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?