Monday, December 2, 2013

Attention Whore

a list of things that my family ought to be doing at any given time:
not working
not cooking
not busy

Friday, November 29, 2013

I'm Not Grateful

today has been shit. 
thanksgiving is supposed to be joyous, isn't it?
about being grateful?
it's unfortunate that im not grateful, then--
I'm not grateful for the stings of my sister's every word,
or for the tightness in my mothers face when she could barely stand but kept cooking anyway. 
im not grateful for my father messing up and calling me a bitch nearly a month ago, slipping and sliding down a cliff that I know he can't climb back up. 
im not grateful for my dog barking at my reflection or for never staying on my bed when I want him with me. 
I'm not grateful for my grandmother living with us and infesting our home with the impermeable scent of White Diamonds by Elizabeth Taylor. 
I'm not grateful for my grandfather having dementia and being distant. sweet, but distant. 
I'm not grateful for my other grandmother's husband sponsoring a music student and my grandmother taking her shopping and out for lunch and then telling us about it. 
I'm not grateful for my anxiety disorder and ADHD and depression and whatever-the-fuck-else people want to tell me I have.  
im not grateful for two daily medications.
I'm not grateful for the holiday season, supposedly filled with joy and peace and whatever other bullshit gets people to buy things. 
I'm not grateful for my society- and culture-driven materialism. 
I'm not grateful about my family owning two houses and not being able to fucking sell one of them. 
I'm not grateful about the post-holiday letdown I'm experiencing, or the one I know will happen right after christmas, because last year I was having suicidal thoughts on December twenty fifth and fuck me if that isn't screwed up beyond all belief. 
im not grateful for my mother's side of the family all living in my state, mostly in my city. 
Im not grateful for my cousin's militant veganism.
I'm not grateful for my other cousins' militant religion. 
I'm not grateful for the general feeling of tightness of money in my household in comparison to how it felt when I was a child. 
I'm not grateful that I'm living in interesting times because not only am I growing up and becoming more aware of the major problems that surround me, but most of the things surrounding me are also actively fucking falling apart. 
I'm not grateful for the patriarchy or MRAa or nice guys tm or our rape culture or the NRA or republicans or organized religion or our government or the lack of separation between church and state or generalized racism or lack of poc and queer representation in media or discrimination within the lgbtqqpa-whatever-I'm-missing community or the stigma around mental illness or a hundred other things I could list here. 
I just wish today hadn't been so icky. 
the food was great, my sibling wasn't, my day as a whole was complete horseshit. 
isn't that just the story of my fucking life. 

Monday, September 16, 2013

bitter leather

everything is too quiet.
there's wind blowing and an airplane flying by but it still feels like i'm in the middle of an insufferable silence,
the kind that hangs heavy and thick in the air
and when you inhale it feels as though everything is sticky with heat and humidity.
september is nice because it's mild, but there's something about today that feels biting,
like a whip or someone's sharp sarcasm.
and today has been one cruel shwip of a leather strap after another.
legally, i'm not even enrolled in school,
and i'm having a day where i'm alone but never lonely.
if you thought i was going to be in classes with you tomorrow, then we were both wrong,
because my counselor called sick at the last minute
and i'm not sure i've ever felt quite as much like i've been stranded.
i'll be there wednesday, i hope.
now the sun is shining but everything still feels cruel and at war with itself,
like it has to figure out how to hurt me more than it already has.
as much as i prefer this kind of weather, the world feels
arrogant and bitter
as though it knows how personally i know how to take everything.

Monday, September 9, 2013

this doesn't happen

today i met
a girl
who is at this so called
school of choice
because she was bullied
the kind of thing that you think only happens
in fiction.
and i met another girl
who told her bully
to fuck off
and she got detention for it.
and i wonder
how sheltered am i
that i don't know
that these things
because i
in a fantasy
a play
some kind of twisted utopia
this doesn't happen.
today i felt confident
and interesting
because i quit something that i hated
and i met other people who 
shared my interests.
a fanfiction writer
who said so out loud
in a room of people she didn't yet know
and a girl with an ao3
who hasn't seen city of bones yet.
we're making plans to see it together friday
and i'm sitting with her in english tomorrow.
and i felt safe
like i could say things
and feel things
and like i was allowed to talk in class
and make my opinions known
and answer questions
and when i did
the teachers never said,
<yes, but...>
<you're wrong because...>
i felt respected as a student
as though i actually had rights
and that my opinions were valid
appreciated, even
that doesn't happen.
today in english
when i sat down
next to a girl with blue hair
and a glittery piercing in her upper lip
she said, 
and when we got to art
we discussed the people
who give fandoms a bad name
with a girl who's preferred name
is one third from
comic books.
and i was not the only one
who was visibly uncomfortable
some of the girls
were so quiet
that we
all of us
could barely
hear them.
by art class
there was a quiet kind of 
the teacher asked for terrie
and six of us mumbled
<it's thorre>
more than one person said,
<she got thu's name right>
when she pronounced it to
instead of thuh or thoo
like the last two teachers had.
i was not particularly quiet
and i was joined
in my unquiet
by the other students
who also maybe
felt halfway-comfortable
in their own skins.
and that didn't happen.
today i started at a new school.
i knew where i was going
as soon as i got there
and there were twenty five
other people
who knew
just where they were going
but didn't know
how to get there.
and now i think
we will help each other
because none of us
are here for malice
we are here
because everything else
doesn't work
is against us
and everything else
i guess
this is happening.

Sunday, September 8, 2013

In Which I Discuss With Myself In Great Detail a Stalemate and A Liar

and down
and down
toes on the edge
of a precipice
of a cliff waiting for me to dive
push me
tap my shoulder and wait for me to turn around
and i
words with no meaning
and soundless echoes of hatred
will follow me
because one
buffer months are not enough
and if your face appears in my dreams
you are to blame
and if i do burn my letters
those dozens of letters
then the ashes will be my tears
that i never spilled for you
because i don't cry anymore
i haven't cried
in ten months
and twelve days
you do the math
because i never learned how
and now look where it's landed me
i am separate
away from the group
of people who kept me alive
and i have a standing invitation with one
a talk about our feelings with another
a we dont see each other often enough with a third
a lets-not-mess-this-up-with-intent stalemate with the last
and with you
with you
i cannot tell what is real anymore
i cannot tell if you mean it when you say
i miss you
it's not the same without you
we should hang out more
and so
there is a hole in me
i would say
a hole the size of jupiter
but that's inaccurate
there is a hole
the size of the known universe
because you have meant that much to me
before summer came
and that stalemate took place
through four am texts
lowered self-esteem
a break-up
that might have been
my fault
and an hour of teaching
how to use an xbox controller
for evil and never good
and now it has stolen my head
i would say my heart
but that cheesy
and not true
this stalemate
has stolen my head
i think about it
and i think about it
think about
and i maintain composure
because i know how and because
i have to
to survive
when really
there is a hurricane taking place
in my mind
my limbic system is at the eye
and action is based on memory and emotion
so it makes sense that i can
when i feel like this
the center of it lies
in the fact that you said no
and so i told myself
move on
you have to
move on
and i know it will never happen
but there is some element of hope
some stupid
that is keeping me from
fully giving up
it's a vicious cycle
a stalemate has my head
and a rejection
still seems to be
clamped to my heart

Friday, July 26, 2013


It's terrible, you say, and I will respond with: a bit, yes.
I am sad that you are like this. 
I do not wish this isolation on anyone.
And you being you, well,
I wish you knew how wonderful you are.
You're the one who tolerates and listens and agrees.
Stop hating yourself.
And you're the one doesn't smile,
Who laughs at the stupidest jokes and then
Observes on the state of things with me.
Stop making me like you.
See, my problem is that I'm not good at people.
You aren't either, but your awkwardness leaves you at an advantage because you're a guy. 
That's just how these things work.
But I am not good at people, and I fall out of contact too easily, and you have never questioned me for if.
And that time when you told me you really liked me?
I know it was a fluke, because of her, but it's stayed with me.
When I said it, I meant it.
I still do, and I hate that about myself.
I want to not like you as more than a friend more than I want anything right now.
But you get me, and no one else does.

Saturday, June 22, 2013

A Someone

When I meet a Someone
I want them to have scars.
some girls want images,
the fa├žades the media has painted,
the parts that they have played,
but I do not want first-date material.
Even when I yearned for love,
I was not foolish,
And I have always yearned for the painful domesticity.
I want the fighting that always hits where it hurts most,
The sleeping next to another body,
The excruciating give and take.
I do not want Prince Charming and walks on the beach while the sun is setting.
No, I want a Someone with scars,
With painful memories that I will accidentally trigger,
And who will not treat me as though I am weak on the days that I cannot get out of bed.
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger,
And I want a Someone whose biggest strength is their character,
Their personality,
Their steadfastness and amiability.
I want a Someone who knows who they are,
And who knows how painful it is to find that out.
I want a Someone who is a real person,
with an overbearing mother and a bratty sister,
whose dog died when they were nine,
who had a friend who kept them from killing themselves in middle school.
I want a Someone who likes old radio shows and Hitchcock movies,
And who hates kale because it was the only vegetable in the house for a month in fourth grade.
I want a Someone with a story,
A life that they have really lived,
A painful past, but one that is filled with videos of school plays and choir concerts.
And I have not yet met my first Someone.

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Write Me A Poem

I want you to write me a poem:
tell me you love me,
and let me hear it in the absence of your voice.
I want to hear your words in the silence,
to watch your hands move and your pulse jump,
I want to let your colors swirl in front of my eyes
as I fall even more in love with you.
I want to let you to rest on my shoulder,
heavy and warm,
so that I can breathe you in
and let you rest because you are too world-weary for someone your age.
Let me have this moment:
I have never gotten to say I loved you to your face,
and although you knew,
there is still something missing
that will darken everything.
So please, write me a poem:
tell me that you do not love me,
that your skin will never burn for me,
that your colors only move in straight lines,
and that you do not actually talk with your hands the way I always picture you.
I want to hear silence,
I want you to be still and steady,
and I do not want you to make me fall in love with you.
Let me brush your hair back as you sleep,
and then tiptoe away,
and cry softly so I will not wake you.
I will not be okay for a while,
for now.
I am not as okay as I tell you I am,
and sitting on the edge telling you about who I can't seem to hate
hurts just as much as you standing on the other side of the shelf did.
And as much as I want to have no drama this summer,
there is an inevitability that surrounds us
that will manifest itself in tears and absences.
Those absences should never be yours,
because I know you will have the starring role,
and they need you more than I do.
I am begging of you,
write me a poem:
tell me that you do not love me like I loved you,
that your heartbeat is even and slow,
that you are saving your feelings for the ones I've been jealous of
judged by
wanting to be
my entire life.
Tell me that I am not good enough,
prey on my insecurities,
and never say the right thing.
Write me a poem:
tell me everything I couldn't tell you,
and make it all okay,
and make it so I no longer see you in the absence of light,
because I do not want to feel this way unless I have to.

Monday, June 17, 2013


(so i'm reading this story, and it's all centered around the father's interaction with his son, and his observations on the son's behaviour in general and this kind of sprang from reading something from the point of view that i have no experience of. this passage in particular kind of sparked it: Isaac is instantly surrounded by a horde of children asking his name and helping him adjust to the game, Isaac smiles shyly at everyone but even from this far away Derek can tell he is feeling overwhelmed. He regularly turns to make eye contact with Derek, as if reassuring himself of his father’s presence. Derek nods patiently each time, holds a steady gaze with Isaac and tries to convey the reassurance that he’s right there and he won't be going anywhere.)
i have these strong memories
of being walked inside my school in first grade
and hanging up my tiny backpack
and feeling important when i went into the classroom.
and these memories
they have a sour tang to them now
because every time i felt so powerful
all of that power was taken away
because whoever walked me inside
i have been Not Okay for my entire life.
the word anxiety has followed me from the day i first heard it.
separation anxiety
performance anxiety
social anxiety
a Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
it took me a long time to know what it meant.
and now?
now i know it means
mama or daddy leaving too soon.
it means sparkle plenty,
and being lied to,
that breathing deep dispels nausea.
it means sleeping until noon because someone asked you where you were yesterday
and you don't know how to say,
i got so scared of interacting with people that i almost threw up.
and it means feeling isolated and ostracized and wrong and Not Okay and like a lie
because of a neat little box that someone put you in,
closed the lid and said,
there's no way out without making it worse, so much worse.
but the point is,
i remember feeling so small i couldn't breathe.
i remember being small and wishing people took me seriously.
and then i became a social being, and i forgot all about my Big Ideas.
i forgot who i was for nearly a decade because
because children are not supposed to have Big Ideas
and they were pounded out of me.
and now?
i am 80% an introvert
and the other 20% makes me weep for humanity
because the only people i know
they do not understand my new Big Ideas.
this is not the point i was trying to make.
i have that tendency to get off topic and find new Big Ideas.
also not my point.
all i'm saying is,
i remember being small.
i remember being scared and worried and being told it was okay when it wasn't.
i remember crying for no reason because there was just so much tension and i couldn't handle dad being grumpy.
i don't remember the happy parts.
i remember being scolded and chastised and brushed off.
i remember tantruming and my sister laughing at me and not feeling good enough.
i remember being told i was exceptionally smart and then, ten minutes later, getting something wrong and thinking,
what is wrong with me?
i remember being just as Not Okay then as I am now.
when i remember being small, i can only wish i remember being Okay.

Saturday, June 15, 2013

imperfect perfection

things are not         perfect
is too hard         and not worth it.
but it is in our                               nature
to try
    to strive
              to ask for perfection.

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

But He Loves You

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy,
and he won’t tell you that he loves you, 

but he loves you. 
And you feel like you've done something terrible, 
like robbed a liquor store, 
or swallowed pills,
or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, 
and you’re tired. 
You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, 
and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, 
and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, 
and you’re trembling, 
but he reaches over and he touches you, 
like a prayer for which no words exist, 
and you feel your heart taking root in your body, 
like you've discovered something you didn't even have a name for.
~Crush by Richard Siken

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

To The Men Who Stand Alone At Graves

I don't know your story,
I don't know if you lost a wife or a brother or a friend,
But the other graves have families or flowers at them and this, 
The one you stand quietly at,
This only has you.
I do not know their story,
I do not know if those children lost a brother to the war,
Those parents a son,
Or that woman an abusive father.
But somehow, they do not seem sad,
Not the way you do.
They have each other,
While you are the men who stand alone.
Was there a house fire,
did your wife die from cancer,
was your father a police officer who got in the middle of a gang war?
And you may go home and inhale your sister's favorite perfume from her dresser,
Where it has sat untouched in her room for ten years.
I don't know your story.
I don't know if you were an innocent touched by death too young,
or if your grandmother waited to die until after taxes,
but you look devastated standing there with your hands shoved in your pockets and your head bowed.
This death made you aware of your own mortality.
At the very least, it made you realize who to hold dear and who you need not worry about.
It changed you.
And I am sorry for your loss.

Monday, May 27, 2013

Listen, Baby...

When I went into sixth grade,
I felt all alone in that tiny school.
It was shiny and new to me,
But I acted like I owned the place,
and I wish someone had said to me,
Baby, you don't need to try to have it all.
You just need to let things take their own time,
wear what you like when you like, 
don't worry about who your sister was.
It's okay if you don't like geography like she does.
And baby, don't worry about boys.
You're only eleven, and it doesn't matter.
You already know who your first love is gonna be,
You already know it's gonna end bad,
You already know you don't want it to be him.
There's nothing you can do, baby, but you'll get over him eventually.
But I had no one.
And when I went into seventh grade,
I felt world-weary and grown-up.
I was in class with the eighth graders,
And though I knew I was ready to be one,
No one has ever listened to me.
I wish someone had said,
You need to make them listen baby, because things will go better when you do.
You know you're right.
You know what's best, baby,
and the haters can go fuck themselves.
And baby, I know you're trying to ignore what you confessed in August, and don't worry about it.
She'll come around.
She'll be there when it counts and will slap him for you if you ask nicely.
They always say, keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
It's okay if you don't know which she is for a while.
But I heard nothing.
And then came that summer,
When I toyed with the ideas of love and infatuation and what lovely things suits are.
When I didn't cry, but didn't breathe for a moment, either.
When he had no idea and the phrase, 'ignorance is bliss' was, in hindsight, the truest thing about me.
And I wish someone had said,
Don't make it a big deal.
Baby, you know you like him, let's leave it at that. 
I promise you, he's just a boy.
Just. A. Boy.
Boys will come and go, alright?
There are more important things, 
So be glad you're making friends.
But nothing.
No voice came down from the heavens and told me what to do.
So I let things pass, and then,
As I went into eighth grade, I panicked.
And I really, really needed someone to say,
Let it go.
You know you know what he's gonna say,
what she's gonna say,
what they're gonna talk about if it gets out.
Baby, don't give yourself too much hope.
Don't lose sight of your friends in all this,
And don't pretend to know what you're doing.
You're gonna need to not have alienated yourself come his birthday.
Baby, listen to me, be nice, be warm, be friendly.
You aren't doing yourself any favors by being an ice queen when he rejects you.
It's better than weeping, but still.
So baby, listen to me.
Tell him that you don't expect anything.
Tell him the truth about how you feel, but leave out the best parts.
And baby. Never tell him he can always talk to you.
It's only gonna hurt.
Listen, baby...

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Concerning Three Years, A Certain Boy, and Trying To Make Sense of Things

July - October 2010
November 2010 - May 2011
June 2011
Oh. OH.
Sense out of chaos.
July 2011
August 2011
September 2011 - May 2012
Ignorance and bliss.
June - September 2012.
Wondering wondering wondering.
Snubbed, then humbled.
Waves crashing.
Letters written.
Telling discussing never saying a word.
Half birthday.
Emotional dumping ground.
October 2012
Tensions rising.
Breaking point.
Because my thumb slipped.
Missing days.
My life doesn't suck without you.
Meds every morning.
Wine and lace.
Crying in a bathroom.
"Just friends".
November 2012
Just Dance.
I missed you.
November - December 2012
I did not miss this.
What do you want?
Stop texting me.
Holidays depression no more meds.
January 2013
No amends.
No regrets.
February 2013
Lines lines lines.
Latin Bones Doctor Who.
Performance anxiety.
Ten years?
Monologue solo scenes monologue.
"I really like you".
"I don't trust him at all".
"Go to hell".
March 2013
Not after all this.
Don't hate me.
Can we not.
April 2013
Not speaking.
Yes, I suppose.
High school.
Zelda and Mario.
Definitely not the same page.
Are we going to fix this?
May 2013
Why are we bothering?
Not like that.
Never like that.
You know.
Heat wave.
Group Avanti pool party nerves non-responsive scared.
Not ready for tomorrow to be the first day of the rest of my life.
Never ready for that.
Irreparable damage.
Wish it would stop.
Everyone's lying all the time.
Day sleeper.
Emotionally unstable.
Mascara smeared over the word WHY.
Am I going crazy?

Soldiers of Confusion

Why no, you say, I didn't cross your mind,
Not when you chose this poem to perform to thirty people
While I was in the audience.
No, I didn't know you would say something that made me break
Because when she put her hand on my knee while I didn't cry
I didn't know it was about me.
I didn't want to know.
But I didn't know and I wanted it to be and
They say that abuse victims are pushed to the edge seven times on average
Before they leave.
Is that what this is?
Or is my knowledge, my stupid over-abounding knowledge,
Telling me lies and keeping me here?
Not that I know where 'here' is,
Because sometimes it is a meadow of wildflowers
And other times it is a dank dirty dark deep dungeon.
There doesn't seem to be an in-between,
Unless you count the limbo I sometimes put myself in.
That limbo is white and black and an elevated pulse and tears and confusion,
That confusion that is always there when one of us is waiting for an answer
And that answer hasn't come.
And now we're trying to tell each other the truth, just now as I'm writing this and I might look back in ten minutes and things will be different
But right now?
Right now I am in limbo and I am searching for answers and honesty.
You know what I want from this,
You have known from the start.
And yet here we are almost seven months later and
I still don't know.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013


My attacks are silent
They sneak up on me
Everyone around me
And they kill the things at had been going
I backslide and make people cry.
I am never a fucking Molotov cocktail.
No, no I am much worse
I'm an A-bomb
Perhaps a small one,
But still deadly and sinful and wrong.
And this is because I bottle it up
I don't tell people what's going on because when I have they didn't listen
Didn't care
Didn't help.
Just let me blame them.
But the thing is, 
I think when people hear 'anxiety attack'
They think 'panic attack'
But I do not regress entirely into my head,
And I do not scream,
And when I cry it's silent.
No, I can hear you,
I just can't listen,
Because your words don't mean anything to me.
They are your pleas for me to be normal,
When I am not normal because of your pleas.
And I want to scream,
But my vocal chords are folding in on themselves and I can't always take full breaths,
Much less try to talk.
And I no longer make noise when I cry,
Because it makes me feel weak and out of control
And I don't have a lot of control anymore.
At least, it feels that way.
So these are my words to people who don't understand:
Let me be,
Because you should have listened eons ago,
And now when I'm silent and listening to my heart beat in my throat,
I am thinking only about the creative ways I would get you to shut up.
99.9% of the time they do not involve kissing.
I am thinking of what I would pack if I ran away.
Of how death would affect the people around me.
If death would affect the people around me.
So leave me alone, because every time you don't,
I take another step towards the abyss.

Wednesday, April 17, 2013


The aftertaste of coffee is bittersweet
The memory of a flavor
And the knowledge that the caffeine is what's keeping you awake and warding off the oncoming headache
That you know you'll fight away with Advil washed down with more coffee (or a Venti green tea, you just never know.)
And here comes the cliche:
It's incredibly reminiscent of humans.
The aftertaste of Sandy Hook,
Lives lost and a marathon being run in support; a bombing at the finish line.
Please don't think I'm making a sick joke.
Nice things seem to get ruined a lot.
And the aftertaste can bring you back and bring you back and bring you back and
At this point, it seems domestic.
As in, not alien. As in, a citizen.
The aftertaste is getting less sweet and more bitter.
And so, like coffee, we need something to make it seem better,
We need a placebo,
But it might just be knocked back with another disaster, and
Maybe it will never take effect.
I didn't mean to bring a terrorist attack into this, I promise.
I've been doing my best to avoid it so that I don't go into panic mode
Because when I get involved,
I get scared.
(This is true for many things; not just people dying in horrible ways.)
(That probably means I'm not good at people because I'm scared.)
(You learn something new everyday. No. Who am I kidding, I know that.)
(I simply choose to ignore it because I'm scared of knowing myself. Tired of it, even.)
(Then why am I still writing?)

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Stream of Consciousness

Stream of consciousness,
My thoughts sans censorship
(The inside of my head is a place I would like to leave)
Before the plane ride car ride tram ride
I spent an hour in the shower with my fists against my knees
Trying not scream out.
Don't shout,
Don't let them hear you,
Don't let them help.
Don't pull out the knife, it will only make the bleeding worse,
And don't twist it, it will rupture more organs,
And don't think about it, because that makes it real.
When people say, are you okay?,
Tell them that if you do not think about it it does not exist,
And you do not want to run away in the night,
And you see yourself as being a normal part or society,
And your entire body is not telling you to rebel,
And the person you want to kiss you is not the person who stabbed you in the first place.
This was never supposed to be about him,
And yet here I am
Day after day after day,
I do not think about it so it does not exist and
If I want to kiss him it is becoming someone else's problem and
When he says his trampoline is a good place to talk I do not want to cry.
My stream of consciousness is not a stream,
More of a river by now,
Just this and that and one after the other
Milliseconds apart and making me wish I could turn my thoughts off.

Saturday, March 16, 2013

I Want To Write

I want to write until my fingers bleed,
until someone has to bandage them for me and say,
I need you to stop for a while, do this for me.
I want to write until I can't anymore because I'm crying
and my tears are falling on my keyboard
and the keys are so slick that I cannot even type the reason that I'm crying.
I want to write until I don't have anymore stories to tell,
until my memories have been written down by
an artist named Liam or
a young mother named Nina.
I want to write until I die,
all the way up to those last few seconds.
I want my last words to be,
you know how it's going to end,
finish it because I can't anymore.
I want someone there to hear them.
I want to write until I starve,
to become so caught up in the world in my head that
I forget
to even eat.
I want to write not for myself,
but for my friends,
for the children who cannot write for themselves,
for the people who love me because of my faults.
(There are few.)
I want to write until people hear me,
until they understand
And until they wish they had done something differently.
I want to write and change someone's mind,
to impress someone who had thought so little of me,
who told me I wouldn't make it because (_____).
I want to write until my fingers bleed my words,
Until someone kisses my knuckles and asks me to come to bed,
And until I get a letter that makes me cry because I know I have helped someone.

Saturday, March 2, 2013

Sleep (Is For People Without Mental Illnesses)

I have a strong dislike for sleep.
People say,
That's not healthy,
You should get some sleep,
How late were you UP?
And I say,
I have a very, very strong dislike for sleep.
When I sleep, and I dream, and I remember my dreams, I never want to wake up because
Nothing is ever as good as my dreams.
And before I sleep, my mind wanders and I think,
What were your reasons?
Why can't I be good enough,
Smart enough,
Pretty enough.
Why wasn't I enough?
And I do things - this you say are bad before bed - so that I don't cry and cry and cry and suffocate in my own emotions.
I read all night.
I have my earbuds in and listen to other people's pain and it makes me feel less alone.
I organize my closet and clean my desk and make art.
I let myself be absorbed into places and words and stories where I don't have to think and I won't ever have to think
Because I have found that when I think,
I cry and cry and cry and suffocate in my own emotions,
And I hate that.
I hate it and there isn't anything I can do about it except read all night, have my earbuds in and listen to other people's pain and organize my closet and clean my desk and make art.
And I get up when I wake up, when I have slept enough, and if I miss things en it's the worlds fault for making me this way.
Isn't that enough?

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

My Mistakes

I make mistakes.
Everyone does.
Everyone screws up sometimes, and everyone takes the fall for their actions.
But when I make mistakes
And I do, all the time
It doesn't feel...
I don't feel...
You tell me and tell me and tell me,
Don't do this, it's not good for you,
You shouldn't,
And my body is saying PROVE THEM WRONG,
Even when I just want to lay my head down and go to sleep.
I want to lay my head down, go to sleep, and not wake up.
I know you have a dozen links saved into your favorites,
A whole column of orange Bs.
I hate that.
I hate knowing that I can't make mistakes.
I hate knowing that you see everything I do
Everything I say
That is only meant for everyone else
The people who I can talk to and then get away from.
I want an apartment.
Nothing fancy.
Just somewhere that I can have wifi and books and coffee and music and learn things.
Where I can stay up all night if I need to.
Where I can actually be alone when I have anxiety attacks.
No one seems to realize that what I need when I am crying and not breathing and tensing is to be alone because I am not the trigger.
You are the trigger.
All of you, being surrounded by people who think they know me, that is the trigger.
I am never the trigger.
Don't you get that?
I never have been.
I want to fuck up.
I'm a teenager, shouldn't I be allowed to sometimes?
I want to do everything wrong and not have someone telling me, do it this way, do it my way.
Your way doesn't work.
It doesn't matter if its school or laws or work.
It doesn't work for me, it never will, and I know that.
I need to be in charge.
I need to have space and be able to make things happen in the only way I know how.
My way.
But first - oh, first, I need to figure out what my way is,
And people figure things out by making mistakes.
I know you don't like it, but I make them.
I stay up til seven am and don't eat regularly and watch Teen Wolf because I'm losing interest in life because you're telling me not to make mistakes and maybe it's not in so many words but it's there.
I went back to eating wheat and before, every time we talked about it, you sounded so fucking disappointed.
Like I would be doing something wrong, or bad.
When I say I don't want to go to high school and I don't want to learn math, you sound like you're going to punch someone because obviously, if what I want, if what will work for me isn't congruous with your plans, I'm wrong and I don't know what I want.
And obviously, it's going to make our relationship better if you tell me that I am going to keep my options open even though I've said, loud and clear, a hundred times, BUT I DON'T WANT TO.
I still feel guilty every time I eat sourdough.
I thought you weren't like them.
I thought you thought I was okay and sane and smart for my age.
Mature for my age.
I thought you trusted me to know what I need to fucking keep myself alive,
To save myself from myself.
But you don't trust me at all, do you?
You don't think I'm capable of anything except what school has taught me.
School, which has taught me to shoot or be shot,
And that I have no power in a world in which I should have all the power.
The kids are the ones you're all ruining this world for.
And you expect us to sit back and listen to you and when we voice our opinions, we're all obviously just ignorant little upstarts who couldn't possibly know what we're talking about.
Because we're kids, and because we aren't fully developed, we must be wrong all the time.
Isn't that what you think?
You'd never say it, but it's always implied.
It's. Always. Implied.
You all think I don't hear it.
I am fully capable of making decisions.
They might not be the best ones, but I'm fourteen years old, for God's sake.
I'm not going to live up to your expectations all the time.
Not even most of the time.
I left school and got ten times happier.
My future is blurrier, but I like it a hell of a lot better than I did before.
So what if I don't graduate from high school?
I want to be a fucking writer.
I want to be an author and I don't have to have gotten through my 'sophomore' year to do that.
Christopher Paolini self-published at 16.
My sister finished an entire fucking novel.
She's halfway through the second one.
So what if I don't graduate from high school?
I don't want to anyway.
I never wanted to.
I'm not perfect.
Get over it.
And let me make my own damn mistakes.

Sunday, February 3, 2013

I am used to this

I look around me
I see brown walls
blue sheets
Grey books
And no one.
No one but nameless faces
That I have created for myself because I have no one else.
The red square with the G+ on it means nothing because
There is no circle with a one or a two or a ten.
No one saying,
How are you?
No one saying want to hang out, or are you alright?
Because they only write about
That dance was perfect
Look what I did.
They do not say,
I supported my friend with an anxiety disorder.
They do not say,
I was there when my friend wanted to kill herself around Christmas,
And they do not say,
I am always here for you. I am your two am.
In the end
I do not have a two am.
I will never have a two am.
Let the music drown you out.
Let yourself be interrupted because it wasn't important anyway,
It's never been important.
Be a doormat and die inside.
You always have and that isn't going to change.
The blue square with the t means nothing
Because there are grey faces whose words sting
No, they do not sting
They burn into your skin
And you are always carrying those scars
Whether you want to or not.
I have not been abused or raped or traumatized by the things I've seen
So why should anyone care?
I just want pity
I just want people to compliment me
Because I need an ego boost.
That's all this is, they say
And what if I start to believe them?
Would that be so awful?
Donotcry, notinfrontofthem, youdontwantpityyoudontwantpityyoudontwantpity, youarenothisweakrose----
The tears come and I run and run and run and run
Because I cannot be around you once I've bared my soul.
I can't unsee the looks on your faces
Can't unhear your tones
You don't understand me
Do I deserve this?

Monday, January 21, 2013


I feel guilty, she says, even when it's not my fault.
She didn't mean it as a trigger
I know this
I KNOW this
But chanting it, running it over my tongue a hundred thousand times?
It does nothing except for make it lose it's meaning
And how else can you phrase that?
She didn't mean it,
She didn't mean it,
She didn't mean it.
And so,
When the wave crashes over my head and my lungs fill with saltwater
No one knows what to expect
Or what they were expecting.
All they know is
I am not here,
My mind is in the clouds, or buried far, far below the earth's crust
Where I cannot be reached,
But my body responds.
It will pull the comforter
Obviously not doing it's job
Around it's shoulders,
And it will cringe away when you try to use touch to convey emotion
Because it knows that your emotion is pity, pity and shame and grief.
Your grief,
Because you have raised a broken child
A thirteen year old, confident and shy,
Unwanted and cared for,
Perfect and cracked
Like the surface of a mirror,
So that when you look back,
You see nothing, just a spiderweb of white lines full of broken dreams.
And when I run,
When I escape back to mindless pixels, unknowing friends, meaningless words,
I expect it all to get better -- but.
But instead I read and I see and these pixels, these friends, these words mean nothing to me
Not when I am like this.
I am a victim.
I have cried out all my tears, time and time again, and not made the first cut too many times, and carried the weight of other people's problems for far too long.
But I…
I don't know how to stop.
I want to learn
To raise myself up and learn how to get better
But learning has never been my strong point;
I fall behind.
While my friends - those unknowing friends
Move upward, onward, forward,
I stay looking into the past
Into my mistakes and failures and
I don't see anything.
I see nothing at all,
Just the knife, twisting and twisting and pushing in deeper.
I am a backwards child,
Scarred and scared and young.
I regret everything,
My friends and my classes and my names and my afternoons spent inside,
I regret my summers, my winters, my springs and my autumns,
My birthdays, my Christmases, my July fourths.
I regret everything, and
I know I should have enjoyed it, but
I am a backwards child,
Scarred, scared, regretting, young, and yearning for the years I can never get back.

Saturday, January 12, 2013

What People Are Good At

It is interesting, because some people are good at
dancing, dancing or singing or writing or fighting.
Some people are good at skydiving, or piloting planes,
and some are good at arguing in a court of law or shooting a gun.
But some people,
oh, some people are good at what they have learned
years of experience.
Years of pain
Inflicted on themselves
Because they weren't sane enough,
Normal enough,
'Okay' enough
For someone else's liking.
And then, years later
They, in turn
Because the someone else
And tell you,
But let me tell you
They have no judgement
They cannot tell you who you are
Or if you are okay
Because those are things that you have to figure out for yourself.
And that is what you are good at.

Saturday, January 5, 2013

In The Grand Scheme Of Things

In the grand scheme of things
Does one math worksheet
One day of going to school
One song downloaded
Make any difference?
In the grand scheme of things,
If something is supposed to happen
Won't it, even if it doesn't happen right when it's supposed to?
In the grand scheme of things,
When it does happen, shouldn't things stay as they were in that
Perfect moment?
In the grand scheme of things, is one more hour going to hurt?
In the grand scheme of things,
Life is only moments
So many moments,
So why does one always seem so important?
The things that matter to us happen in the blink of an eye.
In the grand scheme of things...
Why does October 16th stand out so as it does?
Why January 22nd,
Why October 19th and August 19th and June 17th and January 8th?
Why them?
I know it's not those dates,
It's the moments that happened to occur on them
And yet
Those dates are burned into the back of my eyelids,
I see you in the library on the sixteenth every night just before I fall asleep and I remember my last text to you,
Saying please stop. You think you suffer so much but
Do you see me and think, why not me? Why wasn't it me?
Do you see me laughing and wish it were because of me?
Do you wish that not talking to me was easier on your heart whenever you think of me,
Because you think of me every time you breathe or blink or smile?
So in the grand scheme of things,
If fate has decided that what I want is simply not right,
Then why is that moment slowly taking over everything I do?