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?