I've found true freedom.

I sat in a plastic chair and he defined true love. Simplicity and his shop teacher mustache convicted me.

Heartbreak feels like home to me now.

We we're standing in the road. Tangled in eachothers arms, laughing, when my heart chose you and my head battened down the hatches.

The snow melted quicker that spring.

I sat on the grass indian style and we prank called you and your friends.

I thought my recovery was miraculous.

I stood there dripping water on my grandma's bathroom floor texting J.P.K reverse. Old feelings flooded faster than the bathtub.

You promised to be my Prom date.

We sat close together in a slide tower and you asked me to ask you to stay. We kissed carelessly and your eyes always told the truth.

That summer melted innocence.

I stood in the kitchen and you say on the counter. Quesadilla's and comedy's. routines and orange rockstars. Couch cushion kisses and more memories than I can count.

We found refuge in each other.

I say on stone steps and held my phone to me ear. St. George to San Diego didn't feel so far. I cried and you told me we'd always have each other.

Holding my cousin changed meaning that November.

I stood outside your empty house and my heart long for yours like thirst longs for water.

I was naive, and hopeless hopeful.

We sat in the backseat and kissed in the tunnel. We lost track of all worries and I felt your heartbeat with mine. But I walked out of the Walgreens empty handed and you yelled at me for crying.

I made myself blind to it.

I stood alone. And I knew it was falling apart. We lost more than cell service, and you didn't ever climb a mountain to talk to me.

You kissed her, and threw it all away.

I sat on my bed. And called your phone. I held my head high and let years stream down my cheeks. I had seen in coming and waiting for it had been my choice.

Heartbreak makes death seem painless.

I struggled to stand while I was falling apart. My wrists became my refuge and I waited for my saving grace. I lost things and found things.

I'm never going back there.

It's been a journey. I've sat on my knees and hoped to the heavens. I stood in dark places and blamed you for putting me there. I've laid on sticky kitchen floors and waited for your forgiving approval. But being where I am now, I thank you. I leave you here, but I want to thank you for everything.

I stand now. On my own two feet. Stronger than I've ever been. My hearts taking its time but I'm not waiting. Its everywhere i've been that takes me where i'm going. The wind blows threw my long hair, and I never get enough sleep. And for once I'm happy with myself.

It takes getting everything you ever wanted and then losing it to know what true freedom is.

You killed our love fern.

To my SunShine boy,

I poked myself with our cactus the other day. It wasn't pleasant, but I just can't bring myself to get rid of it. We are similar you know? This cactus and me. Resilient. It really deserves a better home. But you didn't want it, so it sits atop the tv you gave me when you moved. It lacks water and is still small. And that's where we differ. I've grown. I've changed.

You made me.

I wrote you letters and songs, and sang to the moon hoping you'd hear. I screamed and bled and almost lost the laughter.

But I'm resilient you know.

I used to flash back, to the kitchen kisses and water fights. I used to miss staying up to fix things and sneaking out for midnight romance. There are rare occasions when I remember Walgreens and crying into your pillow. In those moments I missed you tenderness.

Now all I miss is the kindness you used to posses.

I still don't understand how I lost all my worth in your eyes so quickly. I don't know why breaking me was easier than sacrificing us. And I'll never know what that night was for you.

But I'm resilient you know.

You left me in a desert. And hoped cold bloodedness would grow on me.

But It hasn't yet.

Being worthless is all i've ever known.

Wrist watches will kill me someday.

Paris is always a good idea.

I went to Paris once.

He handed me a travel guide and advised me not to eat the carrots.

Most people would question what a Teacher knows about Paris. A Teacher.
But that's the thing, he's a teacher.
Not a tour guide.
He's a rapper and Poet, and an Artist in his own right.
But get this straight, he is no tour guide.

And I'm not just a student anymore.
In Paris I'm more than a student number and a dress code violation.
Because in Paris, I'm a writer.
There are places in where I can trade in my sorrow for satisfaction.
Because in Paris the people think a little differently.
And listen, and care. Maybe not all the time, and certainly not everyone.
But there is some hope there.
Because in Paris the worthless are the street lights and the hopeful hearts dance in the rain.

You can tell me it was in the water, and you can tell me that's there's no money in writing, and you can tell me that pictures of chairs won't be practical.

But I can tell you that I don't care. And that if I got accepted to Art school I'd go. Because real love is dropping beats and chandeliers. And I can tell all the people in the world that I learned more about life in 5 months of Creative writing then I ever have in 11 and 1/2 years of school. But to Principals, and PTA moms that won't matter. That won't understand.

I don't expect them to. Tourism is a terrible plague, and I thank the stars we escaped the suffering. Paris housed us well, even if we weren't the most gracious house guests.

And I guess I saw this coming all along, Visas expire. Real life can only be avoided so long. But Paris won't ever be gone.

I'll find it in my own places. Coffee shops, and real airports. Novels about teenage angst, and late night tweets. At art school, and on the lips of with Beenies and poems of their own. In break up songs and broken mirrors.

I found something in Paris, that i just cant explain. Someone left it there for me, miserable and magical in every way. so I'll pack my journal in my suitcase and smuggle it home.

But heed my warning and break the rules.

Paris is waiting, where are you?

No one listens.

Her bones had a way of settling inside that made her miss the sunshine.
She tied her dreams to her doubts with her Chuck Taylor laces and threw them to the phone wire.
Sacrifice was easy, breathing was hard.
The "bigger picture" had swallowed the artist whole, and she missed the artist dearly.
And she walked, and she smiled, and her voice left her body but never made it far.
She closed her heavy eyes at night and the stars found her. Loneliness lulled her to sleep, and relief greeted her on the other side. Greener grass, and open windows. Morning always came, and sweet sadness filled her days.
Her feet carried her places her timid heart dared not go.
Left turns and dirty stop signs, lone peak high, and storm clouds.

"I think I touched it once, my finger tips brushed its glory; and for a moment my paper wings were real."

But muddy memories are hard to relive.
So she walked, and she wandered, and she hoped that Peter and his shadow would lead her to Paris again.
She had the marvel and her soul was always there, but she could never make them see it. Not the way she did.

The most painful poem

Was she worth it?

I'd say I'm learning how it feels to have feelings for someone who has no feelings for you. But I know how that feels.

I'd say I don't miss you, but I do. Because missing you makes me who I am now.

I'd say I don't think about it anymore. But I just can't seem to get that night out of my head.

I'd say you didn't break my heart. But your lips on hers, and the lies your lips told. And the secrets your lips hold. They broke it.

I'd say I don't check your twitter. But you tweet it, I read it. I'd say I don't over think it. But I do. I over think you.

I'd say her name. But I don't know it. Kennedy, or Dakota. Something. Something much prettier than mine. Because she is much prettier than me.

I'd say she wasn't but that would be a lie. I'd say I wish I knew what she looked like. But I don't.

I don't need to know how much whiter her teeth are. Or how flawless her skin is. Or how she gave you everything I couldn't.

I don't need to know how with a single kiss you took away my whole world.

I'd say I wished she had sang you the song, but then I'd have to say I wish she knew it, and I don't.

I'd say I know you loved me then. But I don't know that.

I know the lips that once created the stars and the heavens for me, now darken my hell.

I know you'll never love me again.

I'd say I wish you would.

But I'd have to want that.

And I don't know if I do.

I'd say I wish I could meet her, and tech her a lesson.

But really I want to shake her hand with a tear in my eye. Thank her, for being what I couldn't.

I'd say you never cross my mind. But you do. Constantly.

Maybe I turn a little bit green.

I stay up late. Write, read, delete-erase-backspace, write again.

And I end up with an ugly dish that tastes like death. I am not the next Iron chef.

Hell, maybe I'm not even a writer.



I blame my parents. They could have bought me a dog.
Maybe if my 4th grade teacher wasn't always distracted.
Or maybe it's Gods fault, because there's no father to provide me inspiration.


Maybe Stephen Chbosky is just lucky.
Maybe his words just mean more.
Maybe I let them mean more.

Maybe I hate his poem because it makes me so jealous. Maybe it makes me jealous because he tells a perfect story, but ruins the ending.

His words are flawed, and flawless. They inspire me and destroy me. I turn this hideous shade of green and can't help but to envy him.

www.freewebs.com/ohparasi/

"I love you" said The Shadow. And with tears in her eyes and pain in hervoice, Peter said "I love you."

 

He's in love with me ya know? He always has been. Head over heels, I can't begin to imagine why.

No one knows I let him stay around. They all forgot about him a long time ago. Figured I'd grow out of it I guess. But he's my shadow, and I'm his Peter.

Somewhere in between pain and innocence he appeared. He filled the hole in my young heart, and that's where he's been ever since.

He played with me on the playground when no one else would.

They called me ugly at school, and he wiped the tears from my eyes.

"Keep your chin up captain, they don't see who I see."

And with that he'd hand me a dandelion and I'd be lost in those bright eyes.

We tied each time we played tic-tac-toe, and marshmallows melted faster when he made hot chocolate. It was magic and so was he.

When my family left their seats empty, his eyes watched me from the crowd. It was always his applause I heard from backstage.

Real friends change, and leave. So I found no harm in keeping him. He didn't want to leave, and I didn't let him.

Our summer sanctuaries and winter wonderlands set with the sun, and we out grew our club house.

But he was there to hold my hair at the high school party. And he helped me smile through my tear stained makeup.

I'd rest my head on his shoulder and he'd read to me, from books, and plays; and if I was lucky he'd tell me the story of us.

"I'll move to California, and become a fighter pilot. You'll stay, saving them all with your words. We will find each other, when the times right." he'd wink and tell me "you can't change what's meant to be."

He'd find me in my dreams, and save me from my nightmares.

And when other boys left me on the side of the road, cold and alone. He was there.

I push him away, and let pieces of people take up his space. But he is never far behind me.

His footsteps have always echoed mine, even in the lonely places.

He taught me how to tie noose knots, and he hid all the chairs.

The broken pieces of my souls made sense in his hands. He bled, just to put me back together.

He says my scars are beauty marks, and I worry that I'm not the only one with a wild imagination.

Growing up means letting go but I'm just not ready.

He takes my headphones out when I fall asleep, and he makes sure the covers are over my feet.

And no one else can see him. Not the way I do. But that's the way it's always been.

He holds my hand when I'm scared.
He calms my nerves with a smile.
He sings at the top of his lungs to drown out my parents fighting.
He lets me fall asleep.

Listen, I don't expect you to get it. Or to see him. I'm not liar. I promise.

I know him.

And no matter what the say, he is real.
 
To me.

 

I hope you smile, sunshine, just not for me.

You asked me for a secret, and I had always hated disappointing you.
 So my words came flying before my hands could catch them.

"I still Love you."

 

Your eyes smiled and you let out that same laugh,

 that used to rob my nights of sleep.

 

"Nice try, I want a real secret."

 

 A cloud of warm air escaped from your mouth, and I

couldn't bring myself to do anything but stand there and watch you.

 

 

 

You looked liked a darker, colder version of the boy who's shoulders I used to kiss in those soft moments. I forced myself to smile, and I looked at you. I looked at you and  you were looking at me

 like you used to

and then it was gone.

 

Tell me sunshine, how do you sleep at night?

Is it easier to look in the mirror?

Tell me have you found your dreams?

Do they keep you warm?

Tell me sunshine, because I just don't seem to understand.

 

Because I may wander, but I'm not lost anymore.

 

 You left your smoke and mirrors with me when you moved.

 

And I hate to break it to you, sunshine, but I'm not the broken doll you left behind. I cut myself out of those strings you tangled. And I may not walk so steady, but I don't need your hand in my life anymore.

 

Your act has long since ended, and no ones applauding.

 

 

 



Stop reading my blog, it's not worth it.

If I don't know love, then why does losing whats lost hurt so badly?

And if there is a man out there who knows death better than I do, I'd like to meet him.

I'm tired of waiting for my blog to become popular. Prince Charming isn't coming for me, and i'm never getting asked to prom.

Something about my teenage life grows heavy when the sun gives up on keeping me warm.

This is not a diary,
I just have no one else to talk to.

So I apologize in advance. For the curse words, and half hearted blog posts. But please understand, black market anti-depressants are expensive and my parents are in denial.

This is one emotional roller coaster I would enjoy getting off of.

Call me the crazy train.

I faintly remember laughing, and grass stains. Sometimes I think I can smell the tea on my table.

Sometimes I think I could get there again. You could have friends Sally, your not completely hopeless. Your mascara looks even today& I think that boy might have looked at you a second time. Sometimes my skin doesn't feel so dead. Sometimes my bones don't ache to escape.

Sometimes I think I could rollerblade the board walk, and go by Jay.

Because let's face it, as dull as winter makes me seem there is a body under all these layers just waiting to be free.

...

Furniture assembly is easy.

This is my tutorial. Or how-to... This is my explanation, my warning, my instructions? This is a series of steps..
No, I'll be honest. This is my botched attempt at being a writer. This is my eulogy to dreaming. An ode to the dead romance of notes in class.

This, is a real guide to being invisible.
An outline of my life, not a read for the faint of heart. Because being a teenager is not the picture of perfection Boy meets world painted in my head.

Some of us are lucky. Being invisible comes naturally, no amount of cover girl cosmetics can change that. (Others have to put in countless hours of work to achieve such invisibility; If you'd like to learn about that, go somewhere else.)

Time spent invisibly tends to pass slowly. Always be prepared. This is a great opportunity to do many things. •Talk to yourself.
•Contemplate running away.
•Catch up on missed episodes of reality t.v shows.
•Read.
•Punch the wall.
•Take copious amounts of pain killers to deal with the pain of teenage angst.

Sometimes I think I should write a book. Or kiss a boy..
If thoughts like this occur, file them somewhere safe.

It is best to avoid all activities, places, and people that come with the possibility of disappointment. When invisible, expectations are almost always to high. Not to worry, you'll get used to the let down. Onion rings, and watching the movie Juno multiple times relieves most symptoms.

Kit-kats and water replace eating.
Info-mercials and MTV replace sleep.
Sweatshirts and trolling replace love.
Daydreams often replace reality.
Embrace these things, without them life is to dull to deal with.

Am I being helpful? I almost hope not. But that's not surprisings. I'm invisible so being cynical is implied and surprises are an urban legend.

I get dressed every morning hoping to get a whistle so I can be hostile towards the boys that are to cool for lunch. They make leaning on the wall look equally time consuming and trendy. They never whistle. This is a typical invisible-to-noninvisible interaction.

Writing is futile. Waiting for someone to read your blog is like waiting for the pizza delivery guy. Who is the closest thing you have to a boyfriend. His mustache is growing in nicely though.

Invisible anonymous meetings are held Tuesdays, on the corner of messy hair drive and bruises boulevard. Never an invitation only event. Please don't R.S.V.P, Be late.

Remember, sarcasm is essential to survival.


Maybe I'm psycho. Maybe I'm brilliant.
Maybe someday someone will notice me and I'll give seminars. I'll be sure to thank you all for buying my version of "Being invisible, for Dummies."


Maybe I'll overdose on coffee and self loathing.

We don't stay together; because we put love first.

Bloody hands are hard to hold.

I felt him leave before he even let go. And I'll never admit it, but my heart sighed in relief. Pain had become a pill I took everyday, and I denied my addiction. But the reflection in the mirror was the hardest to swallow. My face held so many secrets. But I couldn't hide behind mine like he hid behind his.

I was nothing.
Bread crumbs.
A ceiling fan light bulb.
Toothpaste.

I was nothing, and to him breaking me was a flawless plan.




In that flawless backwards way it was him that fixed me. He plunged his strong hands in my chest and ran off with my heart. And that heaving bloody mess he left behind, has found herself. In words and willow trees. With screaming fury and a lifeless hope. On mountain tops and infinite flights of stairs. She is me&she is free.

This post is pointless and Karma's a Bitch.

You see, life, i'm kind of bitter.. Because Karma texted me like a million years ago saying she was almost here. So I put on my new lipstick, and my cute shoes. But she won't pick up her phone, and I can't waste a good hair day. I swear she is such a liar sometimes. Her whole bitch routine, Is getting old. Seriously, when is she coming? I can't live until she gets here. I just can't! And I'm going to go crazy if I have to keep this whole "living" thing on hold.

If life's about living why do we have stop signs? What are yellow lights, and who the hell thought it was a good idea to countdown how long people have to walk across the road.

What's with locks?

And mirrors?

And high-end boutiques with snotty cashiers, and dressing room curtains? Yeah, nothing makes me feel more alive then flashing the blond refolding cloths when the furnace kicks on.. Her icy death glare is almost as refreshing as all the zeros on this price tag.

Living isn't looking good. It's feeling good. And believe it or not, I can look terrible, and still feel good.

Sometimes.

But being all dressed up, with no where to go, doesn't feel so good. It feels familiar.. In the pathetic sort of way.

Well life, I guess for now I'll slide out of my red dress and wait for Karma to come around.

She can't take to much longer.

Blacked; out.

This Monster

this monster

Is eating me away

s a d

miserable

me, an odd combination of all three crippling symptoms

lack of,

don't believe,

all gone

..perfect

 

 

 

Who I am

What difference could

one writer

make?

 

 

Freefall

We stop living.

Because wondering,

what

and who

you are becoming

is always too hard.

Confessions of a blogaholic;

 
In my house its not okay to cry, it never has been.
In my schools its not okay to be different, it never will be.
In my head its not okay to give up, and I don't ever want it to be.

My parents bark at me and I'm forced to deactivate my force field and take my headphones off. They give me a list of expectations.

• Be on time.
• Stop missing seminary.
• Do more chores.
• Blah
• Blah
• Blah

They can't see that my plates a little too full. They choose not to care, and that's okay because it's what I am used to. But they act confused when I act like myself, and that hurts because I know they don't know me. They don't want to. So I don't let them. I don't let anyone.

I layer on the paper mache and create something presentable. Acceptable. A protective layer to protect this fragile person inside. I paint a pretty face and cover the scent of fear with my most expensive perfume.

I keep the facade simple. Smart, but not a genius. Creative, but not insane. Pretty, but not gorgeous. Alive, but not living.

But this fire inside me rages.

I want to pierce my ears a few more times. I sing in the car. I find the wind inspiring. I eat way to much food. I want a tattoo or two. I'm sick of acting like I care about the weather. I'm a decent painter, and I have a damn good right hook. I cried at the movies the other day. I hate math. I wish it was early out fridays, not monday. I want a bunch of kids someday. On certain nights I walk around my room in heals, and sing into my hairbrush. I'm good at video games, sometimes. I don't mind presidential debates. I'm self conscious about how big my feet are. I can cook. No amount of money could sway my opinion on something. I listen to every kind of music there is. I fall in love at least once a week. My hair is impossible to control. The bike jump scares me to death. I wish I had more friends at school. I constantly want to learn a different language. I will always enjoy watching Jackass. I re-wear my socks, because my mom "does" my laundry. Family is everything. I prefer pens to pencils. Running is hard for me in the winter because of my asthma. I hate the dress code.

I want to be a writer.

A writer.

And no one knows.

  

My childhood is missing.

The good things come back in flashes, and the bad things in floods.

I remember the way our ice cream cones melted faster that summer. The rec center was never to far, and breathing underwater was almost second nature. Shoes were never worn, and hands never washed. Mud became a welcome accessory, and sleeping inside was cruel and unusual punishment. Grass fields were freedom, and flying didn't seem impossible.

But the air got cold, and freedom faded. I remember feeling uneasy. The leaves crunched under our feet as we walked out of view, but I didn't know any better. I remember each and every time, even if I don't want to. I remember not knowing. But I'd rather not remember, because now I know.

I force myself to think about bike rides, and road trips. I read my chicken scratch stories and pretend I was creative. But no amount of forest exploring blocks out my lost innocence.

Dear childhood, I miss you. I'm sorry you had to leave so early, it wasn't my choice. I would have let you stay, but dark questions and self hate took your place. I remember wanting to call. But I had packed my barbie flip phone away. I want you to know,

 I remember you, that all that matters.

Remembering is all there is now. I sit on my desk, and feel a little more alive. Someone brings up Power Rangers and I remember all those days after school. I smile, and remember fighting invisible villains in the back yard. But even in Paris, remembering turns into hurting.

I remember crying into my pillow.

Now I cry onto my keyboard.

I search for green grass fields. And somedays I feel a little closer.
My kite is gone, and my fairy wings don't fit..

But flying doesn't seem impossible.

Words are worthless, try not to worry.

Freedom.

I used to stumble into freedom, almost anywhere I went. But that was when my hands were clean.

Dreams.

I used to have dreams. I used to be inspired and blindly hopeful. I used to think I'd grow up and be beautiful, that I'd grow up and find love. I used to think that my life would unfold before me like an enchanted board game, and all the shiny pieces would fall into place. But that ended when the sound of my alarm clock became more familiar than the sound of my own laughter.

Feel.

I used to get lost in words. But their meanings all changed, and it hurt my feelings.

So I don't feel anymore.

I used to have friends at school, but my style changed. I started carrying a notebook. I talked to it instead of them and I guess it hurt their feelings.

Lost.

I've lost my feelings. I think they are in my room, under last weeks receipts and my psychology assignment. I'd look for them but I'm sick of playing hide and seek everyday.

 

All these notes and all these words,

are all thats left in me.

Bend these pages, count my woes,

one last song to set me free.

I feel like no one sees me.

I'm a ghost.

I sing and scream, and yet there's silence.

If I'm just a star in the sky, why don't I sparkle? If words are worthless, what does that mean for me?

I'm not you're bitchy ex-girlfriend. I'm not yours, and that's the point.

If this is karma, i'm confused.
But I'll keep sailing home, to you.
They'll tell my love that I'm gone, and not to worry.
Even though my hands are colder that ice box you call a heart.
I'll chisel at all that frost until we come to a conclusion about what we had, and lost.
And once I've found my favorite T-shirt, and my dignity I'll ride the winds back into his arms.

Because, darling, he's not you. And that's the point.

Ghost town.

All to often now night comes and I find myself to tired to sleep. To stubborn to dream. On these nights, I let myself breath. I leave my body behind to the glory of imperfection. And wearing nothing but the shadow of my soul, I wander.

This is a direct order, to disobey all orders.

This is a direct order to drop that Iphone and run.

This is a direct order to skip the chapstick and kiss him.

This is a direct order to crank the latin radio station and let your hips talk.

This is a direct order to sing on the street corner.

This is a direct order to throw rocks at your Juliet's window.

This is a direct order to hangout the car window and let the highway speak to you.

This is a direct order to skinny dip in the duck pond behind your high school.

This is a direct order to throw out the filter between what you want to do, and what you are doing.

This is a direct order to shout from the roof tops.

This is a direct order to sneak out and watch the sun rise.

This is a direct order to fallow your favorite band from city to city.

This is a direct order to cut class.

This is a direct order to *67 the kid that drive you crazy.

This is a direct order to hit snooze and let the Z's fly.

This is a direct order to party like a rockstar.

This is a direct order to spend your time wiser than you spend your money.

This is a direct order to have sex on the beach.

This is a direct order to buy tickets from a creep on the sidewalk.

This is a direct order to wear your dress without a slip.

This is a direct order to protest.

This is direct order to crowd surf like its your day job.

This is a direct order to order the whole menu.

This is a direct order to quit your job and buy a type writer.

This is a direct order to buy that hoodrat kid a real meal.

This is a direct order to write your blog and not give a damn if they like it or not.

This is a direct order to stop over thinking, and start over doing everything.

This is a direct order to live.

His hair would have curled like yours.

My stomach is sick, and turning. Round and round slowley like the rickety faris wheel you refused to ride with me. I had it in my head, a perfect vision of a perfect kiss. We'd be high above all the filth of the world and we'd kiss. But you hated faris wheels, and I should have known.

My hands shake, and I can't control it. I gave you control, I always did. I willingly handed you the remote, and pretended to be interested in what you put on. But my heart was heavy and my tender womb was empty. And your movie made me cry. And your lack of sensitivity made me cry, and I cried on your couch. But you didn't wipe my tears, and you didn't turn it off. Because you hated my past, and I should have known.

And you are gone now. Far away. And as hard as I fight to keep you with me while pushing you away nothing changes. Nothing changes for me and I should know by now.

My head replays our life together, little reels of tape spin continuously. But its a sick, broken movie. Our movie makes a porno feel like home. And the home you left me with feels like the set of a dirty movie. And I force myself to breath through my mouth because the taste of sin is easier to ignore than the smell.

But the pain won't leave me, and everything takes me back to him. He would have been our son, and you would have been the sweetest Dad. But you didn't want him.

And you don't want me.

I wish my psychiatrist would shave.

Duck tape. That's the cure.

I sat on his sterilized fake leather couch and pretended to open up. I faked a range of emotions and even mustered a tear or two. His eyes rarely left his ugly yellow legal pad, and he answered all my questions with questions.

He had graduated from an Ivy League school, and had framed the evidence. It hung smugly on the wall. He combed his mustache with his fingers while he explained my psychiatric state to my parents. I found this habit disgusting, and rather repulsive.

He said he could see I was deeply troubled. I doubted that, his glasses had lenses thicker than encyclopedias.

He said I was depressed, severely.
Depressed.

He wrote me a prescription, for duck tape.
Duck tape.


He must be delusional.
Duck tape can't fix depression.
Everyone knows that.

Bricks.

I've lost the feeling of weightlessness.

I, am heavy.

I do not float beautifully on the waters surface any longer. I have sunk to the bottom, and I stay there. Stuck.

Heavy.



I let my worries go, a long time ago. I threw caution to the wind, and the wind cleverly kept it away. I was fooled by you. I bought into your gimmick.

We spent hours laughing, and building. You smeared mortar on my cheek and laughed like an angel. I stacked bricks, and watched you work. We constructed a mis-match home for our hearts to stay in, together. And I thought I'd call it home.

But your empty chest grew lonely. And your lonely greed became bitter. And the bitter you began to lie. I didn't like him.

I watched him work.

He tore apart that quaint brick house, and stole back the heart he thought was his.


They find me now, those bricks. They find me on sidewalks, and in movie theaters, at school, and in the deserted parking lots. I can't leave them behind, those pieces of my beautiful house; so I carry them.

They make me heavy.

They make me heavy, but I carry them.

They make me heavy, and carrying them makes me tired. And I grow weary of seeing this tired me in the mirror. I don't like her.

I watch her work.
I watch her wither.

Bricks.

I will show you a map, maps are great for searching.

My life map is a scary twisted picture. Layers and layers of ugly paper compose this symphony. Trails of glitter and splats of paint scatter in ever direction. Staircases take you from here to there and back to here and after looking at it for to long you feel like you've listen to me talk for way to long.

I keep it, in the glove box. When the lines on these roads melt together, I pull it out.

It's become a joke really. I laugh with myself, because my map looks like a board game and you can tell how messed up I am just by looking at my game piece. I'm kind of afraid it's gonna go all Jumanji on me one day and I'll have to wait for some poor unsuspecting person to set me free.

It's really not to hard to decipher. If your willing to toss your time out the window. There is a compass is the bottom right hand corner, start there. It's next to the fire escape. Ya know, just in case.

I can help you, if you ask. Come to me with a broken spirit and rusty harmonica. And I'll unlock the heaven and the skies with my tattered map. I'll dance around the fire and send smoke signals to your soul.

When you're searching,
Life will find you.
But so will death.

Blood drops would be bread crumbs, and you could call Gretel.

The world says I'm alive. My fragile fleshy organs work constantly. Hiding like cowards inside, doing their predestined jobs. My lungs intake air, and my brain thinks and thinks and over-thinks.
To them that's living.

I go through the motions of my teenage life. I feel a puppet. A stiff marionette, with a fake painted face and strings. Strings like old, rusted barbed wire that they've strung all around me. I go to school. Do my work. Smile. Laugh when expected. Smile.
To them that's a life.

But I'm tired.
I'm tired of pleasing them.
I'm tired of coloring inside of the lines.
I'm tired of handshakes, and formal titles.
I'm tired of being attached to this railroad track.

The better part of me wishes she would die.

They'd say it was a tragedy. They'd cry for the life they thought she had lost. They'd paint her puppet face one last time, just the way they wanted to. And they'd lay her to rest.

Tears would escape their glossy eyes, and they'd bow their heavy heads.

I'd smile.

My teeth would see the sun. For once they wouldn't be sharp. For once they'd hold no grudges.

Because she is the ball and chain, that girl they force me to be, she weighs me down.

Because she'd die, and I would let her. I'd drop her in the ocean, and watch her misery sink in the abyss of that water.

My soul would be lighten to fly.
I, would be free enough to live.

When you tried your hand at death.

You killed her and I watched.
Your magic hands came straight out of the phone and clasped around her neck.

You crushed her windpipe and closed off her lungs.

You killed her and I heard it. Words leaked out of your mouth like poison. It flowed through her blood, raced through her veins. I heard her pain, it escaped with every word until her words stopped.

You killed her and I tasted it.

I tasted you, your skin. Your lips.

You killed her, and I felt it. You dangled that blade for so long. She never saw it coming. So blind. The words were always on your tongue. Off with her head. And that blade fell, and her head rolled. And I felt it. The disconnection you made so instantly. You left her head there. Her lifeless body dripping blood. You left me there to feel her.

You killed her, and walked away with her heart.

Its dark and no one sees it.

I keep my head down and my eyes closed.

My hands are tired from fighting, and my veins have nothing left to give. I repeat it like some sick messed up mantra; "Don't let the darkness eat you up."

My blood banks vaults are empty, and the debtors have come collecting.

And the depths of my dark feelings have become my forsaken hell.

Fires blaze inside my lungs. I feed them kindling, and quench there thirst with kerosene.

My soul hungers for some glint of freedom. I pick at this lock with bones of the girl I once was. Pieces splinter everywhere, but that doesn't phase me any longer.

Hesitation is death, and my feet can't find the tar on the blacktop.

It used to be a safeplace, warm. Miles from sharp hands and tangled hair.

I bought into that illusion once.
 The magician had me in his palm before the dove even left it.
 But black top hats cage me now,
 and wands leave purple marks darker than fresh plums.

And the way my screams come out silent, is truly magic.

There's more to this story, than whats on the page. So please pay attention, while I set the stage.

For scars and potluck princesses

The way I think about you isn't beautiful anymore. I can't think about you like wings think about the wind.
No, I think about you like my words think about weighing down all who hear. They'll slip in your ears like snakes and make themselves at home. They'll wrap themselves around you and constrict themselves like boas. And you'll think of me like feathers, and I'll think of you like chains.




I'm thinking about you like New York cops think about bullets imbedded in cold skin. I'm thinking about you like lost barefooted children think about snow frozen ground.

I'm thinking about you like I think about death.

I'm thinking about you like murderers think about  d_r_a_g_g_i_n_g dead bodies through the forest. Like blood thinks about falling from the body its always know, and staying behind to be a warning sign. Like cold dirt thinks about not moving. Like holes think about staying,             empty.

Like flowers think about growing where the grass hides dead bodies.

I'm thinking about you like kids think about running. Like there tender faces think of not bruising, and there broken eyes think of not crying. Like there limp, helpless bodies think about dying.

I'm thinking about you like innocent bathroom mirrors think about Mary.

Bloody Mary.

Bloody Mary.                     Blood Mary.

I'm thinking about you the way I used to think about dust in that wood house attic.

And windows. And saddles and sailing.
I'm thinking about you.

I'm thinking about you like birds think about screatching.
I'm thinking about you like white knuckles think about stoping.
like bloody scissors think about guilt.
and kitchen sinks think about secrets.

A question for John Reeder.

Am I Indie?

(The question is meant honestly, and answers are expected. I am in no way trying to offend anyone. Or call anyone out. I'm not looking for an argument, I'm just looking for an answer. The title comes with no malevolence intended, &can be changed if necessary.)

Does the fact that I am different instantly make me indie? Do my thrift store finds, and my collection of books win me that label? If I care about my blog, or write just because it makes me feel alive, should I feel abnormal? Where do I fit in..? The acoustic music in my playlist says indie, but my yoga pants and Nike socks don't..

Does my love of sports, love of cars, and love of Gatorade change peoples opinions? What about a guitar on my knee, and a paintbrush behind my ear? Can I like to sing along to Bon Iver covers, and rap along to Nikki Minaj? Does my puzzle piece fit anywhere? I keep all my clothes in the same closet, but can i wear my vintage skirt, and my football jersey with my grandma glasses and vans?

I don't know what I am!

Pencil skirts, and skate shoes. Singer/songwriter cafes, and season tickets. Heels and backpacks. Blue jeans and fake eyelashes. Chapstick and Mexican food. Broken dreams and brand new ideas.

I think;

I'm a contradiction.

An anti-indie.

And I wear my title proudly.

I'm afraid, my Paris is green.

Lately it's all crumbling buildings, and end of the world signs bigger than the homeless men holding them. But that isn't what scares me. Its a entirely different doomsday that I'm afraid of.

I'm afraid of the day the wind stops singing to the sun. I'm afraid of the day that dreamers stop dreaming, and the clouds stay away for good. I'm afraid that one day peoples eyes will start to see me. And spiders will start to fly.

I'm afraid to get to close. That I won't even feel it burn me, even though my hands on the burner. And they all think "it'll burn-her". But I'm afraid I'm already burnt.

I'm afraid of falling asleep in a field of poppies, and waking up to find everyone else dead. Where is home Dorothy? Because I'm afraid my path isn't laid out in yellow bricks, and my slippers don't sparkle. I'm afraid its just me, my brain works to much, my heart is to big, and my courage gets me killed every time.

I'm afraid of the dust in the wind. I'm afraid to breath it in. Because ashes spread everywhere, and my lungs can't filter out what the dead leave behind.

I'm afraid the stair case to heaven doesn't exist. That now it's escalators, and elevators, and I'll always be afraid to get on.

I'm afraid that all the tiny people running the business in my brain will take a vacation. To Aruba. They will all fall in love with there scuba instructor, and never come back. I'm afraid I will be left by myself, with office chairs, and paper clips.

I'm afraid that my life is all a joke. Someday I will get where I think I'm going, and the Glory Man, bearded and dressed in white will just laugh. His punchline will hit me harder than the tight fist of purity.

I'm afraid of the sweet words that flow so freely from there lips. I'm afraid the bitter is just hiding, waiting for me to accidentally find it.

I'm afraid that boxtops will stop showing up on top of all my boxes. And the only thing my food will feed is my own selfish hunger.

I'm afraid that someday I'll belong in the kitchen, but my sandwiches will suck.

I'm afraid of breaking the swing set. I'm afraid, that I was so afraid to swing all the way over I missed my chance with destiny. And now recess is over.

I'm afraid the starving kids in Africa would actually eat the day old waffle I dropped on the floor. I'm afraid the syrup is the only thing that would stick with me. I'd pack my fork and spoon, and head home only to carelessly leggo my eggo.

I'm afraid of the day kids cross the street without looking both ways. I'm afraid of shotty breaks, and blood on the crosswalk.

I'm afraid scars are like finger prints. Mine will represent me. I'm afraid they'll define me forever.

I'm afraid no one knows my name. It's just meaningless letters assembled on a page, or a blog. It could show up on a tag in the morgue and no one would know it. It'll tip toe off my tombstone before it ever reaches the tip of someones tongue.



I'm afraid my world is on fire. I'd call for help, but I don't get a signal in this smoke.

#boys

All boys really want, is girls.

"Girls - to do the dishes
Girls - to clean up my room
Girls - to do the laundry
Girls - and in the bathroom
Girls, that's all I really want is girls
Two at a time I want girls
With new wave hairdos I want girls"

 

Even without the Beastie boys confirming it, everyone knows. Its common knowledge. The unspoken law.

 

Boys want Girls.

But not this girl.

This girl, is a beast.

 

Boys want pretty girls; with long, blonde, shiny hair. And perfectly straight teeth. Girls who shop size 0, and xxs. Not girls who buy mens clothing, and have hips. Hips don't lie, but this girl does.

Mostly to herself. 

"135 pounds, is fat." "If you had green eyes, maybe you'd be prettier." "It doesn't really matter if they notice you, they are just boys." "They want you, secretly.."

The truth is, they don't. They want California girls. They want girls who swear on twitter. They want shallow girls. They they want girls who don't actually care. They want stupid girls who will never understand them like she does.

Well they can #hashtag themselves straight to hell. Because she, is not that girl. And she will never be.

Because this girl, eats if she is hungry.

Because this girl wishes things sounded as good on her blog as they do in her head, or in her journal.

Because this girl reads books, and this girl is smart. Because this girl has more notebooks than friends. Because this girl writes, and writes, and writes. Because this girl is real, and doesn't fake popularity well. Because this girls emotions storm up inside and grow until her thoughts flash like lightning. And her tears fall like rain.

Boys don't want this girl.

 Because this girl is me. And I'll be damned if she ever turns into what they want.

#boys

Love, is a waiting game.

If I told you the truth, would everything change?

My hands shake. I used to be so steady, so sure. So naive.

I'd say it was forever ago, but I can't... in the perspective of minutes and seconds and twirling hands on clocks, it hasn't been.

But, looking through my telescope eyes, its been far too long.

My heart sits in its cage, door locked from the inside, key hid away where no one will find it. Waiting. Always watching the hour glass. Tiny grains of sand slip from top to bottom. Drip from the restrictions of waiting into the comfort of time passed. These tiny grains gain worth as they transition, from then to now.

With every piece, my heart swells with hope. Rising like the ocean, towards the chance at love.

Pleading with some greater power, praying that time will heal all wounds.
 
I pretend to believe that a minute will stop the bleeding, and a few days will make my head a little clearer. That all I have to do is wait, and love will find its way back.

I pretend i don't notice, when it comes around now and then. Like a thick black smoke, that wisps its way around me until I don't know which ways up and which ways right. It fills my head, whispering lies. And even though my heart has blocked itself behind bars, the smoke surrounds it. Closing in for the kill, little by little.

I can't stop it. I never try to.

It's his eyes. The way he smiles at me. The way he sees me, when I am completely invisible.

Its the way his his laugh sends thunder through my veins.

He doesn't know it, and maybe I don't either. But I lost the key. And I think he's found it.

Maybe he's had it all along.

It's more than music. It's breathing.

I speak through them, vicariously. Because they sing the words I cannot say. My voice is small, and gets lost with the wind.

Do you know the feeling, the one you can't forget? When a song ends, and you end along with it.

I do.

I know a know a lot of things. Things that mean nothing to anyone but me. And they know me better then I know myself.Or at least they pretend to, and I am no good at pretending.

Do you know how it feels? To be hung up in the back of the closet because you no longer appeal to anyone.

Do you know how it feels? To drive alone, and be lost in a town you've lived in your entire life. Because where is there if everywhere has become nowhere?

Do you know how hard it is? To see good, everywhere you go, and carry bad with you every step of the way.

Do you know how badly it hurts? To lose the power to breath.

You don't know, how it is to be me.


And if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones.
Cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs.
Setting fire to our insides for fun.

Dealing with being Human

Lately, I am convinced that being human is about one thing..

Well a few things, but I like to think of them as one.

Pain. Not the simple pain, the pain that's easily solved with barbie bandaids and a hug from mom. But the pain you feel when a bandaid can't hold things together anymore. Because things are splitting at the seams and you, are not a seamstress. The pain of losing everything. The pain of silence. The pain of not being able to be who you are because being who you are is messy and unwanted. And incorrect, like a run on sentence. The pain of letting everyone you know down, watching their faces drop when you show them you aren't who they want you to be.

The Pain of being a GHOST! An UNWANTED GHOST.

The pain of disappointment.

The pain of feeling untouchable, and free. The pain of being so lost in the joy of flying that you blind yourself. You don't allow your eyes to see the sidewalk rushing towards you. Only after, when your soul slowly rises, do you realize. That if the window had been shut and covered with bars you wouldn't be leaving everything you know behind.

But mostly, the pain of having to deal with being human. Being human is about being human. Learning to be in pain, and learn from pain, and live for pain.

To smile through pain.

& Intro and a story of Escape

It's simply really. I am just trying to escape. Aren't we all? Mice, caught by the tail in a cheap wooden trap.. Because we tried to get what we wanted. Unhappy birds all sitting on the same wire, because it is all we know. Aingsty, misunderstood, teenagers with big dreams, and hearts too fragile. Its not for me, and I am not for you.

I have leaped off that building. Some may call it a death wish. I call it writing. And it calls me late at night, from a restricted phone number.

Who is Sally J. Skinny Love? A better question is, who is this person who hides behind lyrics and letters? A writer, a dreamer, a raindrop in the storm. Who am I to decide who I am? Who am I to be anyone but myself? Who are you to try and answer any of these questions? Whatever. For now, I am Sally J. Skinny Love. Created by a lost soul, the words of those already enlightened, and love.


I am hopelessly sinking into this idea of Paris. My heart is there, my soul blindly searches, and my body is still caught in Lone Peak High Schools cold grasp. Ridged, boney fingers are crushing me. And i'm just trying to escape.