a spoonful of truth helps the medicine go down

Sitting alone during lunch on a bench long enough for three people in middle school was a reason I loathed ninth grade.  Among other things and other lonely places.  It wasn't all days, but it was most.  And it turns out that high school would be much the same; except this time around, it didn't hurt quite like it did before because I'd been exposed to the negative negatives of myself already.  I used to hope with all my heart that someone, anyone, would come sit by me and we'd become best friends.  That we'd just connect.  I daydreamed about it a lot.  I don't hope for it anymore.  What I realize now is that the reason no one sat by me or sits by me, is and was because I never said a word.  I expected someone to come up to me when I never put myself out there or went up to others who I wanted to talk to.  Or at least that's what I tell myself.  The other thing I tell myself is that I'm so unlikable that it would be better if I was invisible.  Because then people wouldn't be uncomfortable with seeing me pretend that I'm waiting for someone or that I'm by myself for a reason.  It'd just be better. For me too.  It's kind of twisted, but I'd actually enjoy it.  I'm unapproachable and I'm afraid I come off as cold.  I'm afraid that whatever I say or do sounds pretentious or insincere.  Even my laugh.  That when I do say anything, it's an intrusion and I'm just tainting what I don't have the privilege to touch.  That's what this blog feels like.  Another place where I shouldn't be and shouldn't belong because I'm not supposed to be here in the first place.  One of my favorite parts about swim sophomore year was that we had to leave during lunch in order to get into the water on time.  Meaning I wouldn't have to try to be social.  I wouldn't say my voice is rusty.  Because rust is for things that were there before.  I'm a senior in high school and I still don't know how to speak coherently.  I'm afraid that when people try to talk to me, they give up because it's easier talking to a wall.  I'm afraid that people give up on me without talking to me at all.  And the thing is, I don't blame them.  Because I am hard to talk to.  And before anyone tries, I want to scream a disclaimer to them:   I'M NOT A GOOD PERSON AND I'M NOT WORTH THE EFFORT. Vagueness and repetition of simple words are not decipherable. I think when I think that people think of me I think too highly of myself. Goodness, there were four thinks in that sentence. I don't think that boy remembers the odd tone in which I said thanks.  I don't think that girl remembers that I forgot to say sorry when I almost ran into her.  I don't think that adorable boy remembers that one of my eyes sometimes looks smaller than the other.  I don't think that teacher remembers my name.  I don't think they remember that I didn't pronounce personable right or that I didn't know Brazil's official language is Portuguese when I should have remembered the Treaty of Tordesillas from two years of history with my favorite teacher.  I think they think I'm stupid.  I think they think I'm anti-social.  To an extent, I probably am.  I think they think I'm ugly.  I think they think I'm a waste of space.  I think they hate me.  I think they think I'm mean. I think I am all those things. Really though, they is code for you.  Even though I don't say much, I feel like I'm prone to saying the wrong thing everywhere.  In comments too.  But I'm tired of thinking of me, me, me in the eyes of others.  Or in what I think people see.

I don't know what I'd do without the library.  Nobody needs a weird girl always hovering around the perimeter of conversations or awkwardly standing just outside of the circle saying nothing.  Nada.  Never.  What an awful friend I am and have always been.  Because I haven't talked to mine in ages.  I know I've never had extremely close friends in which we tell each other everything honest and real, but I could have at least tried to be a good one when I had the chance.  When I had the chances.  Three Days Grace is in my head with, "it's never too late" because I can't think of the phrase without the song.  But I do pessimistically believe that with me, it is too late.

Give me a buddy to talk to.  I can do that.  Give me buddies to talk to.  I can't do that.  I shut down.  It's always in my mind that I'll say something unintentionally inexcusable or whatever I want to say shouldn't be said because the moment when I should have said it passed.  And it's this constant war in my brain that I've given up on fighting because I don't think it's worth it anymore. Convince me otherwise would take all night.

Before you walk away, there's one more thing I want to say.  

Our brains are sick but that's okay.  

Sorry, the line launched me into thinking about Twenty One Pilots.  I'm sporadically on the verge of explosion with the excitement that they're coming back.  Two weeks from today.  That's what I'm looking forward to.  Not fixing my four F's in time to graduate.  Not drawing thirty pieces of artwork by next Thursday.  Not driving when I've only driven once since I got my license in November.  Not hearing more about how I didn't get any scholarships because I didn't study hard enough for the ACT because the ACT is the only thing that matters and whatever else I did in high school doesn't mean much and my brother's got a full ride to college and I barely got accepted and I'm always a burden for my parents and they say money isn't the issue but I know darn well it certainly is one.  I'm not looking forward to graduation.  Don't get me wrong, I'm ecstatic to get out of high school, only, graduation's a reminder of how much of a disappointment I've become.  Concerts seem to be the only thing I look forward to anymore.  I'm flying solo again and I want to say that it's okay but I'm not really sure that I am.

Sometimes when people sit next to me anywhere, I scoot slightly away from them.  It's for the most stupid reason too.  I believe everyone's better off not knowing me and that movement has always been my butt's way of saying I'm not worth your time.  I know how silly that is.  I know how insecure it is.  I know how idiotic it is.

how to know the sound of silence

Listen.

darting, averted eyes aren't silent

glued lips aren't silent

wringing hands aren't silent

restless feet aren't silent

Listen.

eye contact doesn't mean seeing

brief, fleeting conversations don't mean seeing

touch doesn't mean seeing

walking alongside doesn't mean seeing

Remember.

sometimes all silence wants is to not be heard but heard

to not be seen but seen

because he has a heart too

Listen.

he doesn't want your pity

he wants you to be kind because you are

not because you feel sorry

Alone.

alone but not lonely

finally

repetition: bravery

Maybe the bravest thing you did today was open your eyes and let the dust fly away as you kept blinking.  Because blinking isn't natural to everyone.  Maybe the darkness of closed eyes is your favorite place to be when you're awake.

Maybe the bravest thing you did today was fall out of bed.  Because falling does take effort.  Getting up is a whole different heartache.

Maybe the bravest thing you did today was look at your reflection in the mirror.  Practicing your smile because you're not sure you're convincing enough.

Maybe the bravest thing you did today was listen to that song.  The song that isn't only yours, but someone else's too.  Maybe that someone else isn't here today and you haven't listened to it in the longest time; afraid that the next time you do is the first time you won't cry because of it.  

Maybe the bravest thing you did today was shove the urge to erase the words that can be erased.  Online, on paper, on skin.  You've been trying to stop dwelling.  Please remember that erased doesn't mean forgotten. 

Maybe the bravest thing you did today was say hello and please and thank you.  To a stranger or an old friend or a teacher or an old man or a thief or a misfit or a hero.  Maybe they were the same person.

Maybe the bravest thing you did today was put on your five inch heels because it doesn't matter if you're a boy or a girl.  It just matters that it matters to you.   

Maybe the bravest thing you did today came from a line you read in a book that made all the internal and external clocks stop ticking.  "It's a metaphor, see: You put the killing thing right between your teeth, but you don't give it the power to do its killing."

Maybe the bravest thing you did today was play the strings you haven't played in days because even though music will piece you together, it tears you apart too.

Maybe the bravest thing you did today was stand up to someone with words to change minds and not fists to split skin.  

Maybe the bravest thing you did today was run that last mile alone because the race was over hours ago.  

Bravery is a lot of things.  It is pushing a stranger out of the way of an oncoming train.  It is speaking ten words without mumbling.  It is shaky but sure hands and CPR in triage.  It is speaking with your heart when you know no one has ever listened to you before.

It is real names and real faces and real words before and after you got the rug pulled fast from beneath your feet; breaking you ankle on the way down.  

It isn't me.

The bravest thing you did today isn't the bravest thing someone else did today.  Comparisons are not what we're here for.  

I'm sorry I say real names were maybe what you didn't know you needed when I don't know how betrayed or surprised or happy or angry or relieved or empty you might have felt.  I don't know how the skyline looks from your desk or what colors you see in the sunset.  I'm sorry I say these things when I'm still Icarus.

Something was written wrong in my history. But I forget that I wrote it myself.

Keep turning the pages despite however many past chapters of incoherence or frustration or sadness or blank pages there are.  Because sometimes, scrawling your black and blue ink on the five-hundredth-twenty-first page will be the bravest thing you did today.

give me flames

I'm spending so much time in Paris and wondering when I'll be deported.  If I'll leave because I was always a tourist anyway.  I'm missing so many pieces in the jigsaw puzzle I don't know what picture I'm supposed to piece together.

I'm trapping myself with my words and I will never tell anyone how I feel with my voice.  And how I feel is always changing.  I'm hiding.  I've built my wall of solitude high with the stars in mind.

I've realized I'm not alone on this off the radar street of confusion.  We're all lost. Not sure what we're looking for.  I guess I have to be grateful for existing even if I don't fit. And I believe that one day you'll find what you don't know you're looking for.  You might still be b r o k e n, but you'll be standing on your own two feet looking out on this world that doesn't owe you anything just to say I'm over you.

Maybe I can say something worthwhile.  So you'll know I hear you and that I care.  But I'm just me, and so intent on saying anything that I'm not taking enough time to understand.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry I don't have any medicine.  I'm sorry I wouldn't take it if I did.

I don't have any substance.  I don't want to fool you.  You shouldn't believe that I'm anything good.  I wonder if putting myself down is something that I've grown so used to that it's become more natural to me than breathing.  I'm wrong.  I'm useless.  I'm plain.  I'm slow.  I'm withdrawn.  I'm weird.  I'm credulous.  I'm stationary.  I'm inattentive.  I'm distant.  I'm uninviting.  I'm vague.  I'm annoying.  I'm insecure.  I'm closelipped.  I'm inconsiderate.  I'm volatile.  I'm indolent.  I'm contradicting.  I'm contrived.  I'm artificial.  I'm waste.  I'm terrified.  I'm sinking.

I'm feeling like a candle that is only sometimes lit.  I don't remember the last time I said those three words I love you.  Every goodbye or goodnight used to be laced with I love you.  I don't feel very loving or caring anymore and it's scary.  Burning wax is dripping along the crevices of my body telling me to cherish every moment I have with everything and everyone I love.  Look outside.  Look at the clear skies and breathe in the fresh air.  Ride your bike like you used to without feeling too old to enjoy the little things.  Put your running shoes on and taste the sunlight.  Pick up your rusty instruments and don't worry about making the music sound nice.  Go break a window with the force of the trapped emotions crawling restlessly underneath your skin.  Hear the shatter and relish in the sound.  Do it again and again and again and again and again.  Let out the FREAKING FRUSTRATION.  Wrap your body around the shards and feel each vulnerable edge.  Those shards are you.  Stop being submissive.  Stop shrinking when anyone talks to you.  Stop being so annoyed with your family's quirks.  Stop telling yourself you're too busy for them because you won't always have them at the kitchen counter to talk to.  Next year, everything changes.  Maybe they'll change in a second, you don't know what time has in store for you.  You won't always have them so close.  When you yell at your parents you'll be left with a gaping hole when you're no longer angry.  You'll just add to the whopping disappointment you already have in yourself.  When you wake up melancholy and come home depressed and go to bed sad, don't sulk in silence.  Get over the irritating sound the blender makes and the constant ringing of the telephone no one ever answers.  Pause your music. Stop making eye contact with the ground.  Be brave, it won't obliterate you.  Don't care what others think about your uneven face or your unpromising outsides.  Relax.  Get out of the quicksand.  You probably don't have it in you though; too many flaws begging for air.  You're the one giving them oxygen.  Flaws are supposed to make you want to change.  They're not a warm blanket meant for you to envelop yourself in.  You must not want to be happy, you've grown to be comfortable in your despair.  You're going nowhere.

I'm telling myself these things in hopes that I'll wake up.  That I'll start living a life worth living.  But then the wax dries and I forget.  I need someone to set me on fire.  Please.



You can't start a fire, worryin' about your little world falling apart
This gun's for hire, even if we're just dancing in the dark

If I could dance like The Boss, my life would be complete.  I'm honestly not being sardonic in the slightest.  He is pure expression.  It makes me smile yesterday, today, and tomorrow and truly mean it.  Wherever I'm at, whatever place I'm in.

This song will forever hold a special place in my heart. My somewhere soulmate; this could be our anthem.

night running

Let's go night running.  Because I could really use someone by my side to share the silence.  You won't see my face in the moonlight and I won't see yours, because it doesn't matter.  It doesn't matter squat.  I won't care that my upper arms are getting softer and squishier and you won't care that your face is scarred by acne.  Our breathing will be discordant and rapid, but we won't care about the fact that we have no synchronization.  We'll never be beautiful like the actors and actresses in the movies who can make sobbing look flawlessly perfect.  We don't need to be.  We're tired of adjusting unnatural masks.  We're tired of pretending to be everything we're not.  We're just damn tired of being.  So we're not running away from ourselves anymore.  We're not running away from anything.  We're running because bleeding rock embedded bare feet tell us to keep trying to fly and our mismatched hard heartbeats tell us that the faster we move the higher we go.  And the higher we go, the closer we are to the three-year old angel who died yesterday because cancer doesn't give a shit about age.  The higher we go, the closer we are to my uncle who smoked too many cigarettes like my dad does now.  The higher we go, the closer we are to the boy who took his life because people kept telling him it gets better but all he heard were empty words.  And the only reason we're not scared, is because we have each other.  As long as you don't look into my eyes and I don't look into yours, the fear is nonexistent because we can't see it.

We're still pretending, aren't we?  We think we're brave because we're pounding the empty streets while the darkness wants to grab us by our ankles.  Who are we kidding?  We're running away from ourselves and from dealing; like we always do.  And you say running away is never the answer but we sure as hell are going to try.  We wanted to feel free and alive and defiant in the beginning.  But then something changed and we remembered that the living become the dead and the dead were once the living.  We're feeling worse than we were when we started and we don't know how to talk to each other so we don't say anything.  We're not living while we're here, and the dead can't live anymore.  And we stopped digging for the why behind things that are impossible to understand.  So let's go running, imaginary friend, because I like it better than the alternative of sitting on a stationary lazy ass in a quiet house afraid.  Of the silence outside and the noise inside my head.

I'm not delusional.  There's just a missing puzzle piece I kicked under a couch somewhere forgotten.  There's a lot of missing pieces but that piece in particular said friend, and maybe if I looked hard enough, I'd find the piece.  But something tells me that I never had it in the first place.  I just make up a lot of things.  I don't imagine you as anything though, you're just a name.  Maybe imaginary friend makes me sound like a demented teenager.  But it makes me seem less alone.  I suck sounds a lot less harsh as I repeat it.  My mouth is still closed.  I didn't feel anything as I typed this.  Nothing makes sense.  My words are meaningless.  I mean, what in the world did I just write?  I'd like to believe that we're all a little unhinged.

just alright

Because Saturday mornings waking up before ten-thirty are the best mornings and I've missed a whole year of good mornings.  But right now, my morning is music and I'm trying to sing along like before.


Selecting A Reader

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry 
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb 
over my poems, then put the book back 
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
"For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned." And she will.

Ted Kooser


I don't wish to have written this poem.  I wish to be this poem.

I want the words etched in my paper skin.  Not like a tattoo.  Like each word beats inside my heart, one after another until the poem ends but doesn't because it always goes back to the beginning.  As long as I'm alive.

I'm jealous because it feels like good Saturday mornings and the good kind of lonely afternoons and old bookshelves and memory-splattered raincoats and peaceful strolls and independence.  Kooser's perfect reader is beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.  And I'm not there.  And I'm not her.  And I'm not words.

It will never end, but my Saturday will.

The words will never be erased, but I will.

Forever after I'm dead, please still let there be bookstores in the world.  Please still let there be these beacons.  Please still let there be these stars you can hold in your hand because you're just as burning and passionate and the heat doesn't faze you.

You're that star.


Dear Icarus,

You're not a white dwarf or a black dwarf or a neutron star or a black hole yet.
So stop acting like you are.

s                                       t                                       o                                       p

s                                  t                                  o                                  p

s                       t                      o                       p

s                                       t                                       o                                       p

s                                       t                                       o                                       p

s                                       t                                       o                                       p

s                         t                            o                      p

stop.