Sunday, November 25, 2012

Warmly Sweetly Slowly

I wish today could have been a day
When I woke up and smiled into your shoulder
Your chest
Your mouth
I wish I could have lazily blinked awake
And run my fingers through your hair before rolling out of bed to start the coffee maker
I wish most days that I were older
And that I didn't sleep alone every night
That I had someone to keep me warm when the cold is inside
And keep the terrors and tremors away.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Sastrugi

I am a self proclaimed dog person,
but when the adopted kitten
that sassy teenaged cat
leaps to my bed and noses into my hand
and scents my laptop
like she's doing now
i suddenly have a much stronger affinity for felines.
she stepped on the dog, too, and she growled
saying get off me
and my sweet kitty did.
she's gone already
a flying leap to the chair to scent my camisole
and now she's gone
a blizzard of gray tabby markings
and judgmental green eyes
she blows the snow into ridges
she is the dust of the desert in the snow of the mountains
swirling and carried by the wind
to land in awkwardly shaped drifts
and break branches because of unfortunate dispersal
she is sastrugi.

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Why Can't I?

Society has a set definition of normal
of okay
and of accepted.
I am none of these things.
I like the internet and book and I watch too much television and I'm overweight, so I am not normal
I am depressed and anxious and I see a therapist and I'm on medication so I'm not okay
and I don't like our systems and I have political views as a middle schooler so I'm not accepted.
Why can't I?
Why can't I be 'normal', be the girl who is skinny and beautiful and reads chickLit?
Why can't I be 'okay', happy and unafraid and ready for anything?
Why can't I be 'accepted', the image of obliviousness and frivolity?
I know why.
I am unusual and wise, I know that much. I am in the 99th percentile of intelligence for people my age, and I feel a thousand years old some days. I am educated because I want to be, I want to have opinions and intelligent conversations - and yet, no one will take me seriously because I am thirteen.
I am a love-struck child, I want to be a singer and a dancer and an actor but I know am not good enough. I am a love-struck child whose best friend broke her heart, and then when she thought she was over him, he broke it again by pointing at her, that perfect skinny tan tall leggy older beautiful blonde girl, with her perfect looks and hair and name - vanessa. i mean really. emily versus vanessa? the latter will always win. Does he know that she isn't over him and might not be for a long long long while? No
and that's okay with her
because at least he knows she cares
right?
But he hasn't answered her yet
he hasn't said 'yes, you're pretty' or 'not to me' even though she opened up
and she asked
because another girl who she trusts
with everything
has had so many (six) in the past year call her beautiful
and she has had none.
her heart is broken
she is insecure and cracked
she is a shell
and when things start to fill up
and she lets people see them
they steal them away
or poison them until they shrivel
until she is a shell again
and she knows she always will be.
--i know this got away from me. these things to a lot. the pov changes and the tense might and I'm sorry. but deal with it.--

I Wish I Knew

I wish I knew
How to make you smile
How to make you laugh
I wish I knew
Just what to say
To make you love life
And help you understand.
I wish I knew
Why I can't be perfect
Why I'm overshadowed all my life
By my sister and by you
You with your holier than thou
Your face
And your boys who all fall in love with you.
I wish I knew
How to tell people how I feel
Without sounding dumb or needy
Or overly mean.
I wish I knew
How they look at me
What that expression means
What the underlying message in their speech really is
I wish i knew
How to make you all see
That I'm tired
So tired
And I need help sometimes.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Three-Four-Five

This may sound mean, and I am sorry
but some things are just begging to be said
clawing their way out of you until you just can't hold onto them anymore.
There is a list in my head of the people I will be going to high school with and lately
it seems like those people are getting crossed out one by one
like I won't be able to be around them anymore
and it's not always something I've done
there were four-five-six originally, but now there are
two-three-four, only half gone by my own doing.
Out of the two-three-four there is one who I WANT to keep on that list
one who I want off of it
and two who could stay or could go (but I guess they should stay).
Now, I don't know if the bridges I burned
can be mended.
I think one of them might be already
and I want him to stay
I want to be near his personality; I am self-aware and I know he's good for me
but that last one
the hanging-on six
I was done with them long ago
and honestly this might be for the best
I've been thinking about it a lot lately
and what do we really have in common but a summer camp?
I am happier on my own
it sounds bad, but it feels good to say it
I wish she (two shes)
the Capitol girls (my darling AND the prettiest)
could stay with me too
they keep me okay and sane and smiling
when the hanging-on six
they bother bother bother
I get overexcited
but I can read people and I know when to stop
at least, I want to think that.
I don't really know.
But to the hanging-on six: it's been good. But you don't need to forgive me. I'll be fine.

Saturday, November 10, 2012

Stuart Trio (Dalton) - New York


(Told you I would post fanfiction.) 
           “Oh my god, Derek, what are you doing?” Derek grins cheekily at his two best friends, plucking the rainbow-striped umbrella from Julian.
            “Please, like you can say you haven't done stuff like this. It's my turn to get to act like a child. Besides, I'm not going to know anyone but you two, not in this city,” Derek replies brightly. Julian scoffs and Logan ignores them both.
            When Derek starts—as he himself would later describe it—prancing as they cross a street, Julian whips out his phone. Derek's in a tux, as they're on their way back from a big dinner with the Senator, and he's ditched his dress shoes for bright red boots. Julian snorts when Derek looks pensively across the street, as if he's posing. Funnily enough, though, he doesn't catch any looks.
            “This is going on Facebook, Der,” he calls as he takes shot after shot. Then Julian turns around to find Logan, and he's gone, until Julian spots a flash of blond meters away and he takes off running.
            “Logan! Wait up—Where are you going?”
            Logan turns around for just a second and shouts over a woman's head, “Just because Derek won't know anyone doesn't mean I won't!”

I Won't Feel It


I gave you my heart
to hold in your hand
and you
you let it sit
you let it stop beating
then you jumpstarted it with your own
you told me it was all going to be okay
until
you dropped it
on purpose
trust me, that was no accident
you wanted to grind it into the dirt with your heel
and I let you
stupid girl, I should have known, I should have known
because I didn't know better
but now
I am guarded
I'm not gonna let you back in
i'm not
I promise you that
even if you come around
it's not worth it to deal with you
with your jerkiness
your insensitivity to everything
your insecurities
your innocence
your goddamn face
because you're an asshole
you led me on
you told me everything I do made you happy
you told me I was adorable
that my blog posts made you blush
that you were honored
that you didn't want me to cry
you didn't want to ruin things
but you know what?
My heart burned
you threw it in the fire
my heart is as white as ash
as red as fire
and as black as coal.
And want to know what else?
You can have it back
crush it under your heel again
go for it
I won't feel it.

Love is Not Love


Love is not love
not in absolution
is Lutheran the religion
where
there is a priest
a confessional?
Or is that Catholicism,
where I could go
tell someone everything
be absolved of my sins.
That sounds like a damn good idea
I want to tell someone everything
for them to listen
and not judge
and not know me
There's a woman
who I talk to.
A counselor, by profession
a friend by choice
and
she knows about you
she knows who you are
she knows how angry I got at you
how bad you are for me
and I can't tell her
because she would tell me
this is a bad idea
this won't end well
it won't be good for you
but.
It would be
it really, really would.
I would be happier
until you found your next girl
or boy
or whoever.
I know you would
we would be foolish teens
make plans for the future
while you would be drifting
towards someone
probably someone I know
I care about
the way that she was.
But
you never know, right?

Color (Nothing Is What It Seems)


red is for love and passion and lust
but it can stand for blood
for danger
red tells you, i'm close to my tipping point
i'm dangerous
stay away
I don't want to hurt you
orange is for happiness
independence
and for deceit
for infidelity
and distrust
for a tryst that leaves you satisfied
but worried that he'll find out
because you love him
and
you love them both.
yellow is for sunshine
and for ugliness
or illness
it says, there is sickness here
whether the jaundiced skin of an alcoholic
or the sharp scent of a hospital.
green for life
rebirth
and green for envy
saying, I want what you have
I want to be more like you
i'm jealous.
blue for the impossible
for strength and discipline
but blue is sadness
weariness
that look in someone's eyes that says, 'i've given up'.
purple belongs those who are young
healthy
purple is vitality
royal and strong
but purple is bruises
bullying
an eternal ache inside.
pink is the flush of rosy cheeks
whether from happiness
or shame
because you were happy until they came along
them who ruins everything
until you don't remember how it feels to be happy.
Nothing is what it seems.

Almost


I almost told her
everything
I almost told them everything
almost
almost spilled my guts
almost explained myself
but I got to that cusp
and teetered
but then something
some invisible savior
pulled me back
and I didn't
I almost fell
and then
someone came along
and I landed softly
the other way
I only lost a piece
a chunk of my heart
but not all of it
and that part that I still have
I will keep
under lock and key
until I can trust again

Tired


I'm tired
tired of being bored
tired of only wanting half
tired of being misunderstood
I'm tired
tired of not knowing what I want
tired of not being heard
tired of being alone
i'm tired
tired of confusion
and not understanding
and being a non-linear thinker
i'm tired
tired of being myself
so let me sleep
and when I wake up
can I be someone different?

Whether Angel or Devil I Will Never Know


I thought I saw a flash of silvery-white,
like a guardian angel touched my bedpost or bent down to kiss my pillow.
I'd like to think it was to ease my worries
about the molehills that I so easily turn into mountains.
My grandmother passed away recently;
how many weeks has it been now?
So what I thought was:
perhaps God sent down some angel without a Vessel
to help me through everything.
But no, I don't believe in a God
I never truly have
and I don't know that I ever will.
I thought I might believe that something else was out there
after someone I love said one influential thing.
But even he can't convince me that I am being guided
because I have lost all control.
I have tipped, fallen, shattered,
and I just want things to go back to the way they were before.
The only thing I can't figure out is why it can't.

Friday, November 9, 2012

What Seems Like An Epiphany

Just a warning: I'm sorry for this post. It is a very honest, blunt, candid, open, essay. I'm saying things I should have been ages ago and shouldn't be as of ever, but I need to write and I need people to see this. It was about three and a half pages in my word processor. The essay covers a million subjects, and I'm more honest than I have been in a long time. You may not want to know these things about me. You may feel bad for things you've said or done, and that is certainly not my intention. I just feel that, if you are comfortable in delving deeper into my mind than I have done is a while, read on. If not, scroll past to the next blog. And finally, to my friends, I don't want you to feel that if you start, you have to read all of it. If you feel uncomfortable with my writing, I want you to stop reading. Please. For my sake as well as your own. I want you to be happy; I feel like I have brought some of you down with me as I've gotten sadder. I don't want that. You deserve to be happy. I promise. I have nothing more to say, so here's the essay.


             I don’t know what love is. To be honest, I don’t think I ever will. I think this because the topic of love is so broad of a spectrum. People say ‘I love you’ to their friends, even when they may think of the word ‘love’ as being the same as ‘romance’. I don’t understand this translation of love, but to each their own. In any case, I don’t understand it. When asked, people say of their loved ones that they ‘get them’, but what if one doesn’t ‘get’ themselves?
            I don’t understand myself. I identify most strongly with the character Genim “Stiles” Stilinski from the MTV show Teen Wolf. He is the character who is the outcast- human among wolves- but he is still as loyal and understanding as he can be. He researches and helps out as much as he can, and he does so much for his friends. He wants to be  Batman, and he knows he could be, but he accepts that he is Robin. Only one person believed he could be Batman, his Catwoman, and she’s gone. The thing about Stiles is that he is always talking. He has ADHD and takes Adderall for it, but he is still hyperactive and he talks fast and he is always happy – and when he isn’t, he is broken. When he isn’t on the high road, he’s on the lowest one available. I am just the opposite in this way; I am usually on the lowest road but when something makes me happy, it makes me really happy. I take medication to make me happier, not tone myself down. At the same time, I feel underappreciated. I am the girl people can talk to. They tell me things, because they know they can trust me. And they can. I won’t tell anyone. Ever. My friends are the most important thing in my life. They have kept me from starting to self-harm more times than you can imagine, without knowing it.
            I still feel like my friends don’t know me, though. I may not know me, but I want someone to. I want to. But I want them to more, I want them to know that I am not their trashcan. I complain about my problems to them too, and I had a slight emotional altercation with my best friend earlier in the year because of it. But I’ve started to move on. I say started because although I am friends with the person it was about again, that friendship is the most fragile it has ever been and the slightest thing could make it worse. I am walking on eggshells around him. In any case, I feel disrespected sometimes because I can only worry about their problems and my own life has taken a backseat. I know I am parroting what someone else has said, about me, and if she is reading this, then I am so, so sorry. I know how she feels now and it is the worst feeling in the world. I wish I could make it up to her, to everyone.
            I also wish they would make it up to me. One of my friends came out to me last weekend, and another of my friends has a crush on them. One of my friends has a long-term crush on her best friend’s boyfriend, and her best friend’s best friend is being awful to her. One of my friends broke my heart, but doesn’t understand that he only made it worse. One of my friends is mean, just mean, and although they mean well and are just trying to say it like it is, it still hurts and recently, I’ve been wondering why I’m friends with them. One of my friends talks about nothing but the boy she’s dating and how awful his past girlfriend was, even though she knows that the ex is one of my best friends. One of my friends I never see, I don’t know what’s going on with them. One of my friends is annoying and attractive and away for two weeks.
            And two of my friends are there for me. They talk about themselves, and they have some issues, but they don’t force them on me and listen to me and hug me and set boundaries. They are the two who split apart last year, hated each other with all their hearts, and this year have become peaceful and there are no hard feelings. These are girls who know how to deal with things and resolve them with minimal violence.
            I am not one of those girls. I backstab and lie and gossip for my own gain. I am not kind, I just care too much. There was a piece of Teen Wolf fanfiction I read recently, and there were two quotes belonging to Stiles that stuck with me. The first, “I get obsessed with people, and I want that to be okay. I want to not feel like I have to tone it down all the time, because I can't, I've tried and I'm not…I'm not good at it. I can't just turn it off,” and the second, “I don't get me. I don't think I even want to. Sometimes I feel like I'm a hundred different people at the same time, and I'm sick of trying to pick the one that's going to win out, or work best for someone else. I'm sick of trying to choose the winning line on my own freaking personality.” These two quotes sum up how I feel a lot of the time. I am stuck on the outside looking in, watching my millions of selves converse and learn from each other and disagree on everything. I wish I knew who I was, who those millions of selves were, but I don't and that's the worst feeling in the world. The first quote struck home better, though, because I know that  I get overexcited and I overshare and I care too much, far too much. I'm used to it. It's a part of who I am, and as much as I wish it weren't, I can't help but be glad for it. It drives me crazy in that I can't make it stop, that I'm always going to care that much, but it makes me that much easier to talk to (which in itself is a problem). This was the in the resolution of the story, the part that made me cry. I don’t cry unless the author has developed the character in such a way that I know I have been there, that I have felt that way. I feel like Stiles. Lastly, there was a quote from the exposition about Stiles: “He's capable of kindness, can pull it out when he needs to, knows how to work it as an angle or apply it as a tool, but it's not his default state and it never has been, either. It doesn't mean he doesn't care about the people in his life--if anything, he cares too much, pushes past the acceptable boundaries of investment into territory that's often uncomfortable. Kindness, Stiles has come to realize, has nothing to do with that. Kindness is about putting other people's feelings before your own.” This is like my definition of ‘okay’: even if I’m not fine, still carrying on like nothing is wrong. It’s wrong, but it still fits perfectly. I am a messed up individual. I don’t know where my mentality deviated from the normal track, but somewhere along the way it did. I don’t know if this is a predisposition or if something happened to change me, but this is who I am and I don’t like it at all.
            I want to change, I honestly do. I want to be happy and easy to talk to and not have problems. I take anti-anxiety meds and anti-depressants and I wish I didn’t have a reason to. I stay up too late because the idea of sleep disgusts me because in sleep, people dream, and as much as I like the idea of dreaming, mine are never good.  I may pretend that they are, but even in the ‘good’ ones, they are imaginary scenarios and I always wake up with my pillow stained with tears because I know that they aren’t like real life. I don’t sleep because dreams will always be better than reality, and I want the opposite of that. My therapist specializes in art therapy, and I cannot draw. I don’t like my ability, which is sometimes none. I have maybe three or four drawings that I have done in my lifetime that I am truly proud of. I can use color, because color speaks to me, but I cannot use shapes and lines because that isn’t how my brain sees things. I connect objects to memories and ideas, like my rocking chair being the most comforting place in my room because it makes me think of being young and fresh and not so sad. The butterfly keychain makes me think of my yearly visits to Northern Michigan, of being in the place I love with politics I don’t understand and actually being happy for a week.
            No, my mind doesn’t see objects as things, it sees them as memories, and I can draw those memories in color and vague lines and vaguer shapes. I see those high heels as the bathroom upstairs. They are black, but they are the color of wine and lace, the color of my phone keyboard and my cheeks once I was done crying over him. My mind works like this, the way it’s doing now; I find myself through writing essays about one topic that flows into the next such as this one. When I write, I write to feel. There is a poem in my yellow journal that is about how I write, how I want to write, and how I am numb. I write to thaw parts of myself, because I am icy inside and I can’t feel anything. I have nearly cried at least five times in the writing of this essay alone, because I remember things and places and feelings and it makes me feel and that is the best thing in the world.
            I can’t remember what being happy feels like. I know it sounds strange, but I am apathetic or depressed ninety percent of the time. The other ten percent is superficial happiness to appease other people. I know it’s a sad figure, but it’s what I feel to be true. And truth isn’t data, truth is what you choose to believe. Even in science, there is dispute because some people believe one thing to be true and others don’t. I don’t even remember what it felt like before my medication, but I do know that it’s only gotten worse and worse since I started. I don’t want to tell my mom, I don’t want her to worry. When she worries, I worry and get more and more anxious and depressed and I often feel that I don’t want to make it to the kitchen.
            In school, I feel constrained. I want to be learning Latin and Spanish and French and I want a good choir teacher and to be able to take classes in Forensics, criminology, mixing and DJing, television production, set and lighting design, marine biology, creative writing, screenwriting. I say I want to be a writer, but if this is the best that I can write, I don’t know if I could go anywhere with my writing. I’ve been called a ‘queen of narcissism’ about my writing because I think I’m okay, but I don’t want to come off as unsure of my abilities. Besides, other  people have said I’m good, and okay, maybe I let it go to my head a little. I don’t know what I want to do with my life. I want to do something I love, but I don’t know what I love, to be honest. I like forensics and marine biology, but I don’t have the stomach for them. I want to learn to mix music, but I don’t have the time or patience. I want to write, but I’m not good enough and I don’t know how to get better. I want to work in television, but how would I possibly get into the industry if I was even good enough?
            I had to write a short story for my English class recently. When I write, I feel free and like I can do anything because the character may have my traits, but the character is not me. The character is happy. But with this assignment, the story had to include elements of literature and it had a page limit. I can’t write with constraints on me or the writing. I slow down and don’t get things done because I’m not focusing on the writing, I’m focusing on the assignment. I never feel like I’ve done as well that way, but I always get the better grade. For this assignment, I fell in love with the character and I just let myself write, taking ideas and suggestions and the story ended at 10.2 pages. Two and a fifth pages over the limit. I had to take things out, change things that I liked, just so that it was ‘good enough’. I don’t have elements, though. I know they’re included, but I focused on making my work the best it could be because I never get to write for school.
            My teacher chastised me for this, telling me that I wasn’t following the assignment correctly and that I needed to change it. I wanted to cry in class, but I didn’t. That teacher, my English teacher, last year wrote me a note on one of my papers that ‘writing is your thing. It’s what you love. I love that,” and this year when I continued that, she told me what I was doing was wrong even though it was oh so right and I was completely in my element with the short story assignment.
            I guess my point is that I don’t know myself. I don’t want to, but I want someone to think they do, and to explain that person to me. I want many people to do this. I want to compile a person based off of what they say, compare it to who I think I am, and ask myself, is this me? Is this who I want to be? If not, then who do I want to be?
            I want to love and be loved in return, faults and all, and I want to be understood and respected. I want to be Batman, and I want someone to tell me I could be. I want to have an adventure outside of my mind, a romance with someone I know for real, a life beyond worrying and not feeling and wishing I was okay. I want to be someone, just not the person I am. I don’t even know if I am a person at this point, if I could be classified as mentally being human. My mind seems so deformed, by reading and television and sex and scarring that it couldn’t possibly be human at this point, so what I wonder is, is it? How has it changed so much since when I was six and I was okay? I just want to know, and be okay with it, and love myself instead of this.

Saturday, November 3, 2012

Thoughts On A Future I Know Nothing Of

I wish I could see what my life will be like.
People say, que sera sera. Let your actions decide your fate. And I say back, but what if I want to know?
I want to love someone and have them love me back. I want us to be the only thing that matters for a while.
I want to taste every inch of you, breathe in your moans, and smile as you break.
I want my children to play in the yard.
I want to spend my life writing and studying and being passionate.
More than anything, I want to spend it as myself and whomever I will become, not a shell who has turned inward to search for something, for anything inside.
I don't want to be alone.

I Will Be Your Diary

I have never been an open person, closing myself off and letting myself be known as a question mark, an open book for you to write down your opinions of me in. You think I will never see them.
This is not true.
I am my own diary. I am shut tightly and locked away by someone who has kept too many secrets.
But I am written in pencil. I can be erased. Marks will remain, my annotations in pen will stay, but I will let you write in me.
I can be as blank and open as everyone thinks.
I could be if only I applied myself, but I know I won't.

Grain Barrel

It used to be that I wrote to feel free
Because I was confined by everything around me.
But now that I know, I feel empty inside.
I feel like a grain barrel, scraped clean.
It used to be that I wrote to feel free,
but now I write to feel anything at all.

I Cannot Sleep

I can think clearly at night, when terrors abound and my mind drifts away to places I have never seen and never will again.
And just like travel, whether by air or sea or none of the above, it's never quite the same.
Even though I know I'm the only one awake, my friends creep out of the shadows, my family from under the bed, and my favorite characters slither off the bookshelves.
All of them take over my thoughts
So that my mind is reeling, gears are turning, belts are moving,
And I cannot sleep.
I can never sleep, not with thoughts of a broken man who watched his family die, a dog, dead too young and wishing he could come back, and a divorced father who only wants what he thinks is best for his daughter.
I can never sleep.
My mind is racing
My stomach flipping
My heartbeat way over the speed limit
As I think of being just friends, of first loves, of truth or dare
And
My gut is churning
My god but I feel nauseous
Because I remember
I have to do this again tomorrow.

Masquerade

I'm not sad anymore. I'm just angry. I want things to be different.
I want my life back, the one where I smiled and I meant it, laughed because I was happy, and I knew who my friends were.
I don't know who they are. I know I lost one. I don't know why I'm friends with another. I don't know how to make it better.
None of them know me.
I don't really know me. I don't 'get' me; I don't want anyone to 'get' me.
I am hidden behind a mask, and I don't recognize myself when I look in the mirror. My life is a masquerade.
Only one person has any idea of what is under the pretty face, and he turned it down.
I am a mask, and I am afraid.
I wear my face and it fits like a glove, but underneath, I am misshapen from being hurt so often.
What if I let someone else in and they make it worse?
All I know is that one day, it will be more hurt than everything else combined, and that day, I will not make it to the kitchen.

Eighty Percent

Everyone has someone.
By the time they're sixteen, eighty percent of all teens have met the person they're going to marry.
I have two years left, and then I am going to feel confined by statistics.
I will settle.
I will force myself to be part of the eighty percent.
Maybe by saying this I'm stopping myself.
But I doubt it.

Friday, November 2, 2012

i feel like a hipster

me with my music that no one has heard of
(ever heard of the honey trees? didn't think so.)
and wanting to find the perfect little coffee shop
(i like a hell of a lot of sugar)
and reading classic literature because i think it's better
(don't try to force your opinions on me; i liked the great gatsby)