I Am

You wouldn't understand this post unless you were listening to "Don't You Evah" by Spoon. To "Float On" by Modest Mouse. "The World at Large." "Runaway." "Resistance." ETC. Just ask me for my playlist.

But it isn't any use. You never understood me anyways. Me or my fur coats. 

I'm a religion. I'm a way of worship. And you belong to PETA with all their fanaticism and bullshit.

I'm a cult. I'm a death sentence. But you still won't find my name in the dictionary or the history books.

Jesus sure knew how to stick it to the man. But I'm not sacrilegious.

Mama always told me that adoration was part of worship, and adore Him I do.

I'm a way of life. I'm a support system. With me, you're allowed to pick the candy off of the gingerbread house. You're allowed to lick your fingers. Forks are for the delicate.

I'm a celebrity. I'm a prophet. And I said "Hello" to Mother Teresa the other day for good measure.

I'm a saint. I'm a sinner. But as long as I'm climbing the staircase to heaven, it's hard to tell the difference.

It's like this.

Just because you celebrate Christmas doesn't make you Christian, but thank God you're trying.

I'm the girl sitting next to you in the computer lab. I'm your imaginary friend.

If you can give me a name, I'll be realler than your hero in the comic book. But even my parents have trouble with my name.

I'm poison. I'm the cure. I'm the boy you never dared to talk to. I'm the girl you kiss behind the bleachers.

I'm a walking contradiction, but at least you're looking for me in the lunchroom like you never used to.

I'm love. I'm rejection. I'm F=ma.
I'm the answer to every question you haven't known how to ask.

And the days will become weeks. And the weeks will become years. 

And I will have to say hello to all the people I would rather say goodbye to.

And you will never be mine.

Heaven is farther away when your feet hurt.

Happy birthday.

The taxi is more expensive when you blast the AC.
Your letters mean more when they're typed up on that vintage typewriter.
Your tears mean more when they're for me.

You always look happier in old photographs.
The cupcake is more fattening when you're counting the calories.
Goodbyes are always sadder in person.
And you swallow them slowly like the painful truths they are.

You mod podged the scrapbook paper like you wanted all the religions of the world to come together. Like you wanted world peace. Like a Miss America contestant. Like you didn't understand differences and you wanted everyone to be treated the same instead of equally. But here is what you don't understand.

I circled I would prefer to leave my ethnicity unknown. Not because I'm a minority but because I'm white.

And when I painted my face to cover all the shame, you still couldn't see me for who I was.

You spoke French like a native even with that accent of yours. And I couldn't fit in with the locals even though I wanted Paris more than you did. I wanted it all. The transvestites, the dweebies, the dickheads. I wanted the memory of my face to ebb and flow with the tide.

I'm tired of hoping, of dreaming, of trying. of capitalizan.

Your lungs fill with water and death is getting off the bus to greet you and it's the last time you saw your girlfriend walk away staring you in the face.

It's the cold love of your Austrian prince. Tasted like frostbite. The pills forgotten on the counter. You shudder against his touch. He's as dead to you as the fish you fried for dinner. He wouldn't scream if you cooked his heart.

It's the unlucky love of the skater boy.
The fear of the breakup.
And the taste of

                           calories.

You said words stayed forever, but I tore up my journal like it was nothing to me.
You can take classes on how to die, but it never gets easier.
And when you told me mermaids weren't real, I told you it was all about your perspective.