Trigger-finger

Block them out....block them all out
no more resounding gunshot of plastered kisses
He didn't love you ....did you forget how he treated you?
He hurt you remember- he played you
you don't want to remember because he flattered
caressed and smiled.
They all did that, they all hurt
used, and left

Block them out, block them all out as they
do the same thing to the next girl
it's not important it doesn't matter
because you are sitting here alone
and they are holding the heart of
another pretty girl with a
broken smile that needs his healing.

I would much rather be bleeding or
pulling an invisible trigger then
watching, seeing, envisioning
your world where I am nothing
but a ghost.

Motive

Writing seems to be the only thing that helps lately--talking seems pointless as if my lips and vocals can't form coherent words. Just stumbling and gasping like a babbling fool. No wonder it's uncomfortable to be around them. I would rather be drowning then speak or even be next to the opposite sex. It wasn't painful before, but now it is....mind racing and wondering if they too have an alternative motive.
Funny how everything comes out a journal against a blank canvas but not just a journal it's a poetic version of my thoughts. Somehow it's better this way--rather write about it then speak my own thoughts with them lingering so close behind me-- breathing insults and judgements down my back and neck---leaving cold goosebumps.

Bedsheet Memoir

" Sex is the best kind of natural high. So the saying goes, but I don't believe them for one second, especially when it is your very first time--they say it gets better, but no way am I trying it again to find out. It was beautiful and ugly all at the same time, but more importantly it meant more to me then my one- night stand partner. I had everything to lose and everything to gain--but mostly everything to lose. Sex changed me and I can't go back to the girl I was two days ago."

Fingers pressing ardent roots
of heated intertwinements
between sweat soaked bedsheets
untouched secrets whispered
between strangled breaths.

I regret the days spent
daydreaming of a touch
where a different kind of sex was
felt.

One not damaged by a half-hearted attempt
and a sex-crazed male
one not tainted by the
weeping of a girl forced to grow into her woman
skin.

One not tarnished by a broken promise
of no intimate relations until
adorned in white and sealed.
Two days--no sleep for I fear your presence
near.

It meant more then just
two strangers exchanging a mating language.
Innocence burned along with it
Human nature is what they say.

But those lips are scorched by fire as well
hoping to soothe their own restless errors
that now haunt them as demons behind
their backs.

Dreaming, no hoping that if they repeat
the fault of their kind enough
times it will actually become truth.

Your smell still lingers--ironed into the sheets
that now keep our secret.
I find I cannot breathe
for it wasn't only your mistake but a flaw

in my own mental makeup.

Metaphorically Speaking

" I'm talking about life. In my kind of falling, there's no landing. There's only hitting the ground. Hard. Dead, or wanting to be dead. so the whole time you're falling, it's the worst feeling in the world. Because you feel you have no control over it. Because you know how it ends."

--John Green, Will Grayson, Will Grayson.

This is how my life feels right now-especially with all my mistakes, u-turns, and not listening to my GPS- I am now falling-no driving off the cliff repeatedly and it hurts every time I hit the ground. It's cold, lifeless, and hurts the more you hit it because your body doesn't have enough recovery time. So you not only break new bones- you re-injure old ones.

The worst thing about falling is that most of the time you don't realize it is happening till that split second before your body explodes and bursts into stars--maybe I have been falling too long, maybe i just need to breathe and actually slow down before I get too close to that edge. Maybe, this metaphor is cheesy and I sound like a raving lunatic--but, it's all real to me and falling in real life is just as painful as the mental- life crumbling kind. Either way falling is horrible and in most cases you can barely balance and catch yourself in time.

Because it Matters

"Neither novels or their readers benefit from any attempts to divine whether any facts hide inside a story. Such efforts attack the very idea that made-up stories can matter, which is sort of the foundational assumption of our species."

--John Green, The Fault of Our Stars.

Some stories do in fact hold some level of truth--everything I breathe, dream, and chase are put into words that rebound a profound truth about the people I meet, the feelings that I feel, the thoughts I think, and the environment I grow. All of it carries simple facts about my life- I don't expect any of you to understand or even try to care- these are all remote parts and separated memories that make up the person that stands in front of you.

I have the hardest time speaking my past so I write about them instead--it gives me some tangled inner strength to live each day and be okay in this dark and twisty place- this dark and twisty place that makes me wonder in dizzy circles with no where to go but around. Writing the things in my head make my life more tangible. And now I am just rambling about how my stories matter and others matter too, Like, John Green's Looking for Alaska. Made-up yes, but some truth is hidden between paragraphs and page numbers. My writing has to matter, because it makes me matter and makes living in the future that much easier.

Person

" Being in a relationship, that's something you choose. Being friends that's just something you are...[But] I do pick you...We've been friends too long to pick, but if we could pick, I'd pick you."

--John Green, Will Grayson, Will Grayson

Maybe John Green was on to something. Maybe all the young people out there- myself included could learn something profound--being friends is just something you are. If I could pick one person it would be Victoria--she is my person. She is the person I would call to help me wrap up a dead body in the dining room rug. She is the person that can read my mind through a text message and the person that makes silence the most comfortable state to be in. Unlike the quote above I didn't have to know her long to choose her. She is my person--in fact she is probably the person that also provides the escape vehicle-- maybe because she thinks ahead but mostly because she is just that awesome.

Illusion

" I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, then all at once."

--John Green- The Fault of Our Stars

I am selfish, I am mean, I get in the way of things- and those are the reasons I broke you. I literally broke you---you don't work anymore--you lost your passion, your smile, your sparkle behind your eyes. My world was crumbling, changing and I changed myself to feel stable in my own skin. I never realized I took all the pieces you loved and morphed them into a monster. I became centered on my own need to survive--only when I lost you did I realize that you were my source for survival. I miss you every day and I am afraid to crawl back knowing you might not take me back. I broke you and in the process I broke myself. I fell in love with you and I let the petty things of growing up corrupt my heart. In some ways I just woke up from a nightmare and I find that yes, I still love you.

Clean, White, and New.

Dearest friend,

I pray once this letter reaches you that I am still branded in the back of your mind. I am sorry it took so long to answer your chicken scratch letters, I got all sixty-three of them. You told me about the day we met, our first kiss, even the day you left. Your letters were all written in long-hand usually stained with coffee, tears, or buttered popcorn- some were even sprinkled with your hand-drawn sketches. All your letters even ended the same way.

'P.S. I still love you.'

Written as if you were trying to speak some mantra to bring you back to me. Each 'I love you.' written differently as time progressed and we both matured into our childhood. I feel bad that this is my first return letter. But, now I know what I was meant to say to you after all this time. I love you, damn it! I tried to forget you, I tried forgetting the way your lips were soft against mine, or the smell of your skin, and the sound of your chevy truck- I still can't forget.

Our last summer, we went sailing remember? We dined at dives that severed french fries and milkshakes, and we danced- danced even with everyone looking- we danced anyway. Do you remember? ....we danced anyway.

I still love you is all I have to say. It hurts and I can't get away. The letter when it reaches you I hope it is clean, white, and new. For even though it hurts it's how my life is like now--even without you....even without you I can't breathe.

xoxox

the girl who ran away.

Native Color

How can the relationship we breathe and dream is only a handful of contradictions.

Not in anyway bad contradictions, just contradictions.

It is beautiful and somehow ugly in its raw and human state.

With you I am made happy yet frustrated. I am confused yet found.

I can't help but want to search for your company. The contradictions are just as much company as you are and I need them as much as I need you.

My Own Alaska

“She said, 'It's not life of death, the labyrinth.'
'Um, okay. So what is it?'
'Suffering,' she said. 'Doing wrong and having wrong things happen to you. That's the problem. Bolivar was talking about the pain, not about the living or dying. How do you get out of the labyrinth of suffering?...Nothing's wrong. But there's always suffering, Pudge. Homework or malaria or having a boyfriend who lives far away when there's a good-looking boy lying next to you. Suffering is universal. It'st the one thing Buddhists, Christians, and Muslims are all worried about.”

― John Green, Looking for Alaska

Is it such a bad thing to live the life Alaska did or die the way she did? I may be a writer but, never have I been able to write such a character in my head that I longed to be that person. Alaska saw the world her way and lived to be her own kind of remarkable.

I want to be my own piece of remarkable- to live the way I think and die on my own terms and not the terms of others. Like the way I drink my Dr. Pepper, I want to watch as I pop and fizz.

I wonder what it would be like to be the moment of my life- where I could see how my actions led to my success and overall death- not to regret the choices I made but to relive my wonderful piece of remarkable and be completely content. I don't need to be Alaska, I can be myself- just see my world the way I want to see it. Choose to be outside the overall norm and be my own identity where Alaska is just a place and not a person to aspire to be.

A Mr. Darcy

The handsome fellow walking across the green grass field to propose a love so intricate and complex. To confess his soul to your every whim and wonder.

Is it wrong to want the sappy romantics that make up romance novels? I never was one for reading the love stories, the love seemed too abstract and foreign. True love isn't spurred at first glance, but matures and grows. However, me being impatient I can't help but crave the sappiness of romance novels.

I mean who doesn't want to fall that fast?