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.