Thursday, December 6, 2012

The Question

On Tuesday she asked the most peculiar question.
"Are you sick of dying?"
In a low voice, she added,
"Because, believe me, I'm not."

Yes, Tuesday she developed the terrible habit
Of saying to all she met,
"Are you sick of dying?
Because, believe me, I'm not."

Monday, November 12, 2012

My Heart has Seen the Ages

My heart has seen the ages
Flicking past
Like a passenger on a train.
The blur of trees and towns
Kings and queens
Castles and skyscrapers
Until nothing is certain anymore.
As a part of me, it wanders
Like a villain
Through these timelines
Never waking.
A somnambulist
Forever dreaming
Of what it let die.

Hannah and the Halo of Stars

  When I was in kindergarten, first grade, and second and third, there was one girl that I hated more than anyone else. Her name was Hannah, and I remember that because she would make a big deal out of the fact that it was the same backwards and forwards. She was the biggest know-it-all you could ever imagine. She would spell the word “exasperation” at you until you obeyed her command. She was snotty and unkind, and she never had any time for me.
One Friday out of every single month, our school would sell crowns made of star garland, with curled ribbon hanging from the back. I wanted one of these more than anything, but they cost one WHOLE dollar, and my mother refused to give me the money, on the grounds that I wouldn't know what to do with it once I got it home.
Now Hannah got one of these crowns every time they were sold, and I would watch her with extreme jealousy as she walked down to the buses, her golden curls bouncing and mingling with the different colored ribbons. I wanted so much just to BE her, to spell with confidence, to know everything, to wear the beautiful star halo, and to have those luscious curls to mix with the ribbons trailing from the back.
One day I found a discarded star crown on the ground, and I carried it home, keeping it safe in my room. It was my little secret from the world, this small peace of Hannah that I got to copy and have for my self. A while into third grade, or maybe it was fourth, Hannah moved away, and I became the smartest person in class. I didn't have the curls, or the money for a star halo every month, but I still found myself with a joy that was all my own. I don't remember what happened to that star crown that I stowed away, but I wish I could wear it every single day.  

The Chronicles of Spencer

These are a collection of stream of consciousness written poems about a boy that I liked in high school. I just dug them up and decided to share them here. 

I think I love you
I think I love you
I think I love you
But you will never love me
I am invisible to you
You will never notice my face
I will write a thousand poems
Burning through and through
But you will never notice
And less still will you care.

I will haunt you from the shadows
A ghost you never see
But you will never love me
No you will NEVER love ME
I must get this through my head
I must get this through my heart
You will never want me
In this same way

Oh God my darling
A god you are to me
But you will never see me
No you can never know
I am so heartbroken
I just really really want you
Come to me

But you never will
That is not my life.
I am a pathetic sea creature
While you roam the lands

Oh my Prince, dearest prince
I forgot I was unworthy of your grace
All I wanted was to know you
And you whipped yourself out of my grasp
I wouldn't have tried to taint your soul
And you could have told me
If you had a problem
Instead of just pulling away passively.
And now these words I say with dear dear love.
“Fuck you. I will now pine more.”
I know I said I loved you,
But I think that I was wrong.  

Sunday, September 16, 2012


Today, for the first time in months, I looked right into the eyes of the man who raped me. I knew how I was supposed to feel, a terrifying mix of rage and fear, the desire to kill, a definite certainty that it was, in fact his fault and his fault alone. But what I actually felt was even more scary. When I stared down into those brown eyes, I felt...nothing. I didn't feel a damn thing.
I didn't really feel much at the time, either. It didn't even really feel like rape. Even though I said no. Even though I fought.
I guess, sometimes, that strong feelings of love and hate just cancel out automatically.
You know what the worst part of this is? No one knows. I can't tell anyone. We seemed too happy for someone far on the outside to believe me, and another close friend was raped by another man that I had close ties to, so I can't tell any of our mutual friends, my best friends, in fear that they would just think I wanted to sap their attention. I can't tell any of my new friends, because they would all have ideas of what I could do about it, actions I could take, getting police involved or my family. But I don't want to get anyone else involved. I don't want to alert the police. I just wish that I could tell someone, one person, so that one person could know, and one person could assure me, with complete and utter certainty, that everything is going to be alright, and that I will live again someday.

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Another anonymous letter

Fuck you, yes you.
Fuck you for everything you've never done for me.
Fuck you for all the gifts that you gave everybody else.
Fuck you for all the inside jokes you didn't share with me.
Fuck you for loving them all more than you love me.
Fuck you for not giving a shit if you lose me.
Fuck you for hurting me every single day.
Fuck you for expecting me to be there, but never being there for me.
Fuck you for all the things I did for you.
Fuck you for the time I've wasted.
Fuck you. Just fuck you.

Monday, August 6, 2012

The words I could never say

Are clearly written here. I could never say the tiniest hint of this to your face, ever, not even in the nicest way possible, because you don't accept criticism. When I try to make even the slightest suggestion, even when you're being a Class A jerk, you freak out on me as if I've attacked you merely to hurt and in the most brutal manner possible.
I cannot quarrel with you, because you are so “fragile.” All attempts to do result in others coming to me and reprimanding me because of your fragility. How dare I upset the one who is so easily intimidated, so insecure? How dare I do anything but coddle and add to the lie of a life you're building for yourself?
I hope it crashes to the ground around you. All the lies you've built up to make yourself feel better. The fake friendships that you've built with so many others. I hope it crashes and burns and I hope you sit there, smudged in ashes, extending a hand to me and begging me to come in and give you the smallest bit of safety. I will deny that hand, I will scoff at it, and I will throw dirt in your eyes.
I don't even know what you are, because you are so fake. As soon as I try to sink my teeth into some small part that I think is really you, I find myself spitting out plastic whilst choking on Styrofoam. I'm done trying to know you, trying to trust you, trying to love you. You can rot with all of the others now. I wasted so much time thinking that I was special to you. I wasted so much effort trying to make you love me. I wasted so many tears, trying to believe you every time you lied and said you did.
No one understands me. No one understands why I'm not the type of person who can just let go and chop people out completely. I can't chop you out completely. I can't cut anyone out completely. Once you enter my life, you are a part of me. I consider you to dwell only in the deepest, darkest, most hated regions of my mind. You are everything that I hate about myself, rolled into a human being. And when I found myself becoming you, I fought my desire to rip out my heart, throw it into a fire and watch it burn.
Is this where we go on from then? You pretend to love me, I pretend to want it, and we stand with each other, bound together by our loathing, one and the same. I am you as you are me and we are we and no one will ever be able to tell us apart again. Sometimes I daydream about some magic man on a horse who swoops in to save me from you, but those are really just false hopes now, because you really are my past, present, and future. You are both the child in me, and this foreboding, dark cloud of adulthood that hangs over my head, waiting. 

Thursday, July 5, 2012

The asterisk in his eye.

I had myself a prince. He was pure and wholesome, and all who knew him thought he was the most magnificent creature they'd ever met. His eyes were clear and brilliant. They always caught mine when I suspected it least and held me where I stood. He was perfect. He was mine.
One day the monsters came for him, but he didn't see fit to mention it to me. He'd sold his soul to them in the days of his youth, in exchange for a taste of a smile. In his childhood, he'd never known happiness, and he'd given his life to achieve it.
The monster tore off to shreds the soul that I loved so much, totally obliterating anything that I could have salvaged. I know I should have heard when the castle walls split open, but I was engrossed in a deep slumber. I was negligent. I paid no attention.
When I awoke, all I saw was the man, and I missed the beast that had replaced him. In an ignorant daze, I opened my arms, but the man I loved did not exist anymore. Instead, the creature pulled me apart, digging through my chest cavity and rendering it empty. Heartless, bloody, and alone, I wandered from the confines of the palace I had once felt so safe in.
The wasteland beckoned me, and I took it as my home.  

Dear You,

Yes, you. It's me. I have something to say to you, so read it and take heed. You can't tell me that what I'm about to say to you comes as even the smallest surprise, from all the shit I've gone through because of you. There was once when I wrote you a letter, telling you that you found ways to solve almost all of my problems. In this newer letter, an updated version of the other one, I declare that you were the cause of all of those problems, both solved and unsolved.
I want my life back from you. You swallowed it before you even knew me. I still remember, when we were in middle school, and you were one grade above me, passing you in school and trying to catch your eye, sometimes lingering at the end of hallways just to watch you round the farthest corner. I loved you before I even knew you. And you ignored me years before the first time you ruined me.
The first time you broke my heart, you were the first man I ever really thought cared about me as a person. It was a time in my life when I felt like I had absolutely no one, except you. You were always there, squeezing my leg seductively under the table to distract me from my loneliness, pulling me into your lap when I cried, kissing every line of story that I cut into my arms. Do you remember how that ended? Do you remember how you betrayed me? You were sleeping with another guy's girlfriend. You couldn't even leave me for a girl who was less despicable than you.
I pined for you, tried to stand up to you, but always fell short. I cried real tears, all the time, curled up in a ball so many times just trying to banish all those memories of you away. Memories of when you gave me your sweatshirt on the first day we ever talked, simply because you found me crying in a back hallway, and when you sang The Partridge Family's “I Think I Love You” into my ear.
Against my better judgment, I forgave you, let you back into my life in what was almost a friendship. We had a few encounters, like when I interviewed you in a room where her clothes and artwork were tacked up all over the walls. You were twirling a knife around your finger, smiling your most beautiful, crooked smile. My body didn't stop shaking the entire time I was there.
I dated you again, a few months later. This time, I spent most of the relationship in tears. You ignored me, only visited me occasionally, and never answered questions about what activities you'd been engaging in. Once, you came to see me, and all of a sudden, your face went blank and your hand shot out, closing itself around my throat. You lifted me up so that my feet almost did not touch the ground, with a look of nothingness on your face. I wasn't afraid, the entire time. I know it qualified as abuse, but rather than be as terrified as I should have been, I laughed at you. I laughed at you as much as a person can when they have almost no air in their lungs. I think that was what shocked you into dropping me.
You were pathetic. You think that hurting and choking a woman is what makes you a man? You think it makes you tortured and interesting? That's what was hilarious to me. And, isn't it insane, it made me love you even more?
A few weeks later, I found out through a friend of my brothers that you were cheating on me. I left two angry messages on your Facebook wall, but to be truthful, they were halfhearted at best. I said what anyone would want the scorned woman to say. I said what I thought would hurt you least and thrill my feminist friends the most. And then you were gone.
How I missed you so.
You went through a friend, of a friend, of a friend to tell me that you really really wanted to be friends. I had to believe it as truth because of the trouble you went through. I reconnected with you. We dated again. It didn't work out. Again. Big surprise, right? You should have been paid for every time you broke my heart.
And now you're back. You want to be friends again. We only talk, when you talk to me first. You're in my phone as nothing but a number. But I love you still. And I always will. If you had any decency, you would let me go and never talk to me again. If I had any self respect, I would do the same to you, tell you to back off. I guess we're much more alike than I previously thought.  

Thursday, May 31, 2012

Making Change

We were picky children, bratty as hell
Though we thought ourselves divine
When our pennies failed to preform
We cashed them in for dimes.
They were melted down and put away
In a solid chunk of time.
Saved for the rainy day we learned
How to grow to proper size.

Friday, May 25, 2012

The monster at the end of this book.

 I hate diaries. I hate them more than I hate anything. Why? Because everything has to be chronological and neat, placed precisely in the correct order. It's the opposite of the inside of my head, which is a disaster zone (trust me). What is this then? A random document I opened up on my computer to spill my heart and soul into when no one else will listen to me? Well, that's exactly what it is. I give no guarantees as to content or accuracy, and I will do all that I can to establish myself as an untrustworthy narrator. My inconsistencies will blind you to believing my every word, and the less that you trust me, the more you will love me and want to believe my lies as truth. Or perhaps it is the truth. Perhaps I'm just being modest, because I want you to seek your own answers, but I'm really telling you everything image for image, exactly as it happened. You decide.  

All The Good Girls

He saunters down the hall
With that heinous, charming glow
He cradles his unsafe gun
Because a touch can make it blow
While unfailing and stealthy
With the flattery he throws
He passes over all the good girls
And the parts they never show

I'll be bound forever
No matter what he does to me
For the way that he seduces,
The way that he retreats,
And the crocodile tears
Pouring from tales of disease
Lamenting all the good girls
And how fragile they all seem

He rips out flowers by the roots
Even though we'd rather grow
And after he ate my heart
He left me in the undertow
But when his feet bring him back
And there's mutany down below
I spare a thought for all the good girls
And the pain they'll never know

For all his poorly written lies
I still accept the apology
Because no  matter where he goes
I'm still swallowed in the sea
I hope I'll someday drown
Because I know I'll never breathe
And I pray for all the good girls
I hope they'll never be