-platter manner of thinking. Modern culture has splashed acid in our eyes and confused us about beauty. They've made beauty a fixed idea by defining it as 1) tangible 2) elite and 3) removed from emotion. Why is this relevant?Your edification is getting to participate in something that is beautiful, that's fucking why. The exchange itself was beautiful. The human to human connection was beautiful. Stop giving a fuck if someone thanks you or not because that situation was way more complex than you can conceive (or are willing to, you simple minded twit.) Even if you are too far removed from understanding the wonder in EVERYTHING, I'm not forgiving the action because genuineness is not too much to ask for.

Oh, and beautiful things. The hilarity of it all is that I can never find examples of this in the institution that man-kind has created. Beauty is very much connected to spirituality and its appreciation can only spawn from identification of this emotional engagement and an analytic understanding of this connection. And mostly, I believe that beauty is derived from mysticism. You know what's beautiful? You are. Your consciousness pulsating through your body. It's an ignored phenomena that I can't get over, one that makes me a little too aware of the body I'm locked in, and a little too aware of the person beside me. And how? How did my soul get trapped?

And for all this, I'm whittling all the bullshit out. I just can't stand the selfish need of everyone for me. This is why people are ungrateful; this is why I'm ungrateful. I'm ungrateful because I already know that everything that you are doing for me is for you. While I'm polite and probably will thank you, I can't possibly always mean it, which is why I have to detach from you. It's not fair to me to have to be burdened with guilt of insincerity due to your insincerity. (It's usually a choice between impoliteness or insincerity.)

Meekness. Humility. Sincerity. These are the things you should be seeking, you self-entitled scumbag.

A rewrite of "Compost for your garden."

Compost for your garden.

repulsive words spewing onto
your paining grimace.
a lip sneer and your eyes are full of disappointment.
but my silence drives you mad.
jaws tense and teeth clank.
glassy sphere's of emotion 

                                      what's wrong with you?

Eyes that can't see; 

ears that can't hear



I read your story

I've read your story

I write your story 

I've written your story

With a master stroke 

With rain drops and rain drips

and melodies and harmonies

and pliés and pirouettes

and the lacing of our fingers

what do you desire?

unattachment

attachment
system upload

system download
failure to complete task

system failure
reboot

bubbly words

bubbly wounds

pulsation 

fever 

fervor

hate

indifference

should this end this night

did this end this night

several nights end

sunrise, an eternal flame

deep yearning of the compass

yearning for direction,

detection 
lust, love and other allures

buried with the candles of our fathers

and silence.

if forever were a moment 

i would dream

i did dream 

have dreamed

in vain and vanity

under the pale moon

and rigid stars of fallacy and 

ignorance and helplessness

and shame

empowerment and power

to the secret master

an ancient bitterness

ballroom

collar bone

diagram

scam 

But run
infected brain

acidic stomach

all the knowledge of 

worlds unknown

security of the tombs

of the salts of barren lands

a plea
for boundaries and warnings

and fragility of porcelain

the fair hair of a tiger lily; 

100 strokes into the brims of the fire

I'm sorry. I should have said the right thing.

Is today the day I die?

Under any scrutiny I lend myself to the simple thoughts of an animal. It's not that intellect surpasses my line of thinking, but a general disinterest in anything with the inclusion of ideas with academic merit, has caused complete collapse of my once diligent brain. Things don't engage because things can't engage because I can't be engaged. I can find no importance in the interaction because it's all imaginary. All the things that people ask me to partake in are made up by them and people in general. It's all so exhausting. And I can't do it.

I can't be an intellect for the mere fact of being an intellect. Maybe that means I'm not smart. On all the levels of my consciousness that aren't overtaken with vanity and insecurity, I can accept that with minimal disappointment. My skill is not intellect, but learning. 

Which is why the things that compel me to engage are not the same bullshit things that spark the normal persons appeal, but rather things of infinite mystery. Things that are not merely illusions, but stimulate my mind to know beauty. 

And I don't get that. Unless the sweet scent of honeysuckles is seducing me, or the the songs of the robin are entrancing me, or the the wind is beckoning me to come fly away. As the moist dirt grips at the pads of my feet I can feel the importance of just being, and all of it's magnificence. How important it is that of all of the probable possibilities, I am experiencing this now. That's got to mean something.

The Sinner's Woe

I partook of the apple

and it was just as they say

The sweet drips tracing my lips

remind me of loneliness

For a moment I knew time

I knew the world and I knew God

But now, in the core of dry bones

all I know is what was

A starry, starry night

a pallet painted blue and grey

I am the latter.

You're either blending in with the people or the scenery.

Petals and Pebbles

Current time: 5:28
The evening hours had summoned bubbly white clouds with grey under bellies that scurried across the bright blue sky, sucking the sun's warmth away with them. A chilly breeze grazed across the parking deck, raising goosebumps on my pale legs as I entered the Union Bus Station. I nonchalantly made my way to the column with monitors mounted on it so I could check the next departure of the bus from the station.
6:00.
With the news of my 30 minute wait, the green, rubber covered metal bench beckoned me and I hazily obeyed. I pulled a book out of my purse, opening it to a half-read page, and placed it on my crossed legs as I began to engross myself back into the story.  But in that same moment, the lanky, unshaven older man who had perched on the bench beside me decided to engage me.
"Do you take classes here?" he said in almost a whisper. His glasses created the illusion that his topaz eyes were a little too small and beady.
"Yes, yes I do," I readily answered.
"Oh, so what year are you?"
"I'm a sophomore. Are you taking classes?"
"Oh, no. Not anymore. I teach, actually. I teach percussion, mainly the snare," the old man declared with a small sense of pride.
I smiled my friendly smile, stretching my lips out to reveal my whole top row of teeth, but even I could see that it was laced with only half sincerity. The old man mirrored my grin with no lag in his response and extended his leathery hand to me.
"I'm Rob," he said, not breaking eye contact.
"I'm Mariah. Nice to meet you," I replied, placing my meaty hand in his for a firm shake.

Big Broken Things

I need to fold my clothes. All of them.
I need to wash my sheets.
I need to throw bad food away.
I need to scrub my shower.
I need to vacuum all the floors.
I need to do 40 sketches.
I need to put a portfolio together.
I need to write a speech.
I need to reread the pieces for world lit.
I need to pay to the bills.
I need to put the shoes away.
I need to buy candles.
I need to be awake by 6:00 am.
I need to be at work at 7:00 am.
I need to have school.
I need to have to go back to work until 9:00 pm.
I need to breathe.






bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. But here I sit.

One by land, two by sea.

The reason I really don't like you?

It's that when you talk, you are talking to this thing deep inside of me. And it makes me grim. You aren't even saying things to piss me off, really. Your voice makes me go into full solute mode and I lose myself. I hate that. If I could be funny for you, or sweet for you, you would understand. Although your thoughts do provoke mine I can't even react because I'm too busy dealing with the cannon ball on my diaphragm that you've caused.


And simply that, and only that, is why I don't like you.

I lost my mother to a psychiatrist.

I think me and my dad fell out of love with her at the same time, though.

And she never had time for me; and she never had time for him.

If she wasn't writing poetry or sketching dreams of angels and demons

She was with David. Her psychiatrist who made her a bit odd. 

And time made her a bit old.

All the love she used to have was being channeled to her higher power, to God.

Channeled by this short geeky man.

A balding, religious hypocrite. 

I hated knowing that they were praying for me.

Because I didn't want their prayers, I wanted my mom.

But I lost my mother to a psychiatrist. 

Stranger Danger

In this story, I always think of myself as the villain. And it's not my fault because nobody intends to be the villain; everyone dreams of flying and saving the day. And some days I do soar, but mostly I'm the villain.

Task Master Procrastinaster

The following this are ways I have procrastinated today:

• fixing a kickass grilled cheese
• organizing all my food cabinets
• washing my boots
• taking pictures of all of my artwork in the house
• running for an hour and a half
• contacting a person on facebook I haven't seen in months
• taking 2 showers
• making my living room into a private dance club
• making an Album of my artwork on facebook because a friend asked me to
• taking a nap
• thinking about my want vs. will
• 15 minutes of self hatred followed by a 15 minute pep talk to myself
• syncing phone 
• changing my outfit 3 times
• reading all the nutrition facts on the items in my refrigerator 
• feeling the carpet while laying on my back
• stretching 
• humming new melodies into instrumentals
• making a new blog entry

I guess I will do my work. Or eat sherbet. Only time will tell. 

Isn't it sad?

Art.
Art
art

Artist.
Artist
artist

I hate these words because they steal validity from me.
What does that make me?


The constraint of those words make me nothing.
I am nothing.
I will always be nothing, these words all to thank.

i don't have a name for it

Fucking alcohol.

Angry Hornets Live in My Chest

It's the way I want to throw every child into a wall.
It's the way I scream at people on the sidewalk in my head.
It's the way my stomach feels like acid and my lungs like static.
It's the way I forget to breath until I'm purple.
It's the way everything get's hazy and I can't recall the last few minutes.
It's the way I slide into the floor like butter.
It's the way I feel so fragile, like bursting into tears at any moment.
It's the way listening to anyone gets painful.

And I'm purple. My hands are shaking. I just can't.






I just can't.
Handle anything.



kas joaefeiangalskdgoeadcm,s.a sdfg

Fuck everything.

Make that Money

Nothing is cohesive.

Hercules

What if there were a solar system with 2 suns that had a string of planets between them. On this planet, there would always be a sun in view and while one rose, one would set, painting the sky with unimaginative colors.

Here's Tom with the weather.

Life is only a dream and we're the imaginations of ourselves.

Failure by Design

It took me an hour of having my shoes off to realize that a good number of my toes on each foot were bleeding. And how did I miss this, not feel it, as I smiled and giggled to all those strangers for hours. I imagine it happened when the cart of a distracted mom ran them over when I was on my break. Yup, both feet. I didn't look at them though, because I was in a hurry to get back to my register. I even forgot it happened.

It wasn't until I crossed my legs to cuddle into the big red chair that I have made my bed for the past week that I saw them. They don't even hurt though. They are cold and numb because I won't turn the heat on.

Now to discuss what I'm really thinking about:
We each determine our own purpose in life but we only have so much freedom from ourselves. Almost anything is possible. It's like standing on a cliff and being scared of falling off, but also being afraid that you might throw yourself off. Mostly, because what's stopping you? And that thin line between you wanting that ultimate freedom to actually do anything that you desire collides with your fear of having all your freedoms ripped from you. Therefore bonding you; you're never free.

I can't rationalize any of it. It's a great anxiety either direction.

It's like a constant fear of just living while fearing death. It's an absurd and meaningless world. And an internal battle ensues within me over this lack of true freedom because I'm bound to this person that I've created through enduring experiences, which may or may not reflect what's really there.

I need to let people in. I've got to let people in.
I can't talk about it all now. And all the reasons I can't.
But there are just things. Like my favourite nightmares. And all the things that make me feel more fluid. And the way my eyes cry at night but I don't know why. None of it really matters to anyone else's life though. So I'm not going to subject them to the fragile, formless puddle of what I've made my reality.

I've pushed myself too far to go back too. . Just wishing that there was some way I could have my innocent view of the world back. I just want to remember what happy really feels like. And not the happy I get when my I'm done being crazy. I wish I could remember what it feels like to not just hate things because they exist outside of my idea of what efficient and necessary advancement is.

 I just want to remember the warm feeling that lacks the rigid edges of usuality.

Stupid america.

`


                                                                     Oh my God.




Oh my God.








            Oh my God.

                                                                                           Oh my God.

Expectations vs. Reality

I misunderstood every adult I came into contact with throughout my childhood. It's not their fault though. I just thought that they hated it when I talked; hated me bothering them. And mostly, I think they liked that I left them alone, the adults.

But there's always been a disconnect. I mean, seriously, I didn't say my first complete thought until I was 4... and I must have terrified my parents. I was presumably retarded. And perhaps it is true that maybe I have an unidentified retardation.

And now I stand in the way. I hate the way words feel and sound when they come out of my mouth. When other people talk, I'm commonly repulsed. And it's mostly because I imagine they've spent hours mapping out these very words to say to anyone. It almost makes me laugh. But my face starts to feel heavy and my smile must look fake. Nervously I chuckle, and it's evident.

 Pessimism:
And people make you nervous
You'd think the world is ending,
And everybody's features have somehow started blending
And everything is plastic,
And everyone's sarcastic,
And all your food is frozen,
It needs to be defrosted.

Optimism:

And people are just people,
They shouldn't make you nervous.
The world is everlasting,
It's coming and it's going.
If you don't toss your plastic,
The streets won't be so plastic.
And if you kiss somebody,
Then both of you'll get practice.

If I could just get the second one down...

Institutions

And why did they want  to come to a party for me? But they all dressed fancy and came to my graduation party. And it was fancy, with beautiful cakes and dresses and ties.

Strangely,

I really do think this is how it would feel to be in Iceland.

Sigur Ros

Realitiless

Why'd you fuck her?
Why'd you fuck Sarah Stidman?

Was it because you knew I was watching and you knew it would hurt?
I thought you were holding my hand but you weren't holding my hand.
But it was your face. And you were so nice to me.
I was too concerned with watching you fuck Sarah Stidman to know.

And you were divided.
But the only you I cared to acknowledge was not the one cradling me to sleep.
Why did you do it? Why did you fuck her?
Is it because she was beautiful?
She is beautiful. Thin with wavy golden hair.
Light freckles kiss her cheeks which hold up two blue moons for eyes.

And you were crying with me.
At least some part of you was.
I barely would glimpse at your face because I was too busy staring.
Into the eyes of a betrayer.
The content eyes.

Somehow I'd wanted this.
This hurt. And it hurt.
But never mind all that.

Compost for your garden.

There's a distinct dissatisfaction to the way my words hit your ears, and I can tell.
The way you grimace because I've said the wrong thing.
How your lip sneers and your eyes are full of disappointment.
And if you didn't despise my words enough, my silence drives you mad.
Your jaw tenses and your teeth clank.
Eye contact is out of the question and I'm relieved.

In my head I'm screaming, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
And I think I'm talking to myself, but I know I'm partially talking to you.

But you don't hear it.
My mind is racing with appropriate responses, but I can see it all playing out.
It's like a book, unfolding in slow motion.
Happening just as fast as my eye would read the words.
I'm not fast enough to write this story though, only read it.
This is your story and I'm ruining it.

You can tell that I'm disgusted with the plot you wrote out.
You knew that this would be a fight and I fell for it.
Although you never laid a hand on me, I can feel your tight grip around my neck.
Fingers carefully laced.
"I'm sorry, I really do care," is all I can muster.
Not good enough.

What do you really want from me, though?
You implied that I was not to get attached.
But now I'm too unattached?
I know you're still in love with her, so why are you asking me to do this?
And don't call me Baby.
That was your worst mistake.
Because now I can't tell if it's you or me fucking everything up.

And I laid out nice words like salve on your wounds and you healed.
But your words hurt me so deeply.
There's no way I'll ever forget now.
The callus around my fragile soul is so much thicker.
Dammit.

And we have to stop.
You said it too.
I had thought it several nights, while wading in my misery.
It's not that it's not fair to me.
It's not fair to you.
You'd never admit that, though.

If you had never told me how deeply you felt for her so many nights ago, it could pass.
But I know your heart is yearning for something out of reach.
Even though you made the rules I know you would break them for her.
It's none of my business.
But I'm sad for it.
Because it's fragile and I can't talk about it now.

And you were right.
Sometimes when we were together I did wish for forever.
I didn't really mean it though, because I would get tired of you.
Like I am now that you have made me sleep outside.
I'm tired and confused.
Mostly, I feel helpless around you like I'm always going to get it wrong.
Because I always get it wrong.
Then I feel so ashamed.
You're going to lash me across my cheek again with your words.
I can feel it.

I gave you this power when I secretly let you in.
You didn't even know you were in.
Because when we danced I was stiff and stepped on your toes.
Or something.
But you should have known.
The way I laughed and smiled and traced your collar bones, resting momentarily on a mole.
Fuck you very much.
It's not that I care because I'm past the point of feelings.
It's just bitterness.
The feeling of trickery.

You told me not to tell anyone and it messed me up.
I wouldn't have, but why didn't you trust that?
I agreed to the terms just like you.
I accepted everything that morning that I laid there dead.
Sometimes, it's just too much.
Too overwhelming, like it is now to try to sort.
It's dumped acid into my fragile stomach and infected my brain.
And I don't want you to do anything but acknowledge that I might be right.
A simple "I'm sorry that I did that to you."
I didn't care until you made me care and then your first sacrifice was my dignity.
Now I have no pride.
And I can feel you running away because you see me turning to salt.
You realize that everything I fall on will be barren.

But run.
I begged you to before.
I begged you to before I was involved.
Before we ignored all boundaries.
And I'm pissed that you didn't heed my warning.
This is all your goddamn fault because you are afraid of how frail I am.
You were afraid.
But you threw me as hard as you could and my porcelain skin shattered against the wall.
You picked up as many pieces as you could and wept into them, all alone on night.
But by the morning you were gone.
Your china doll sitting on your case at home, waiting for you to brush its hair.
I imagine you did.
100 strokes until it shined so brightly.

I'm sorry. I should have said the right thing.

Frankenstein

Sometimes I wish I could have held on.

Held on the everything that I sacrificed to be alone.

If I just didn't let everyone slip away.

What was I supposed to do? There was nothing else to talk about. No more words to say. 

And mostly all I really wanted to say to all of them was how much I hated them for not caring. I hated all of them for not trying. Why didn't they just try a little harder to scratch my surface? Why didn't they burrow under my skin and squirm through my veins? 

How did I get away with no one knowing me?

And now I have nowhere to go and no one to talk to because no one knows who I am now. Just a strange girl in a strange land.

I hate them so much because I needed them. But they wouldn't really love me. They wouldn't really even like the real me. I am scary. My brain is so scary. And sometimes suicidal. And sometimes homicidal. And I thought that there was something wrong, really wrong for a long time. Something missing. But I realized that it wasn't missing. The ticker that stopped me from carrying out all of these thoughts that drove me insane was in there. 

It's in my brain because I can feel the euphoria when it hits my brain. All those thoughts turn into spurts of joy and laughs of hysteria. When suddenly I don't want to smash my head into the windshield just to feel. The longing to dominate and frighten everything I'm around just stops. And I'm happy. 

I'm happy.

I'm happy.

IM HAPPY.

                                                                                              But it just doesn't feel right. It's not a warm happy. It's hysteria. And it's nothing at all. I perceive that I am happy because I don't feel the bad things. But why would I be happy? There's nothing to be happy for in these moments. 

I should be mourning my thoughts. I should feel sorrow for all the evil that has pranced through my head. Instead, I'm just laughing. Laughing an icy, numb laugh.  

A dissection of the attitudes of people.

She never really understood why, but she always decided to be happy. Every time the brick in the hand of all of her demons bashed into her face she just laughed it off. There was never a time that she didn't have a smile on her face if she was looking you in the eye. She made a conscious effort to look you in the eyes every time too. She never said anything that was mean or crude, but instead said the sweetest things that only made you adore her more. Her hair was always fixed and her face always slightly enhanced with color. If you ever took time to watch her you would notice her selfless concern for everyone else. Yet, you knew nothing about her. The only thing you ever collected from your observances is that she was smart. So smart, but so humble. She didn't purposefully use big words to confuse you but on every term exam she made nearly perfect marks. She was so talented at everything. For her, you assumed that there was no limit. She, of course, put her heart into everything. She was the nicest person you ever met. While, admittedly, she wasn't the most aesthetically appealing, you never would think about it while in her presence because she was such a beautiful person. Although she rarely made you laugh or react to her, you wanted to talk to her. You would share every agonizing detail about your life with her while she actually listened and cared. Your secrets were all safe with her and that was evident. There was no fault or flaw to her. No rigid seem, just a soft, cool pillow and a warm wool skin. 

And these fond memories are all you hold of her.

Innocence and Adoration

I had myself convinced that I didn't need her and she was just a poison. Mostly, I don't miss her. I found a recording of her singing with so much passion and sadness that it made unintentional tears fall. But I miss the mommy that tucked me into bed and sang me to sleep. I need her so bad....... I need the warm feeling that her love gave to me, if there's anything there still at all. 

My memories of having a whole family are so soft and secure, even when tragedy was befalling me. I miss coming home from school to a fresh loaf of bread my mom had baked, still warm from the oven with a thin layer of butter on it. I miss locking myself in her closet while everyone was playing to wear her high heals and smell her perfume. I would pull down the large box of change that my parents had saved for vacation and wiggle my fingers down under the cold coins until my hand was completely buried. 

I would move to the deepest part of the closet, under my dad's dress shirts and hide against the wall as I slipped on his huge rubber boots. I would run my fingers across the white metal bars above my head and they would sing to me. I was happy to just lie there and smell the carpet that was infused with my parents' smell. And sometimes I would even sneak various items from my dad's office into my sanctuary and spend hours observing them.

Then I would transpire from my cave back into there bedroom, and rest my head on one of the cold, wooden banisters that extended from the corners of their king bed and trace my fingers over the fancy carving, working my way to the very bottom, where the wood met the carpet. I would lie on my back and thrust myself under the bed and reach through the holes in the box springs because the air inside was always a little cooler and I liked that. 

Several times a week I would open the chest at the end of their bed and pull out my mom's wedding dress. It was so beautiful, encrusted with shiny jewels and pearls and poofy shoulders. It was the most lovely item of clothing I had ever held in my hands. It smelled of the old musty wood and love notes at the bottom of the box. 

I loved sneaking into my dad's office that was off limits. It smelled thickly of his the fancy tobacco that he would smoke in the evenings while he chatted on the phone to his brothers. I would glide my fingers across his grandfather's antique encyclopedias, collecting a thick layer of dust on my fingers. And playing with his Mt. St. Helen volcanic ash never got old, and the fineness of the powder caused it to move in a very intriguing way that I still haven't gotten over.

After the bookcases lost my interest I would pick up the small cardboard box of my dad's agates he had collect over his many years spent searching in Yellowstone and lick them so they would turn into an opaque glass with ripples through them. And I would hold them up to the window until I found my favorite one. 

At night we would sit on the steps of the porch while my parents rocked together on the porch swing and we would watch the sun set as we ate fruit. In the summer, my favorite was watermelon. The juices would leave a sticky beard from my lack of etiquette as the coolness of the night set in and the mosquitoes started to buzz followed by the passing of the loud mosquito sprayers that crawled down the city roads in the evenings. 

I loved examining the old wooden school desks with initials carved in them where I learned my multiplication tables and how to write my name in cursive. I would dip my fingers into the built in well that once upon a time was used as an ink holder and pretend that I was Laura Engles. I would lift the top of the desk up to look at my neatly stacked, shiny books. And I loved learning everything and how proud my parents were of me because I always got every answer right. 

Some days when my mom was doing laundry I would sneak into the laundry room during the middle of the cycle and lie across the washer and dryer waiting to empty them because my parents would let me keep the money that I found. The money that they purposefully left in their pockets after noticing all my efforts to look for it. And I would usually buy a barbie with it that I would never play with because I already had a whole town packed away in giant clear containers in the sun room that attached the washing room to the rest of the house. 

And when my dad said it was time for bed I knew he was giving me a head start. I would run as  fast as I could up the stairs and shut my door, and then run into the closet and shut the door. My heart would start to pound because I could hear him stomping up the stairs singing, "Fe, fi, fo, fum. I smell the blood of an English mum. Be he red or be he in bed!" Then it would get silent and the door knob would twist and he would look in, pretending not to find me. When I was sure he had given up, he would reach under the pile of clothes I had thrown over me and pull me out by my feet, throwing me onto the bed and tickling me just enough not to make me mad. Then he would tuck the covers around me and place his hand on my forehead and pray over my dreams. After a peck on my cheek, he would rise off the side of the bed and flip my light on, and leave for work for the night. 

Nothing ever felt out of place or cold as long as they were around. They'll probably never understand how much I adored them either. And I wish that time hadn't stolen that adoration of a shy little girl that woke up in a new world every day.