The words, they build.

I bet all the secrets of the world are in the ocean.
Buried deep in the depths we'll never reach
and the day that we do
it'll be too late
the ocean will have dried up
along with the tears we shed
over all of our unanswered questions.
So tell me again.
Exactly what am I doing here?
You know, the mind is a funny thing.
The deeper you search it the farther away from the answer you get.
The more that you think, the less that you know.
And it's a labyrinth.
And I've felt so lost lately.
But, suddenly the shortcut appeared.
It was like a trail of crumbs that I simply had to just
follow
all along and I finally have found myself there.
At the gates, looking out at what I didn't know I was looking for:
Truth.
Simple and beautiful truth
like waking up from a nightmare that you could swear to Ash Catch'em was real.
And suddenly you are on a quest
into the unknown knowledge of losing your knowledge.
There is no truth in what we perceive to be reality.
It is fading glories
and every light has a switch
every bulb will burn out
and every sun will set.
There are laws to physics and societies
that cannot bend but easily will break.
There are doors without keys
and keys without purpose
glued thick with rhinestones
tied with metal around
40-year-old-divorced-stay-at-home-mom's necks.
We are blanketed by delusion.
And I want to wake up.

Chasing Cars

At first, it was like the period of time when you’re deciding if you want to run through that yellow light or stop. You know how that moment feels as long as the night before Christmas, right? And then when you come to a sudden skidding stop and all of your passengers stop their mindless conversations to brace themselves. And then they turn and criticize you. Especially if they are parents. At first, it was just like that.

There aren’t many things that my mothers’ side of the family doesn’t find as a big deal. When Rick and Bobbit finally had their baby girl, Becky (before my birth) it was a glorious day. They had wanted her for so long, and there she was. They couldn’t have another, so they adopted Emily. My grandmother had one miscarriage before the birth of my mother. My mom, the spunky yet logical girl full of independence. And my aunt, equally as adventurous. We don’t really need to talk about my great uncle’s eight Mormon children. We joke that it takes seven to go to heaven. And the eighth is the insurance policy. And that summer was the due date of Becky’s baby boy, a child who was wanted so badly she tried everything. And when she finally gave up on the hormones and they decided they’d just adopt: SURPRISE! He was on his way.

You see, my aunt promised me since I was about five that she’d take me to Europe the summer that I turned sixteen. For the next eleven years, I never let her forget that promise. And that summer, we backpacked for three weeks. We went to London, Paris, Rome, Venice, Vienna, Prague, Some Cute Place in Germany, London again, and then home. There were fourteen hour train rides where I listened to the song “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol hundreds of times. I also read the last two Harry Potter books. It’s baffling to think of exactly how small and insignificant Ahwatukee really is. I remember it so clearly, even though it didn’t seem like much of a detail at the time. We were sitting at the Dallas airport for each of our planes home to arrive in their gates. My aunt turns her phone on for the first time in 22 days and begins listening to her excessive number of voicemails.

I, in the bliss of a two and a half year teenage relationship, had whipped out my phone to call Austin the moment we landed. I was talking on the phone with him about how excited I was to see him that night. I would be getting in late, about 11:00pm, but that didn’t matter. Three weeks is a long time when you’ve only got sixteen years of life under your belt; let alone two in a relationship. I wasn’t paying close attention at the time, but I remember in retrospect one small second. I looked up at my aunt who was on her phone as well and her face showed a hint of horror. Not so much for me to say anything other than,

“Is everything okay?”

To which she answered,

“Have you talked to your mom yet?”

No, I hadn’t. I was preoccupied with my boy toy.

And that was it. She boarded her plane, and I boarded mine. I had a row of three seats all to myself and slept as soundly as ever, seeing as I didn’t sleep a wink on the ten hour ride from London. My parents picked me up and in the car ride home I talked endlessly of our adventures. When we got home, I immediately called Austin to tell him he could head over. That’s when it happened.

My mom called me downstairs. It wasn’t like the times when I had a chore to do or she had read my online grade and seen the latest quiz on the book I didn’t read. It was like when she told me that my uncle had left my aunt and took my two cousins with him. It was like when the neighbor got cancer. It was like when my great-grandfather died. But somehow, it seemed even worse than all of those times.

I walked on eggshells down the stairs—bracing myself for what might come. She stood across the counter in the kitchen from me and tears were already staining her cheeks.

“What happened.” I grabbed her hand across the tile.

She didn’t say anything. She just looked into my eyes. I saw the clearest ocean with a drowned village beneath it. I saw the poisonous bacteria on the bodies we use to embrace. I saw the bird return to her nest to find her eggs shattered and licked clean.

“Mom… just tell me…” I was already crying.

She took a deep breath and said, “Becky.”

She couldn’t say anything more, and I didn’t need to hear it.

I was running red lights and stopping at green ones and all that I could mutter was, “the baby…”

Then all at once I was sitting idle at the red light I had skid to and this time I was the passengers in the car whom, after bracing myself, turned to criticize the driver. But there was no one in the driver’s seat.

My mom choked out the details. Becky woke up feeling pain, but her husband said it was probably just part of the process. When it didn’t go away, they went straight to the hospital. Their baby boy had a stroke. Only two weeks before he was meant to be born.

And then the doorbell rang.

There was Austin and his mom to happy see me again. I jumped into his arms and begin crying harder than one would think possible. My mom choked everything out to them because all that escaped my lips was, “I can’t believe this happened.” Austin was the safe place. The place where no one could touch me. He could wrap his arms around me and suddenly my mom and I were shopping for baby clothes for my new cousin. His I-love-you’s and it’ll-be-okay’s kept me in check until everything quieted.

It ended like getting off that one rollercoaster you couldn’t enjoy because the entire time you could only feel like you were about to fall off. You felt moments away from being tossed hundreds of feet in the air to certain death. There was no laughing—simply holding on for dear life and wishing every moment to be over. You know, reality is full of dreams and dreamers. We are all walking around living in either the past or the future: never the present. Every moment affects the next and can’t be erased once it has passed. This was a nightmare.

To this day, Becky has never been the same. They filed for an adoption, but it could take years. She has ups and downs and whenever she emails me she says she’s just “coming up for air.” To see my biggest role model stripped to the bone has, in result, ripped out a chunk of my adolescent bliss. Nothing is concrete—no matter how close things may seem, if something hasn’t already happened it can still be victim to bitter fate. Was it fate? Was it God’s plan? This began the biggest shake of my faith yet heard of. Because the day after we went to church camp where I turned every talk into a sarcastic joke and every song into a lullaby that would never be heard.

I lost utter control because everything seemed insignificant when compared to this. I hurt Austin. I went to Michigan for 3 weeks and didn’t talk to him the entire time. My thoughts we occupied with the pain I could only barely imagine Becky was going through. I wore black almost every day. That summer was meant to be a summer full of “pass-the-baby” and dreams of his future. It was empty. Becky didn’t come. The liveliness was gone. I came home and Austin broke up with me. Junior year started, and for the first time in my life I lived in reality.

The difference wasn’t much different. The deeply rooted bitter feeling against whatever caused this faded. There’s a relief to simple acceptance. Immersing yourself in anything intriguing can be a successful escape. Poetry, painting, and Speech & Debate became my entire world. And, surprising to me, it kept rotating—with the scars from the giant meteors fresh on its surface. And I learned to move along. The weight hasn’t left me and none of the adolescent bliss returned. However, it was also an adolescent ignorance. It’s not all rainbows and glitter—not everything makes sense. There is no one keeping score to make sure bad people endure bad things and good people are blessed. Everything happens because… it happens. There are a finite number of things in our lives that we’ll ever change. The reality of realizing this may not be happy, but it’s necessary. It may not be what I wanted, but you don’t always get what you want. It may not be under anyone’s control, but there has to be something more than chance. With every heartbreak, the heart scars to become stronger. Muscle weighs more than fat—you don’t get better by eating your weight in pleasure; you get better by running even when it hurts.

You make the decision to run with what you’ve got. Don’t slow down when things get hard, and don’t speed up when things seem easy. A constant rate will keep you grounded. When the light turns yellow, don’t always smash your foot on the brakes. Keep calm. You’ll make it through. That’s what I keep telling myself. It may seem like the end is so far away, but the light will change. And I’ll keep going. Because yellow doesn’t mean stop. It means stop and think. I won’t be ignorant or blissful. I’ll make it through—you know I always do.

I didn't know I had this capability.

I didn't know I had the capability
to become this. And I'm sorry.

Who I will be.

Just because I can use the system of equations to solve most situations
I never did quite figure out why I always had to ask the paper to,
"Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally."
For what.
Telling her father she wasn't gonna bother with the numbers
She'd rather hunger for a slumber under the stars.
She'd rather connect than count those white faraway lights.
They are guiding her.
There is no formula for fate or the way we chose to live and to live for
and I have become like an ocean shore rocking back and forth
and trying desperately to find a place to settle in.
What is my identity who am I going to be when I do finally settle
and my black ashes land soundlessly in that sea.
Who will I be.
I am no sound, no sight, no song to be sung for I am already singing
and it sounds like wrong notes but what is a wrong note
when you are always steps away from resolving.
My father wants me to be an engineer.
He says with one hand on my shoulder the other on his beer,
"Do not fear a big paycheck. You could do great things."
And I want to bring him a painting, a song, this poem just to say
"There will come a day that you'll see the great things I can do.
And the great things I am doing.
And the great things I have done.
And just because this does not align on your axis of acceptance
does not mean I do not have a point.
I am an imaginary number.
And very few rules apply to me.
I will be what I wish to be."
And at that moment I would learn
that the x's and y's were really hellos and goodbyes
And that plane could actually fly
So write me a formula for that.
And Sally, you are excused.

Birth control
Immunity-Plus
Pain relief
Vitamin D...
a, b, b12, b4556, c, and vitamin FT.
Standing for, "Fuck This."
I am placing pills in my mouth.
I am swishing pills in my mouth.
I am trying to swallow pills.
I am forcing pills down my throat.
I am suffocating on my lack of self-sufficiency.
What if I stopped taking them all?
What if I tried to just live my life alone?
Or what if I took them all at once.
47.
Where is God?
I thought we were created to live but really
I'm finding we were created to wish for death.
And hope that before that glorious day comes
we will have given the world some reason
to shed us a tear.
I've shed you more than 47 tears.
If only that was enough to kill me.
And it's that numb inability to truly comprehend the lack of stability that is our in-capability to figure out what the hell we want or need. What route do we take, what steps to I make, how many hearts can I break, what is really at stake here? You know, I wish that I could do whatever it is that I should because sometimes saying that I would is really just a lie. Everything was a lie a deceit a fake a sham a counterfeit a fiction a whole fucking delusion. I am a bottom dweller finding anything to appreciate or energize the light forever shining ahead of me. And you became my light. And you burned out long before the colorful imprint of your light had faded. I was blinded and that brightness burned into my pupils creating scars in my vision that were beauty. But it faded. And now it's completely gone.
47? I'm nauseous.
My stomach hurts.
No literally, and much more than I expected.
I cannot believe that I did this again.
Something is so wrong with me.
Incredibly wrong.

Headache.

Everything has been a headache lately.
I haven't gone a week without a night where my head throbbed.
This isn't poetry.
This is just teenage whining.
But I don't have the decision making capabilities right now
to stop myself from pressing that orange "publish post".

She began like a dance with a slow, uncertain entrance
but as her heart synced with the beat of the music, she fell into step with ease.
She had the eyes of a child with the heart of a woman.
Like a bird, she traveled with the seasons--
Falling into comfort for only small periods of time.
Those young eyes peered into every dark corner of the world
because that girl longed to experience every sight, sound, and silence that existed.
She wanted to know everything.
Her steps caused ripples like coins into fountains--they inspired even the most tired
to rise up and begin a change. Always a change for the better.
Apathy, complacency, and gravity were some things she desired to defy.
"No" was never the answer. And by that, I mean it was never the answer she gave.
In her mature juvenile mind, there was always a way to please everyone.
And so, she always did.
She was a dancer, dancing from place to place with a heartbeat rhythm.
And to her disbelief, an ensemble had formed behind her simply to hear and see
and to echo.

Empty

If there was a list, your name would be the only one occupying it.
"A list of those that you gave every single bit of your heart to."
And I found that the empty space you have left
has become a vacuum.
And it is sucking every emotion out of me.
Leaving you was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life.
But I had to, every other option was another hole.
Another valley.
Another grand canyon.

I wanted everything to work out.
But kisses don't heal anything.
Lips are only band-aids.
They cover up the true depths of the wounds we carve into one another.
And you've cut me to the bone.

And I can't will myself to give up on you.
Even football fields away from you
I would be screaming my unconditional love.
It doesn't matter how many times you send your self-defense
to take me down and out,
I will keep trying to get a touch down in the game that is
Hate vs. Love,
Broken vs. Whole,
Apathetic vs. Emotional,
You vs. Me.

When did it become a game of pain?
You saw my love by seeing how much I bled
when you took that love and injured it.
Too bad this process took everything that I had
and scattered the pieces across a field.

And now I'm left to run in circles putting myself back together.

Neither of us won.
And hurting you created a hurricane in me that is growing every day.
Its stirring my innermost emotional defenses
and slowing turning me to stone.

But in the eye of this stone storm is the love for you that I can't stop screaming.
Not for the life of me.

And the storm will not calm.
The screaming will not stop.
The love will not fade.

I feel like this game can't possibly be over.

Losing Control.

It's a blank page.
And as I look back, I remember speaking every word that coursed through my brain.
I remember filling that glass a little more every time.
I remember that Capri Sun never tasted so good.
I remember marking the fifth shot.
But I don't remember anything else after that.

Four glasses of $120 champagne and who-knows-how-many shots later,
You say I proceeded to expel the contents of my body all over you and my entire bathroom.
And I laid there for two hours in that agony.
And the best part? I don't remember that.
I only believe you because your drunken clean-up job didn't cover all of my mess.
And when I walked into that bathroom hungover, I was baffled by my projection range.
Seriously. I don't have any idea how I managed that.

And I don't regret it one bit.
Every single circumstance was in our favor and you babysat me.
I apparently became a toddler.
And I already thought I was immature.
Nobody knew, nobody cared, you stayed sober for the most part.
You held my hair back. You made me drink water.
You let me go as far as I wanted to go.
You let me figure out whether or not I had any control.

And I have no control.
What. So. Ever.

And if this had happened at a party
where nobody would carry me to the bed
or clean my face or tuck me in or even get me to the bathroom
I don't know exactly what would have happened.
But it would not have been good.
You sat there rubbing my back for two hours
telling me that I'd be okay.

And I'm okay.
Because you were with me.

Just today, one of my best friends came to me sobbing.
She had just found out she had lost her virginity to a guy.
Two months ago.
She was drunk, and she didn't remember.
And he had finally told one of his friends, who told her.

I can't explain to you how much it means to me that you were there
Picking up the pieces.
And you didn't even start to try to take advantage of my state.
I am so thankful that I have you.
And through everything we've been through, I can finally see
that you never really left me.
You were always there, and you always will be.

Believing is not seeing.

I hate windy days because I like to wear dresses.
And when that invisible force makes it's way to my ruffles I am marylin monroe above an air vent.
If you subtract the sex appeal.

And there it is, my lace or cotton I used to show off as a poddy trained child covered in scooby doo and reptar and the power puff girls I swear I was meant to be.

And I can only imagine that the chemical X coursing through those big-headed, small-bodied supergirls' veins is an immunity to reality.
A reality that took my childhood and colored it's nightmares.
A reality that told me no, you cannot fly.
No, you cannot shoot lasers with your eyes.
And no, you definitely cannot ever beat mojojojo.

I can't, I don't, I won't, I wish on every shooting star my mind pretends it saw that these images would fade the way a drop of ink disperses in the ocean
the way a drop of chemical X disperses into a blood stream
the way a drop of blood disperses, guilty into your sheets.
Sometimes it's the things we see on t.v. that we dream and want to believe.
Sometimes it's the secrets written on those big girl panties when I didn't know we'd go that far that I don't want to believe.
The mistake haunts my dreams.

I don't have to see the wind to believe it.
I don't have to see the pain to feel it.
I don't have to see the decision to regret it.
And I don't have to see the love to make it.

Even with my eyes gorilla glued shut I have faith that you'd still haunt my dreams.
The reality and the imagination would mix like sugar and salt like the recipe for sexual assault and I know that I didn't stop you. I know that I didn't stop you.

But I dream of the words I should have said, the layers of clothing I should have worn, the exits I should have taken, the millions of little decisions I never should have made without taking of the blindfold that was love.

Love is blind, love is blinded, love is blinding, love blinds and I could not see past your green-blue eyes and your transparent lips whispering, "it'll be okay."

And I believed those eyes.
I believed that face. That chest. Those hands.
Because that was all that I could see.

But I never should have believed you.
Because I never saw you.
You hid behind a facade of charm and honesty and feigned belief in true love, a belief that you had never seen, never felt, never heard, never even tasted.
One that you promised to give to me.
But believing is not seeing.
Because I never saw you.

Who are you?

I know it's not real.
I know you aren't real.
You aren't who I'd like you to be.
You aren't who you'd like to be.
But I don't think you quite understand that I still love the mess that is you.
It's like, I just know that there is a genuine guy in there.
Buried under the
lies,
secrets,
and fear of being truthful.
You are afraid of being true because truth is vulnerable.
You're in control of the lies,
you have no power over the truth.
And when you screw up and I see it, it's easier to lie your way out
Than to admit defeat and that you did something wrong.
Wrong isn't something that you do.

Who are you?

I can't stop asking myself that question.
What is with your out-of-no-where
d.i.s.a.p.p.e.a.r.i.n.g?

I don't think you realize, understand, or comprehend the extent to which
I DON'T CARE.
I don't care that you screw up. Frequently.
And I don't care that you're scared of love. Scared of ME.
Because I want you and, whether you know it or not, I'm good for you.
I won't put up with your shit but I'll forgive you if you ask.
And when everyone else leaves you
when they all get fed up with who you pretend to be,

I will be here.
Probably whether I want to be or not.
Why? Because I love you.
And that is something I know is real.

Drowning.

You know when you wake up
No alarm.
It's just you, the cotton surroundings,
and that one person.
They aren't next to you, but even so
you can feel the warmth.
And just for a moment. One of those
half dream, half reality moments,
their arms are wrapped around you.

And for once,
they are not going anywhere.
Like a rush of rain, they surround you.
Fill you.
All the missing pieces you've never found on your own,
they fit their warmth into.
You hear the words without sound.
There is no speech necessary.

I just need your ocean eyes.
God, I love your eyes.
My heart is drowning in those eyes.
And as I lay here, it's just me.
and my cotton surroundings.
But you are here.

Your arms are wrapped around me.
You aren't going anywhere.
You surround, fill, & drown me.
And, truth be told,
I
never
want to
wake up.

Depression makes good poetry.
And today, I'm no poet.
I'm soaking up the feeling of toasting skin.
Should I apply a layer of slimy protection from the cancerous rays?
No thanks, happy people don't get cancer.
Maybe that's the cure: happyness.
I feel like I'm cured.
But you know, sometimes people aren't diagnosed until it's too late.
Not realized until the brink of death that this has been spreading for months.
The depression had soaked into their skin.
They were living, breathing, and dying--
From good poetry.

If only I knew the real you before writing this.

Look up.
There are stars, planes, unidentified shining objects, bombs.
They are lighting up the sky.

You cannot touch them.
Cannot taste, smell, feel, or usually hear them.

But you can see them;
And that is enough to stir in you the second most powerful emotion--
Fear.

But the first and most powerful emotion is this--
Love.

And I can see you.
Can touch you.
Can hear you.
Can smell you.
Can taste you.
Can feel you.

And it stirs in me the most powerful emotion that I have ever felt.

I love you.

Old Poem I Found In My Room #3 (favorite.)

I want a silent poem.
One where I can't hear the pen scratch the paper.
Nails on chalkboard.
Tears on cheeks.
Backs sliding down walls.
The backseat of your car holds my secrets.
We were driving nowhere and I whispered them to you.
You didn't hear.
You weren't listening.
You never listened.
Now they are trapped on the back window.
Do you hear them when you put your groceries in the back?
The crinkling of bags.
Hurry to get home.
Before the ice cream melts.
Maybe my secrets were just white noise.
But you said you cared so I told you.
Pinky swear.
Cross my heart.
Swear on our love.
I don't think you want to hear my secrets.
Not anymore at least, seeing as I am toxic to you.
Rat poison.
Carbon dioxide.
High fructose corn syrup.
Don't tell me I was never honest with you.
I gave you everything I had inside of me.
Lungs.
Spine.
Heart.
Did you give me everything you could have?
I'm pretty sure you left some things out.
Maturity.
Desire.
Effort.
I don't think that you hear what I'm saying.
My secrets are still like still air to you.
(silence).
(silence).
(silence).
I want a loud poem.
One where you can hear my heart scream at you.
Why didn't you listen?
Why don't you listen?
I won't be silent anymore.

Old Poem I Found In My Room #2

I want to hear a poem.
I want a poem about song and dance
I'm sick of death and sweet romance.

Take me somewhere I've never been.
Not to a restaurant of movie
I want waterfalls and unicorns--a place to be free.

Don't repeat that chorus.
It's in the verse we find meaning, so write me a verse.
A happy one that makes things better, not worse.

I want to hear worship.
Can we drop our hymnals and sing to God above?
We can get lost in anger, instead of love.

Give me an explanation.
Why do the good things never ever last?
Two and a half years can pass so fast...

I take the blame.
I think I'll write a poem about it.

Old Poem I Found In My Room #1

Suck in that pure air, children
Let it fill your belly like a balloon.
Rise above the surface, children
Like wolves send cries to the moon.
Plug your ears with your fingers, children
Their voices will be not so loud.
Stand up on your chairs, children
Do not be lost in the crowd.
You are precious to me, children
Your pinky toes make me dance.
You are fresh like the sea, children
If with nothing else, you've got a chance.
Don't let them drown you, children
Take me word; they will try.
Rules, popularity, racism, children
The sea if society is a lie.
Rise above the surface, children
Your lives have yet to be wrote.
Suck in that pure air, my children
Please just stay afloat.

I win.

Me. I win.

Smile.

This is just a pent-up-poetic-rant.
And an awesome picture I found.

Ready? Set...y? Go.

I'm really tired.
Like the bird who has to fly north from the arctic.
Death seems nice right now.
Eternal sleep?
Amen to that.
That's the whole "heaven" of it.
My heaven is just a nice, warm, cozy bed.
And being able to push snooze infinite times.
I'm a walking zombie.
I'm half listening to every sound.
I only half mean what I say.
I'm a mess. In a dress.
Trying to get through this.
11:11 Make a damn wish.
I wish the clocks would ALL just stop.
And we could just step back and

breathe.


Inhale.










exhale.
I only feel my heart break when I let my sleep take over me.
Because it's in my dreams that my mind screams,
"You are a lonely broken mess.
And you just want to have
what you're so used to having.
But guess what? You can't have it.
He isn't him. He isn't him either. They're not anything
like one another, and they shouldn't be.

I think I have this constant need to feel loved.
That's all I live for- to feel loved.
I find all self-assurance and self-insurance in love.
And the monthly payments are sending me spiraling into a debt I cannot pay.
I've got horrid credit.
And I'm in the hole.
Deeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
I cannot see the light anymore.
And it's not so much that I feel alone,
but it's the fact that I still am falling.
I still haven't reached the bottom.
And I think I'm dragging him down with me.
And he deserves better than that.

You know, I don't really like him that way.
He's just... convenient.
He's chill. Commitment free.
And he is slightly falling for me.
And so, as I am dragging him down the well that is me,
he thinks it's love.
But it's a trap.
And he'll regret this. Unless I end it.
And I'M TRYING, oh I am. But he refuses to listen.

I need a spotlight.
I need a stage.
When I'm up there, for some ironic reason, I don't need love.
I feel at home without anyone next to me.
Even with the audience empty, I get high off it.
My heaven will be an infinite musical.
My life is an infinite musical.

I need sleep.

I am absolutely going to be "that" girl.

Dear You.
I really hope that this is my very last blog about you.

Ready?
Disappear.
Dissaperate.
Cease to exist, please.

The dumbest thing is how you're my biggest regret.
2 and a half years? Does not amount up to you.
Are you proud of yourself?
In four months you accomplished a lot.

1. Feed me the longest string of lies I've ever received.
2. Get what you wanted even whilst telling me that that's not what you wanted.
3. Making me delete my tumblr. (I'll never delete this. It's anonymous, and basically 2 people read it. And they're my best friends.)
4. Taking all that I have. My pride, my desire for love, my innocence.
5. Becoming a complete DEJA VU NIGHTMARE.

You make me sick to my stomach.
You DEFINE sleazy.
And I'm not the only one who thinks so.

Oh, and don't say you're not a dick.
Because plenty of acquaintances of mine are like,
"Wow, he's a 24/7 dick to you now."
And I'm not lying.

So this time I will not be convinced that I am the one to blame here.
I won't take it anymore.

"You deserve so much better."

Well, "better", here I come.
Because I'm moving on completely.
And I guess we won't be friends.
I guess we never really were anyways.

I am going to be this girl and post this.
I doubt anyone is going to tell you to read this one.

But, in case they do, Hi.
Thank you SO MUCH for inspiring some of my most beautiful pissed off poetry.
You're just The Poet, right?

Boring blog.

The worst and best moment?
When you look at him and think...
I honestly don't know who the hell you are anymore.

And then you think...
I honestly don't think I love you anymore.

I'm just so tired of this game.
It's on repeat- I'm fine until I think about how I'm sweeping everything under the rug.
And when I peek under that rug...
I see who he was.
He loved me.
I loved him.
I just don't understand how I'm the one to blame.
When he's the one who acts as if I don't and never did exist in his heart.

Good actor, that one.

I really wouldn't post this because he might read it.
But I have realized that nobody reads this.
And although he might have at one point...
That was when he loved me.
And he's not that guy anymore.

And for some reason I'm still this girl.
At least partly.




I really need to delete old text messages.
They're just killing me.

And cute videos of us being in love.
Those gotta go too.

But the thing is, I think I need them.
Just so that I know that I wasn't crazy--he DID love me.
And it is not.
By any means.


All my fault.

Sand Angel.

It doesn't matter to me that there is sand in my hair.
in my shoes.
in my socks.
between my toes.
It just doesn't matter.
Because I made... a sand angel.
On the empty playground, past curfew, I layed down and spread my wings.
and when I lifted myself up, there I was.
Imprinted on those small particles of rock.
Looking more beautiful than ever before.

But, the winds will blow.
The sands will shift.
And I will be erased.
Defaced.
Replaced.
But it's okay because I'm still here.

Love is kinda like that...
You lay down and give someone a full and true imprint of yourself.
And it will bring them joy for a while.
And maybe they'll do the same for you.
And you will find joy too.
But, eventually the winds will blow in one of your hearts.
And the image will be distorted.
And erased.


I don't think I've ever felt so erased.


I never existed, it seems. And it doesn't bother me that as much as...
Well, the fact that your sand angel is still burned into my heart.
And you keep asking for me to erase it but I just can't.
And I've given myself eraser burns trying so hard.

"It's annoying when you try so hard."
It's annoying to have to try so hard.

You know, I'm fine without you.
Really, I'm doing swimmingly.
It's everything else that's getting me down.
I'm not lying about that.
I honestly only think about you when you're right next to me.
Or when I'm alone in my room on my blog.
It would be boring if I blogged about the SAT's or speech.
So... I blog about you, Poet.
Poet.
Your very first poem for me is on my desk.
I haven't read it in a few weeks.
I don't plan on reading it.
You know, I've grown.
A whole freaking lot.

I don't need you.
(but, you know I still WANT you.)
It's like, I know what I can't have now.
I don't want, and certainly don't need, to become a lapdog to you.
Nope.
I want to be friends.
In public and alone.
Best friends.
Not acquaintances.
I want to TALK. I want to rock out in my car.
I want to spill all the gossip I hear on you.
I want you to do the same for me.
And I want to go to church together.
And I don't want to talk on the phone at night--all we did was fight.
God can tuck me and and put me to bed.

I don't want anymore nightmares about you.
I just...
Well, quite frankly, I just want a kiss.
and I want a hug.
And I want a smile that is not forced.
and I want a best friend.
A real best friend.
And I want to love you in a way that is not forever.
In a way that 17 year olds love.
Not 34 year olds.
I want to be fun.
No more serious.
life is too serious anyways.

And I don't want you unless you want me.
And if you don't want me, then that's okay.
I will move on.

And in that case the only thing that will bother me...
is that I never did get my last chance.
And I'm almost certain I can show you I'm not that girl.
And I won't ever be again.

But it's your choice.
And if you still have a faint imprint of me on your heart, I'd love to have a moment to fix it.
It's a false imprint.
Just a sand angel.

And I just don't know what to do at this point.
I'm a little lost to be honest.
So... I guess I'm just doing nothing.
I'm focusing on the important things in my life right now.
And I'm still drowning! Regardless of you!
1000000 feet under and still sinking.
Oh, the pressure.
It's out of control.

I just want a kiss that'll make me fly :)
Naw, I need a VERSE.
I'm gonna go read my Bible now.
Tootaloo. <3

NO MORE.

I am beautiful.
I will not be defined by anything other than God and myself.
We are not who we are told to be.
We are who we see in the mirror.

And I see... beauty.
Finally.
After much too long of a time.

And, scars heal.
And most of my scars only stayed because I thought they'd never go away.
YOU determine when your scars fade.
I just erased quite a few.
it is ALL up to you.

Where you go, who you love, what you do.
Life isn't something that just HAPPENS.
You are your own person.
You are your own life.
Take responsibility, for the good and the bad.
Heal the scars that others left on you.
Try your hardest not to leave a scar on someone else.
Try not to leave a scar on YOURSELF.

Take a step back.
Are you really who you have been being?
Who I am hates who I've been.
Who I am hates who I've been.
I am sorry for the person I became,
And I'm sorry that it took so long for me to change.

But I let it happen, and I take full ownership for that.
It is nobody's fault but my own and I have learned and moved on.
The scar is fading.
And eventually, it won't even be there anymore.

I think I have a really hard time... just moving on.
I think that I have to constantly carry the bricks of my past.
What I don't realize is, that yes the bricks are on your back for a while.
And your MUSCLES grow stronger by carrying them.
So eventually, you CAN put them down.
And the strength you received from them is the reminder not to let it happen again.
You don't have to lug these pains around forever to learn your lesson.
MOVE ON.
Just, move on.

I have finally moved on.
And, even when I do look in my rear-view mirror, all I see is road.
and ahead of me, is more road.
And when opportunity comes, maybe I'll take a turn in a different direction.
And if it's the wrong way then I'll turn back.
and behind me will just be... more road.
And ahead of me... more road.

You decide where you go.
What turns you take.
How fast you go.

And I'm not sitting passenger seat anymore.
(Well, to Jesus. :) But he's a good driver.)
If you want to join me, you have to drive next to me in your own car.
Whoever you are.
I will not let you ride in my car.
I will ABSOLUTELY NOT let you drive my car.

OK....


um.



the end.
<3

Fortune.

118. I have 118 fortune cookie fortunes.
I have sucessfully crossed that off my list.
And still on my list is, "Fall in love without getting hurt."
I am replacing this with, "Fall in love without regrets."

Love...
Makes you.
Takes you.
Breaks you.
And leaves you with nothing to hold.

Love...
Thrills you.
Fills you.
Kills you.
And leaves you breathless.

Love...
Defaces you.
Erases you.
Replaces you.
And leaves you with nowhere to go.

Love...
is not really much like love at all.


It's not about love.
It's about compromising and prioritizing.
It's about standing firm but holding hands.
It's about counting beaches, not grains of sand.
If every little thing was a drop of water, eventually every relationship would drown.
I feel like I'm screaming when I'm not making a sound.
And these words are not wrong but they sure aren't right.
And I don't want to lose you but I don't want to fight.
And you're not just my love, you're my best friend too.
I honestly hate being so lost without you.

I'm not even lost, I'm perfectly fine.
I'm sitting here living on a heart that is MINE.
But when you walk past without even looking at me...
it's like paying $1000 for something that should be free.

I don't want you to read this.
I cannot seem to rid my lips of your kiss.

No matter how much water I am inhaling,
Not loving you is something that I'm failing.