moving on

pleasefindmehere died in creative writing.

i've outgrown pen names.

i continue to give the latest dirt on my dating life

and my parents continue to hate what i write.

i also feature my feminist views,

an accurate description of the eleven year old me,

god killing himself,

a picture of my fifteen year old sister,

angsty love posts swimming in bad blood,

the inability to forget jxxxx hxxxxxxx

my crush on rxxx (let's face it, who doesn't have a crush on this guy?),

summertime sadness,

another letter to ed,

and i document unhealthy relationships within my immediate family.

and i still say the "f word" more than necessary.

intrigued?

pleasefindmehere lives on at pleasefindmysummerblog.blogspot.com

and she now writes under a name you can look up in the yearbook.

currently more than twenty five posts

with a stronger voice, evolved writing style, and the familiar point of view.

sorry, i don't capitalize shit anymore. it's liberating.

love,

Lxxx Sxxxxxxxxx

ps i should go into advertising.

Looks like a Poem, Feels like a Poem

i'm tired of slipping over my words like it's ice on the driveway
and i'm tired of repeating the sentences you never said over and over in my head
like the lyrics to an overplayed song on the radio
and i'm tired of god telling me the world's going to burn

because i just want someone to tell me that tonight is alright
i can check for monsters under my bed because i won't find any there
and someone doesn't have to shine a flashlight in my head to check what's hiding in the shadows

my heart will start beating the rhythm of yours if we just get close enough to sync them
but i'm scared the itunes of your heart is lined with dubstep
and the clash of my youth lagoon playlist with your 2010 skrillex would give me a seizure

but i never went to science class because i was at the doctor's office
where i learned that the best nurses have tattoos
and the best doctors have dead daughters

i'm just remembering the days the leaves fell
and the ghosts gave in
i always heard that you can't be afraid of just words
but i was

and i'm not ashamed.

for six years i've never seen the colors
and i think it's because of these glasses i was wearing
i was choked by disappointment the same way i first let his hands on my throat
it was easier to spill the numbness in after the fear eroded

you would know i'm guilty of labeling the masses by the way they make me feel
and i can't figure some of you people out, so you go uncounted in this box with no name
but my brain thinks you're still important because i don't forget the memories

i don't know how many swear words i can get away with until they call me low class
or how many big words i have to use until they call me educated

but know i never wanted you to be like me because
i'm sick sick sick in the head and i'm sick sick sick in the heart and all the water is filling up to my chest
and my lungs are too patient and my heart is praying.

and all the words my heart can speak are these
"she's graduating god, she's graduating."
and i think he smiles and looks proud
but i can't be sure

because heaven was always made for the preps and the jocks
and i don't know if i'll ever get to meet god
but i'd ask him if rainbows are the curl of his lips and if they are i'd ask him
why he smiles upside down

i always wanted to meet my piano man
but my fingers were too slow to hear the music properly
and i couldn't tap my fingers along to the sound of your cries
'cause my heartbeat already counts down the seconds til we forget

i forget what it's like to miss you
but it doesn't stop me from tapping my heart on the shoulder every time you walk by
it doesn't stop the flashbacks of winter
or park bathrooms
but it stops the smile halfway on my face
and the butterflies' wings are sitting at the bottom of my stomach
and the acid eats away at the pretty colors

(all i wanted were all the pretty colors
you never gave me all the pretty colors)

i thought one of us would die for the hall of fame
but saying it out loud made it too real
i thought one of us would die for a shout out on nelson's blog
but all you had to do was go to rehab

Please please find me here
because all i ever wanted was someone to tell me
they understand why death is a woman
because of course she wears black stilettos

all i ever wanted was someone to tell me
they understand why blogging is like a one night stand
because my handwriting reminds me of stretchmarks and commitment

all i ever wanted was more than a handful of change in my pocket
and a cardboard kid to tell my story
because cardboard is brown and diagnoses are black and empty
like the back cover of my journal
because cardboard doesn't ask questions
because cardboard is lifeless and a virgin at that

i guess i'm telling you not to forget about the sloppy kisses

i still like the color purple better than i like the color violet
and indigo was always for the painters and art majors

i could always collect my thoughts better on a keyboard than on napkins
but maybe it's because i was finally sitting down long enough to listen

all i remember is the blood blood blood on the sidewalk
and my bones were scared to talk now that they'd seen my eyes
and brushed lips with my skin
right in front of oxygen

all i know is coke tastes better in a bottle
and the red and green of stoplights remind me of bruises
semi-colons
and slammed doors

i want a tattoo but there's too much i want my skin to say
plus i think if i wrote it all out
it'd look more like a novel

and there's billboards that claim to know if i'm going to heaven or hell
and sometimes i dial hoping god's gonna pick up the phone
but it's only a man on the other line
who doesn't know my name or my shoe size

and i hate to say i'm disappointed

but i am.

because as often as i search the clouds for a hint of his face
or breathe in the wind wondering what cologne he wears in the afternoon
i never know where to look for his voice

but i heard it in the titanic sinking and the impromptu happy birthday
i heard it when harold miner talked to me at the assembly about choices
two years ago at the pulpit of a funeral
in the life and verbs of alis priddy
i heard it in grace kelly when she told me to drag out the days and give voice to the i love you's
i heard it in my sister when she said she lived for a reason
in the jumble of letters i plastered into my smashbook
when i reread a letter from god that fell between the cracks
i heard it
i heard it
i heard it

and he hears me.

Talk Talk Talk

You tell me I talk too much.

I do.

I'm scared that if I stop

I won't be able to start again.

My sister is not home yet.

The trees look like bones tonight.
But you, darling, you look alright.

Let's pretend procrastination is a metaphor for perfectionism and let's match up the bass to your heartbeat and then. Maybe then. We'll find it.

We'll find the "jumping for joy" behind the shooting star and self-destruction in ten percent of Johnny Mac's matches and we'll write a book about the recipe for a tragic flaw. Because I've never written a best-seller, but baby, I've read them. Consumed them like candy with too much shoving and not enough savoring.

I'm just tired of this diet of "days well spent" and florescent lighting.
I'm scared of looking for truth behind the emotion in your voice and hearing the truth first and the sarcasm second.
Because I've spent the last seven days puking and the last three days questioning God and four wondering if life is all it is cracked up to be.

And I always wanted to be a mermaid, even after I figured out mermaids didn't "exist." Because neither did the first black President or the first female President or the backspace key. I'm living on a diet of pure imagination and I can't tell you much about the health benefits, but I can tell you about the stomach ache.

And happiness was never supposed to be flirting with sadness, but she got knocked up and out came nostalgia. And he stayed for the baby blues, the couple fell in love, and they named their second daughter "Bittersweet." And the father doesn't beg for money, he begs for moments.

And I've already given the family too much of my time.

Things that explain me.

Hi my name is pleasefindmehere.
My name is Lxxx Sxxxxxxxx.
My name is Daughter.
Sister.
Eating disorder.
Half smile.
Slut.
Bitch.
Chronic illness.
Tennis captain.
Fat girl. Skinny girl.
Mormon. Not-so Mormon.
Writer. Not-so writer.
Dazed and confused.
Eighteen-years-old.

If you really knew me, you would know that I'm self destructive. I spend day after day staring change in the face daring myself to confront him. I spend day after day making characters of every object in my life, but that doesn't mean I know them any better.

I'm five foot two (and a half). You'd know that I love my height. And I look away when I get weighed at the doctor's office.
I'm like the sun. I'm quiet on those quiet mornings. I'm bright on those bright mornings.
But I'm better suited for Seattle.
Because most mornings I don't want to get out of bed.

I've liked Jxxxx Hxxxxxxx ever since sophomore year. He won me over when he took me to a basketball game when my sister was in the hospital. You would know why my sister was in the hospital. You would know he is my favorite person to kiss and I still have his phone number memorized. I would tell you right now but I don't think he would like that very much.

You would know that my favorite color is red, but my favorite color to wear is black.

You would know my favorite book is "The Solitude of Prime Numbers," my fifteen-year-old sister still does my makeup for me, and I met my best friend when she stole my boyfriend. I use this fact to reassure myself that I'm forgiving. But seven times seventy equals 490 in my calculator and I can only count up to a hundred.

I cried for hours at that debate tournament because Cxxxxx Rxxxxxxx sent a forward about me. And Jxxxx Bxxxx was responsible for cheering me up because he was the person who finally decided to tell me about it, two months after the fact. And I wondered why I never could figure out the comments in the commons.

You would know the story of my first kiss, why Monopoly reminds me of hurricane season, and that I have posters of Rafa Nadal in my room. I bought the Shakira "Gypsy" music video just so I could watch him over and over again. And my opinion on his autobiography is although his book gives some insight to why he is so humble, it is poorly written.

You would know what happened October 30, 2010. February 26, 2012. March 9, 2014.

You would have seen me cry at least once.

We wouldn't talk about Tylenol, because I cringe every time someone says it. But you would offer me mints instead of gum because you'd look out for my jaw.

You would remember I saw Orlando Bloom outside a coffee shop in London, Johnny Depp is my celeb crush, and I gave Cxxxxx Cxxxxxx a kiss in exchange for a root beer flavored popsicle in preschool. We'd talk about how I got deported from London at age twelve and how I read a book in one day at the same age to impress Sxxxxxxx Mxxxxxxxx.

You would know that my therapist's name is Sxxxxx and my mom's name is Axx.

And the latter has read all of my blog posts and liked only one.

You would not doubt that I am a Broncos fan because you have heard me complain about missing half their games last year and question their draft grade on the SportsCenter Special. They got a C-.

You would know that I now get nauseous whenever a beer commercial comes on ESPN, "With or Without You" is playing at my wedding reception, and I only tell myself I'm not getting married because I don't want to be disappointed.

You'd know that I delete each of these paragraphs only to type something eerily similar. The best posts come from drafts on my cell phone. And CAPSLOCK scares the living hell out of me.

The last time I was sick, I watched four hours' worth of SportsCenter and two tennis matches. I used to think that raindrops were God's tears on my shoulders and a rainbow meant that he was feeling better. I still show my legs even with the stretch marks in my ears like fireworks. The last time I played Truth or Dare in a hot tub no one even kissed anybody! And I'm afraid afraid afraid of being average.

My name is Lxxx Sxxxxxxxx.
I get attached really easy and Axxxxx Txxxxxx told me I was mysterious.
I shaved my head and I probably mentioned it in my blog posts 873 times.
But really, all I am looking for is a boy who can talk NFL with me
tell me the difference between "then" and "than"
and tell me I'm special.
Because I am a girl who wore a mouse on her head for the film festival.
And I don't want to be told I'm just like everyone else.

I remember everything but the why.

I can't remember a lot of the important things. I can't remember the first time I bore my testimony or when I first doubted God and his opinions. I can't remember how many tennis tournaments I played the summer I was sixteen or even how many finals I made, ending up with the second place trophy. I remember I've never won a tournament.

But no matter how hard I try, I can't remember how many shoes I wore through. The number of friends I told before I disappeared or the ones that had to ask my mom where I went. I don't even remember what we agreed her response should be. All I know is she gave a different response than I was expecting.

I can't remember the names of all the boys I've kissed, but I know the number.

I can't remember how old I was when I learned to tie my shoes or why I needed to know so badly anyways. Because my Converse never get any wear out of them anymore.

But I remember the first person who called me a "bitch." It was on the phone in eighth grade. She was the only one fighting. I didn't even know what I was supposed to be fighting about.

I remember the smell of him and the color of the blanket. The mouse in my hair. Trying to keep a straight face. Seeing him in the hallway and crying in Spanish, and the teacher excusing me to go to the bathroom to wash my face. The phone charger she let me borrow. The days I made up reasons to stay afterschool and see teachers and sit in the hall because I didn't want to go home just yet. My mom thought I was seeing a boy. Roah's eye.

I remember when my boyfriend told me a girl had showed him a video of me "masturbating" in seminary. We were passing the library. I remember asking myself why kids had to be so mean.

I remember my first A-. Fourth term of my junior year. Physical education. I couldn't make up enough participation points. I cried in my car, but was too proud to ask the teacher to change my grade. My second A- was the same term.

I remember all the different days I've swam in my clothes. Her hating my hair no matter how I did it. Blocking her sister's view so she couldn't see the couple making out in the back of the movie theatre. Curling my hair before football games. The smell of my car. His car. Her car. The way his fingers touched my skin. Hating the kids who said they liked high school. Truth or Dare and Spin the Bottle.

I remember my second grade teacher. At the parent teacher conference, she told my mom that I had written the word "bum" in my journal. I had written, "My sister can't walk. She scoots around on her bum." She talked about how she found it to be offensive. I was too scared to write anything personal in my journal after that.

I remember when we were doing an art project that required one of us to trace another girl's body. There was silence for several minutes. The silence got louder and louder and louder. None of us wanted to volunteer. We hated our bodies too much. It was at an eating disorder clinic.

I remember coming home late. Twenty-two hours late.

I remember saying "no" a thousand times and the first time I said yes. The colors I saw behind my eyelids after staring into the sun. Talking talking talking just to get the words out. Trying to write in treatment but the techs always looking over my shoulder. Sophomores at McDonald's the night of prom offering weed and driving away. All the questions I couldn't answer. Doing my sister's homework even though she was mad at me. Watching home videos and asking myself where that little girl went.

I remember writing a note saying "I like you" to Zach Murdoch in seventh grade. My friends told me to use messy handwriting so it wouldn't look like I tried too hard. Because of the messy handwriting, he didn't believe it was me.

I remember when I rear-ended somebody in front of the school and never told my parents about it.

I remember the headaches, the doctors, the appointments, the drives, the endless not-knowing. The key that came off the keyboard. The labels and wanting one. Being asked if I kissed Landon Hanneman at a party and desperately wanting to say yes. The smell of unwashed bodies at the hospital. Throwing up in the shower. Wishing I was dead. Dreaming I only had twenty-four hours left. The girl tackled in front of me. Talking talking talking. Telling them to shut up.

My first memory is when my sister was born. No, I don't remember seeing the baby. All I remember is going over to my neighbor's house while my dad rushed my mom out the door and absentmindedly eating a McDonald's kid's meal in front of the television. I watched Fox and the Hound.

I remember my first kiss. He later texted my friend and told her how terrible it was. I read the texts the following Monday at her house. Swore I would never leave the house again and hid in her closet.

I remember my last kiss.

I remember the recurring dreams of being pushed down the stairs. Posting pictures on Facebook without makeup and not needing hashtags. Dunking my head in a bowl of ice three times in a row. Feeling like a celebrity when Jacksonville was mentioned in Twilight. Bringing in sharks' teeth when I moved here for "Show and Tell." The weird looks that should have been looks of worship. The memories I can't stop. Looking for the right cord that connects the camera to the computer. Breaking a glass and getting spanked.

I remember hearing my friend was suicidal that Sunday night. It didn't matter I'd been contemplating suicide since eighth grade. I didn't tell her that. My mom drove me over to her house. We had picked out flowers and her favorite brand of protein bars. I wrote her a note too. The envelope was pink.

I remember seeing my red hair in the sink.

I remember seeing that Nelson wrote a blog post about me. I was so proud I showed my sister. And my mom. And my dad.

I remember saying "no" to a wedding proposal in preschool. The nickname "feminazi" because of my feminist views in debate class. Wanting to sleep in the school gym before I graduated. The long blonde hair on all of my black coats. Throwing up in the Timberline bathroom and going back to class like nothing had happened. Dreams that plastic bags were the only thing that could save us. Telling everyone black was my favorite color and loving their reactions more than the color itself.

I remember the hole in the wall and walking to Savannah's house. The police calling my cell phone.

I remember my mom used to write notes on my napkins and put a handful of Hershey's kisses in my home lunches. Sometimes I would use the paper towels Mr. G left on the table instead of smearing my mom's words.

I remember when I slipped on the juice and fell in the lunchroom. The tray went flying. Spaghetti on the floor, marinara on my shirt. The laughter just like in the movies.

I remember the printer. Being proud that I had a copy machine at my house. Sleeping all day and staying up all night. The taste of the water at different friends' houses. Getting my car taken away for a month. Finally learning how to illegally download music. Reading and rereading blog posts because they never seemed complete.

I remember when my little sister first visited me at Center for Change. She told me this place looked like Dr. Phil behind the scenes. She had a lot of suggestions. She said that this would be a lot more exciting if they had a "Celebrity Day" every month. More pictures on the walls. Televisions in the visiting rooms "to make it more homey." I had to tell her I couldn't come to Lagoon, and she asked if it made a difference if we took a doctor with us.

I remember hearing about Brandon over the pulpit in sacrament meeting.

I remember writing a page in the book he inspired. I left a lot out. Some parts my mom didn't want me to say and some parts I didn't want to admit to myself yet.

I remember hitting the backspace bar at least twenty times on each of these paragraphs.

I remember he would pick the mascara off my eyelashes and she would use the word "chunk" like it was a compliment. Laughing because I got the award for "best dreads." The smell of the chlorine in the bathroom. When I dropped the dog on the stairs and my dad twisted my arm back and yelled at me.

I remember when I first moved here and realizing how dry it was. My knuckles bled when my grandpa held my hand and I prayed he wouldn't notice. The smell of cigarette smoke making me nauseous. The red button and the recording and the screaming.  Dry heaving into the pink bins. The plastic bags. Counting the dents in my walls.

I remember Mother's Day. And how I always wanted to reschedule the day for happier times.

Blackout.

Beauty sucks her thumb. Knows her mother saw. 

She looked trying to make up the time she lost chasing want.

You said no.

You had to know sometimes I felt like I had no choice too.

I worked so hard.

A mistake was a brain-dead accessory. 

Shapes in the trash can.

Whispering adjusted this afternoon.

Not thinking sooner.

Few establish heaven.

They point, look, and carry everything above them.

I can't stand to watch this anymore.

I'm gonna reach the street, the window.

Would you mind showing me where you left?

His hands just ran outside for a second.

So where is the stop?

The man stared blankly into eyes.

I used to.

Teach me how to laugh again.
Because I swear I can remember if you just teach me how.
The ABC's didn't come out right the first fifty times I sang it.
Because LMNOP were five letters instead of one.
Because the boys never knew how to ask me to dance.
Because I never knew what constituted 0 and 1.

Because I wasn't always this way.

I used to believe in yellow.
That the rainbow was named after a man who went by Roy G Biv.
Because I used to think the world was flat and I knew better than to jump.
Because I used to believe in a god.
In Santa Claus, punishment without a cause, and fairy dust.
Because I used to believe that fairy dust and sparkles were the same thing.
That Tinker Bell and the Tooth Fairy were cousins.
Because I used to believe in a world where sex was taboo.
Where the only boy who mattered was the one who taught you to tie your shoes.
Because I used to believe that hatred could move mountains the same way that faith could.
Because I used to believe red enough shoes could make kids fly.

I used to.

But it doesn't matter what I used to believe because the past doesn't make us who we are any more than the future does.

Because 1 + 1 will always equal 2.
And you will laugh at the eighties has-beens while you spend half your morning contemplating what you used to do.
Because brown was ugly no matter the day.
But you're more scared of hearing what your boss will say.

Because you swore that jealousy and envy were never the same thing, only sisters.
Because you'll praise your worn out jeans before you'll applaud the new ones.
Sorry you're not different from anyone else, hon.

But when he asked if I knew you, I just smiled that sad smile and said I used to.
Just like with everything else.

Some nights. A filler post.

This is how to have a night to remember.

And no, it doesn't involve sex. It doesn't involve concerts.

1. Be impulsive.
I'm not saying you have to go skinny dipping. But you do have to go swimming in a pond in your boxers.

2. Stop worrying about gas.
Drive. Drive to McDonald's. Meet random boys in the parking lot. Leave. Drive back because you forgot to say goodbye properly.

3. Try something new.
And then get violent when Deseret Industries decides to stop selling tapes.

4. Do something illegal.
Speed. #drugfree Get caught. Complain about it.

5. Look up terrible jokes on the Internet.
My favorites: Why was six afraid of seven? Because seven was a well known six offender.
So this guy with a premature ejaculation problem comes out of nowhere.
A blind man walks into a bar. And a chair. And a table.

6. Try to understand Greg Hardy.
One reporter asked about him dominating the Falcons offense with sacks. He said, “I dominated breakfast when I woke up so I don’t know what you’re talking about! I dominate everything I do. That’s a silly question… next question.” Then a reporter asked what he had for breakfast he replied, “Cereal…I killed it…. No spoon!”

Below: Introducing himself as Kraken from Hogwarts.

7. Spend a few hours at Barnes and Noble.
Read half the book sitting between the aisles.

8. Flirt with the most attractive cashier at Walmart.
Ask him the next time he's working. Yeah still got it.

9. Write a how-to post about something you know nothing about.

Intro to jealousy.

I cross my t's and dot my i's because people told me to in preschool.
And I swear and drink coffee because people tell me I shouldn't.

There's an itch in my throat and I'm blaming it for the coughing, but really I'm coughing because the words are painful coming up.

I wasn't always this way.

I became Axxxxx at seven years old because that's when I overheard that "Lxxx" was only a nickname. And nicknames have a reputation for telling half-truths.

i used to let the waves carry me as i floated on my back.
and the swells played with my hair and the fish laughed and i waited for the mermaids to start calling my name.
but the music never came.
and sometimes i wonder if it was because i wasn't listening hard enough.
or because i wore the wrong kind of swimsuit.

I'm jealous of the moon because she doesn't have freckles on her shoulders and I relate to the sun because everyone sees him, but no one stares.

Be careful with me because I learned to ride a bicycle when I turned seven. Be careful with me because all of the medication I used to film was my own. Be careful with me because it's 12:03 pm and I'm talking about second chances already.

I am jealous because I can hear your heartbeat better than I can hear my own and I don't know if that means that we aren't created equal, but I know better than to presume my bones are firewood and the world is in need of a martyr.

I only cut a couple times. But when they were charting my list of scars, they would always look over the scars that mattered. They looked too hard at the effects without taking into consideration the causes. My heart is netted in scar tissue and suffocating in duct tape.

I've never known consciousness without pressing the snooze button, but I still wear white underwear bluffing innocence.

I'm jealous of your jacket because it tastes your smell as only as I do and it brushes your skin so often it forgets how electric the first touch was.

I'm jealous of the waves because they crash, but they don't burn.
They kiss but they don't tell.
They love but they don't linger.

I'm jealous of the computer keys for how often they get fingered.

I was afraid of it. Afraid you would know your laptop's screen better than you knew the scar on my cheek or the taste of my skin.

Jealous is wanting to be the cigarette because of how it briefly clings to your lips even though she's later dropped as if those minutes you held her between your fingers meant nothing. I want to be your addiction. But smokers take new cigarettes from new packages. Smokers do not pick the same cigarette off the cement. We all want to be lit on fire sometimes.

Jealous is wanting to be the newspaper just for a moment. Because telling you my story isn't the same as you reading the headlines hacked into my heart. Because I'm trying to tell you so many things with my hands that my brain isn't capable of forming into words. That my mouth won't let me speak for fear of retribution. The two are waging a war against the other and my heart chooses not to get involved. My heart claims she's Switzerland.

But jealousy was never green. Because green is not a creative color. And don't tell me jealousy doesn't know how to tell a story.

She couldn't remember what the sun felt like on her skin.

But she didn't miss it.

 Because she had been burnt.

Pieces of Me: Everything Reminds Me of You

There's a piece of me I left in your bed along with the dirty socks and bare skin.
A piece I exfoliated in the shower. The skin in the razor. Blood stains on your jeans. A piece chopped off along with my red hair.
(You liked my long hair.)
An innocence I left at the beach along with simple sandcastles and salty eyes.
A piece left in Key West along with my favorite pair of flip flops. (We could never sustain a relationship for long. We're too different. You like dry heat.)
You can find pieces of me in the purple sidewalk chalk.
Purple was my favorite color before black became so damn alluring. (You're so damn alluring.)
Sore arms and sunburnt shoulders.
Baby fat lost along the boulevard of broken dreams.

You write me letters. You tell me they're letters to a girl you love. You tell me you thought of me every day since last summer. You tell me you're happy that we lost it together. Only to tell me that you don't think of me as anything more than a friend. You tell me we should just be friends. So I don't get hurt. So I'm not sad you lead on other girls. So I'm not sad.

Well shit I'm already sad.

There's a piece of me I lost the first time we kissed in your grandma's basement. I tried to get it back yesterday, but sitting on the same couch, I realized I am not the same person I was two years ago.

There's a piece of me that broke yesterday. You keep breaking pieces of me until there's nothing left untouched. And I don't care if you're reading this. And I don't care if you feel guilty. You break me. You snap my bones as easily as toothpicks. As if you like hearing me curse you under my breath as proof of the pain. You're a goddamned sadist.

I've liked you since sophomore year. And I don't care if "like" is a stupid verb. While "like" is stupid, "love" is scary.

There's a piece of me that faded with my first hickey.
In the pen drawings my mom could never scrub off the backseat.
A piece that left along with my hearing as a side effect of the loud music we used to medicate our thoughts.
In the first time I stole my parents' car.

The years in between the first time I skipped lunch and the first time I ate it at school. Sophomore year, I ate it with you. I wanted to seem "normal." So I bought the sandwich but I never finished it.

In the first lie I ever told.
The time I took two stickers instead of one at the end of class. The accompanying guilt. Returned the second sticker to the teacher the next day.
The first time I heard the word "suicide."
The first time I contemplated suicide at twelve years old. (It was before I met you.)

There's a lost piece when I left in the middle of third period today because I couldn't take the noise any longer. (And you sucked at comforting me and that's a fact.)

A piece with the first boy that called me fat in third grade.
My first stretch mark. My first stretch mark in weight restoration.
The first boy that called me beautiful and meant it.

(When's the last time you called me pretty instead of other girls ugly? When's the last time you called me attractive while you complimented all these other girls instead?)

There's a piece that broke when you cheated on me with my old best friend.
(I was never good at these on-again, off-again relationships. I just crave some fucking consistency.)

The first time I was diagnosed with depression.
The first time I was medicated.
The first time I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder.
My first migraine.
The first time I purged. My friend taught me.
My first
My first
My first.

Are there any pieces of me left?

This isn't a love story. Not really.

This is a fucking rant.

Him.

And you're the one who blew up the balloons in one breath just to show me how long you could hold your breath, even though it was your heart I was after, you innocent little fool. I knew you were cheating on me with oxygen and you planned to breathe her until the day I died, but I hoped you would forget her and breathe me instead. And so with your balloon, you tied the knot. With effort, you tied that balloon to a string and that string to a chair, and you told me your breath could carry me over the oceans.

And looking back, you shouldn't have left me over the ocean all alone. If I had it my way, you would have dreamt me up a pair of wings to slip from my broken mind, but I would have flown too close to the sun in my haste to taste the salt on my lips and try an entree of freedom at the nearest cafe. I was too curious and too nonsensical. I always wondered if clouds danced when we were too busy practicing arithmetic and cursive. You should have kissed me with your lips that made me feel closer to flying than I feel waiting in security in the airport. And your lips were always too soft. And your hands always held me too loosely. As if handed a five dollar bill, your grip would have given way in search of something more solid.

Either way I would have fallen. Not in spite of you but because of you.

There's lots missing in this world. The memory of God pushing us into the pool to teach us how to swim. A good recipe for apple pie. The sound of a jar breaking as the waves break. But neither "sink" or "swim" are five letter words and I'm more scared of evens than I am of odds. I never was a mathematician but I think I'm better suited to be a Playgirl, who has to know 69 and 70 but never has to count them.

You're my little saltwater beauty but you're too sound to play with the waves
and the wind picks you up like you're a plastic bag.
You compete with the ocean because she wants you to sway with the seaweed
and you sink like a rock.
But the wind takes you because you breathe to her your secrets.
But even she recognizes that's not a halo and you don't have wings.

I never loved you because you were perfect.

You told me you like limes but you wont eat them without sugar. You told me you like girls but I never wanted to test if you would fuck them without makeup. You tell me you like your life plain and simple, but you don't even use plain cream cheese on your blueberry bagel. You didn't like your girls plain. And I was scared I was too plain and at the same time too complicated. You tell me you want to settle down in Norway and live overseas. Why can't you be content with catching fish one day at a time? Why couldn't you be content with our lost summer? With our space camp? Mornings in Alpine, nights in Montana. When the world was no bigger than your room and forever lasted only as long as curfew. Your car has more paint than rust and I forgave you for that because you've been on more roadtrips than flights.

You pushed and pushed and pushed me away and I kept giving and giving until there was nothing left to give.

I'm a lobster in boiling water and they're slowly turning up the heat but I'm too busy admiring the view from your hot tub. I'm aware my insides are cooking. I just want one last look at the trees.

He didn't want me but he didn't want me to forget him.

I'm falling all over again and he's reopening the cuts that were just beginning to heal over so nicely. The kind of scars you trace over gently with your fingertips when you're not aware of it.

But when your knife cuts, it's a beautiful, dizzying pain. Like getting sick from riding a roller coaster. I feel the cold metal pressing against my wrist. It's the anticipation of the pain I like.

You knew you couldn't contain me on a lawn chair floating over the ocean. You knew I was reckless and senseless and I was going to jump. You know I like the sensation of falling, but I don't like being dropped. The emptiness where your arms once were. Sleepless nights and memories rehashed, cycling through my head like the same repetitive load of laundry. I know you're going to drop me, but the highs are worth it. And I'm so addicted to your highs.

Just kiss me already.

Dead Flowers

I like dead flowers. I have one vase in my room from the hospital and two from my birthday and one from my grandma and another from a lady in my ward, along with a pile of letters that only mean something when I read them aloud.

The little prince told me there was nothing sad about empty shells, about lonely husks. He was wrong, but I can't find Asteroid B-612 to tell him so.

There's something sad about

• imaginary friends that moved to Idaho.
• old yearbooks.
• deleting phone numbers of people you no longer talk to.
• the music on iTunes you listened to in gradeschool.
• loose change.
• the packed up toys in my basement.
• reflecting.

The flowers probably find it offensive. I don't bury them and I certainly don't mark their graves. I don't even throw them away so they can be reunited with their sisters at the landfill and I do not leave them in peace. I stare at their corpses. Are they screaming at me to respect the dead? Or are they flattered I find them enchanting, even when their looks have faded? No matter how hard I strain my ears, the silence is too loud and I can't hear their voices. It's a little morbid and a little poetic and something my parents don't understand.

Throw away the deflated balloons.

Throw away the candy wrappers. 

The old post-it notes.

The reminders.

The price tags. 

The receipts. 

The regrets.

Let it go. You're getting nothing out of reciting the same poem to yourself over and over again if you aren't hearing the words. 

But I'm a record that's scratched and repeats the same three notes over and over again.

I'm a pet mouse, stuck in its cage, spinning in its wheel at night trying to find its way to Paris.

I'm trying to write a novel out of blog posts.

I'm trying to bury my heart in the clouds and my brain beneath a peach tree so I can better hear my bones.

I'm trying to boil some water in a tea pot that no longer sings.

I'm trying to kiss some toads in the process of finding my prince and I'm scared of contracting herpes from all these warts.

I tell my teachers I can't get to school on time because of the nightmares and I told Beckstrand that I don't want to come to class because we're talking about abuse.

And here we go again. "I, I, I..."

And my friend says, "You're so brave..."

But I'm still running on this treadmill headed nowhere and I'm using Monopoly money to buy my gas.

And the man at the register gave me one sad look and took it.

And I don't know what reality is anymore or if Tuesday is the 4th or 16th because I'm reliving my birthday this morning. "Congratulations. You can legally make porn."

And I'm frying something plastic because taste doesn't mean a thing to me anymore.

And I prayed to God for the first time in months because I was scared of driving home by myself and I realize again how selfish selfish selfish I am.

Because I picked the flowers knowing they would die on my desk. And I did it anyway.

Disclaimer: I did not write this poem.

(I didn't feel like I could find a picture to top this.)

The Madness Vase

Andrea Gibson

The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables,
said if I could get down thirteen turnips each day
I would be grounded, rooted.
Said my head would not keep flying away to where the darkness lives.

The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight,
said for twenty dollars she’d tell me what to do.
I handed her the twenty and she said, “Stop worrying, darling,
you will find a good man soon.”

The first psycho-therapist said I should spend three hours a day
sitting in a dark closet with my eyes closed and my ears plugged.
I tried it once but couldn’t stop thinking
about how gay it was to be sitting in the closet.

The yogi told me to stretch everything but the truth, 
said focus on the out breath,
said everyone finds happiness
if they can care more about what they can give
than what they get.

The pharmacist said Klonopin, Lamictal, Lithium, Xanax.

The doctor said an antipsychotic might help me forget
what the trauma said.

The trauma said, “Don’t write this poem.
Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.”

But my bones said, “Tyler Clementi dove into the Hudson River
convinced he was entirely alone.”

My bones said, “Write the poems.”

Reasons for jealousy

• The title.
• The images the words paint in your head.
• The format.
• Straightforwardness. Honesty. Genuineness.
• The concept of bones talking.
• The relatability factor (and yes I made up that term)  #breakthrough
• It talks about real issues.
• It's both depressing and inspiring.
• The line about how gay she felt sitting in a closet. Lol.
• It talks about dark issues without making you feel hopeless.
• The first paragraph. 
• The last line here (it's not really the end of the poem).

Journal Entry Swag

150 calories per page.

It started with a story: "You can say many things without using a word."

Jump

It's time to take your medicine.

#don'tdodrugs

Pictures on their Skin

A hat can be a good dancing partner. It never gets tired and it never trips.

Who decided on the definition of nature?

When I hear about the hamsters that eat their babies, and then my mom threatens to kick me out... It all makes sense. And black widows eat their partners after sex... How many girls feed their exes to the rumors? Who says the flowers aren't talking or we're not listening?

Who decided that nature was something lonely in the mountains and not the amount of cuss words it took until you were satisfied? Who decided that nature was defined by interactions between all wild animals... except the way you scream at your mom and she screams back? Who decided that nature was hitting rocks together to make fire instead of using a lighter and gasoline? Why can't we go back to the cavemen days when nature called hairy legs sexy regardless of the gender?

Is it human nature to remember or human nature to forget?

To bite fingernails when anxiety creeps in? Singing along to the radio? Getting high? Popping knuckles? Wishing on stars? Candles? Clocks? Praying to God?

I think about falling in love like God's limiting your oxygen intake bit by bit and then you find an oxygen mask. Like you're drowning so slowly you weren't even aware of it until he pulled you out of the water, and love was your lifesaver. You held onto love as it pulled you to shore, but love let go and allowed you to flail in the water just long enough to teach you to swim on your own. But you crave love because your legs and arms are so damn tired of treading water. Love is a strange thing.

And humans loved each other even if she liked her coffee too sweet and the lamplight was too dim when they were counting their imperfections.

I hear about how the moon resents the American flag sticking out of her skin.

The birds and bees resent being linked together and whoever the idiot was that linked the two of them to sex. It's not symbolic.

And the cat resents whoever stole her pajamas.

Here's to the rain that never forms the shape of cats and dogs, but tries her little heart out. Here's to the crickets that try to break the silence, but only serve to enhance the awkwardness. Here's to the little birds who are forever trying to tell us something. Here's to the cats still in their bags.

I hear about how humans tend to fall in love. And humans tend to misinterpret lust as love. Because hair can be nice if it's on a chest or a face but not if that chest or face happens to belong to a girl. And goats have rectangular pupils if you look close enough.

And we're redefining nature. Because nature is an ingrown toenail. Indigestion. Popping pills. Sidewalk chalk. Rollie pollie ollies and their scientific name. Solubility. Americans who have tried more diets than sex partners. Stubbing your toe. First kisses. The exercise bike in your extra room upstairs. Counting calories and slowing your heart rate. And I said we're redefining nature. Because we might have been looking close before, but now we're looking closer. Nature is looking close enough.

The Pond

No white trash please.
And no black trash either.

Thank you God for the whites. For his pearly whites. For the hollow white of disappointment. For the expectant white. For the white of a letter sealed with spit and a postage stamp.

The bathroom stalls here are all too familiar. Tips for the future: Arrange a hookup in the men's bathroom instead of the women's. I have a strict "don't ask, don't tell" policy. And no, it isn't because I disagree with Obama or I agree with Clinton or I wouldn't wrestle a boy. It's because I'm standing on a tightrope and two words will push me off, and I'm afraid of what side I'll land on.

There's a dead fish floating on the surface of the pond. But this isn't an open casket viewing. Onlookers slow the rhythm of their footsteps, but not one stops. Throw food at me, but not coins, cuz I could preach and preach, but I couldn't move one of them to place flowers on the grave.

My Bones Told Me

People tell me I'm smart. But I don't understand the Space Camp prompt.

But I can tell you this. I want to be the kind of good that doesn't go away.

My bones told me I was fragile, but I didn't want to believe them. I didn't want them to tell me that I couldn't jump off buildings or I couldn't touch my toes. I didn't want them to tell me I wasn't invincible. And with all 206 of their voices competing for attention, the silence too loud, my lungs couldn't distinguish what was necessity, what was want, and what was a cry for help... And I still couldn't find the courage to pray to God.

My heart told me it was breakable. And I still didn't want to believe it even after I broke it myself.

My eyes told me that navy will never be the new black. That we all worship the 80's for their music, but we don't appreciate the 60's nearly enough.

My skin told me that it hurts from all the words I never say out loud. They told me, "Confidence looks real good on you, but you've never been able to shed society's expectations. You've never been able to get to the second skin." The expectations of the 9 to 5 job. The 9 to 5 job with the 12 to 5 body. I wanted to have it all, and then some.

I swear I'm living, but I've never laughed until I've cried. I've never bought those cheap rings in the gumball machines for 25 cents. I don't know if falling in love at fifteen counts with God, or if not being able to say "no" equals love, weakness, or something in between. I've never fully convinced myself of the brokenness of the human race. No matter how many times I tried.

I wanted to go to debate camp to learn how to say "fuck you" politely. But I think I learned it on my own.

Yellow.

For all this talk of wanting to be found, there are points in my life when I desperately want to get lost.

And Nelson, you told me not to write a post about death in light of what's happened. But Nelson, I just can't get it off of my mind. Maybe I have to write in order to gather my thoughts. To sort them into nice, neat little categories before I can push them aside to the remote corners of my brain. But these categories are hard to label. The taste of charcoal. The smell of the yellow walls. Incoherent. Asking for water. Asking for water. Throwing up. Looking for love on the whiteboard because of the nurses' promises, and staring at the <3 for what it was instead of a pain management goal.

Because I was the Titanic and Monday was just another unassuming iceberg floating along in the Atlantic.

What came first? Learning the "F word" or forgetting how to share? Earning my stripes or my stretch marks? Screwing boys or scaring you shitless? I didn't start swearing because I have a small vocabulary. I started swearing because I have a large vocabulary, and swear words are an additional ten.

Eyes don't tell you near as much about a person as their skin. How much they're showing and how much they're not showing. And my pants kept slipping down and my gown slid off my shoulders, but I was too sick to care.

Yellow was the color of my hospital room. Yellow was the color they painted the walls in the name of no more suicide attempts. The color of the bins at UNI. The hat. The suicide note I should have written. Trapped.

White was the color of the flowers my grandparents sent. The color of my face. The color of the Tylenol.

Green was the color my grandparents wore when they flew from Colorado to visit me for my birthday.That night they told me they would love me no matter what. That night my grandma hushed my grandpa for talking too loud in "a place like this." The color of the courtyard, barred in. Birthday money.

Blue. The bruising from the IV's. The scrubs. Waking up in the hospital on my eighteenth birthday.

Pink was the color of the bins at Primary Children's. The first suicide note I wrote. The shirt my aunt sent.

Black was the color of the charcoal. The color of the pills rising to the surface. The color of the druggies' words they spit. Drug references, suicide references.

God's given me a second chance. But all I can think about is what I've done with the first chance. Hope was the water before the fall. The shout before the break. God tells me to marry the light, but the darkness is still so alluring. Even though I've learned Death's a bitch when she gets close. She's seductive as hell from a distance, and when she's got you in a committed relationship with no way out, she takes off her makeup, she takes off her heels, she forgets. She forgets you only fell for her because you were chasing a mirage. Her lips bruise your throat with the faintest touch.

I can't tell you a lot about what Death is, but I can tell you a lot about what Death is not. Death is not kind. Death is not a peaceful way to go. Death is not yellow, but I learned she is not all black either. Death is not feminine with her hands wrapped delicately around your throat, but Death is definitely a woman. Death is not satisfied by a suicide attempt.

I don't know a lot of things. I don't know why I'm waiting for God's number to appear on my contact list. I don't know why Warren Buffet keeps offering his billion dollars when he knows no one will submit the perfect draw. I don't know why we have two hearts or why one heart beats out of my chest in response to my other heart or why we cry over spilt milk. I don't know why I keep asking bones questions expecting an answer or why they answer in question format. I don't know why the sky is blue or why the sun is yellow or why I see colors instead of black and white. I don't know why you're stuck in my dreams and I don't know why I wake up wishing you would get the fuck out of my head. Because they're such pleasant nightmares.

And the world was ending, and no one cared. And we found indifference one blank stare at a time. But I couldn't remove my doubts far enough from my mind to achieve the same blank stare. But I tried.

Maybe everything I write is meant to be depressing. Maybe those neon painted fingernails are really stars and every time she pounds the keyboard, she's making her world go round. She's interspersing sex and dying with the sounds of laughter and she doesn't know any other way to survive. Maybe she likes to be surprised by her smile. Maybe she likes to be surprised at the little things.

And swallowing those pills still didn't teach her who would show up at her funeral.

Dear Eating Disorder

Hi my name is hope.

Dear Ed,

One of the girls at Center for Change sang "Gravity" by Sara Bareilles for the talent show. She said that it described her relationship with you best, and so last weekend, I played that song over and over again. The part talking about how she felt so strong in your arms, even though you loved her because she was fragile. Then you took even that fragile strength she had. About coming back to you and it never taking long. I can relate so much when I want nothing more but to be in your gravity, even though you keep me down. 

I feel like you and I are the definition of a love-hate relationship. I've written this letter so many times, both in my head and on paper, and I only wrote the negative aspects. I tried to convince myself that there was no reason I ever fell for you in the first place. I never wrote about the longing. You know all the physical shit already. I lost my bone density, especially in my jaw, fucked up my kidneys, lowered my blood pressure, my body temperature, lost my hair... My immune system was weak. My arms and legs were numb all the time due to poor blood circulation. You shot my self esteem and my self worth. The migraines. Increased my isolation and obsessive thoughts, lowered my ability to concentrate, increased my depression, increased my fatigue off the charts, etc, etc, etc. Increased, increased, increased. I was dependent on you.

I turned to you because you were safe when I feared rejection, but you only heightened those fears. I turned to you to feel worthwhile, but as soon as a skinnier girl walked into the room, I might as well have been worthless. Your voice was then in my head: "You didn't restrict enough today. You can't eat anything else for the rest of the night. You have to eat less tomorrow. 200 calories. I don't care if you burn calories or not. You will never be good enough if you keep messing up. Your body will never look as good as hers unless you get your act together. Purge, for God's sake. Binge to numb it all out. If you're fat, you're better off dead." You told me you offered protection and safety, and as long as I didn't eat, I was comforted. It didn't matter if I committed all seven of the deadly sins if I was thin. If I had no friends, because I was thin. If I couldn't play tennis anymore because of the health complications that came with Ed. Thin became my identity. But you gave me expectations I could never reach and always left me feeling "never good enough." For you, let alone anyone else. You took the role of the manipulative boyfriend, and you told me to get rid of my friends to make room for you. And I did because I trusted you. Because I love you.

And I still love you even though you betray me. Even though you punish me and guilt trip me and control me and lie to me. And even though I know that your words are nothing but lies... When you say that skinny will make me invincible and skinny will make me happy and skinny is salvation, I believe it every single time. Those small highs were the most addictive drug in the world. And even though you told me that I should kill myself rather than weigh over 115 lbs, than go through weight restoration, yesterday there I was begging for you back. You are the epitome of I can't live with you and I can't live without you. And you're knocking on my door, especially when I get told I can avoid crying in the dressing room if I was just a few sizes smaller again. And I don't know how to be strong enough to turn away from you, to resist you, to say no over and over again... Because your sex is so divine, kid.

But I want to. I want to remember how wrong I was to ever include you in my life, on my knees begging for you back over and over and over again no matter how many times you told me I was worthless. No matter how many times you told me I should be ashamed of living. But I hate how you make me feel special, regardless of how many girls in the US have eating disorders. Regardless of how many girls have their own versions of you sitting on their laps and regardless of how many other girls you're sleeping with. You. You encouraged me to look at pro anna or pro mia websites until I never wanted to eat again. But you gave me mixed messages. Because as soon as I messed up with that carb or that dessert, you told me to binge. Binge until it was painful to cram more food down my throat. Numb it all out. And then continue to punish myself with the purging. And the point was not to get caught. But if my mom said I was lying about purging, you'd like me to do it in front of her right then. Prove my love for you in the most disturbing way possible. You're the type of person who never knows what you want. Because when I can barely walk a mile because of the fatigue, it isn't you. But when I lose weight, you want all the credit in the world. 

I was eight when you started coming onto me, you pedophile. I swore off treats, then snacks, and eventually told everyone I was gluten-free to avoid excessive calories. You convinced me food's only purpose was to fatten me up. Truth: I had a session with Lauren where she tried to convince me sauces and spreads would not make me gain more weight than other foods. And we tried talking through it rationally, but there's nothing rational about you. You told me that if I was skinny, my mom would accept me. Because my mom never accepted her own body. And then I developed other coping skills that worked just as well as you did. *Sarcasm. And you convinced me boys only wanted me because I weighed under a hundred pounds, and now you're in my head telling me that boys never want the fat girl. But I don't have to believe your lies because you're jealous I left. I changed for the better and it's you who stayed the same. 

Rehab was hell. I was never alone. I could not go to the bathroom without a tech listening with the door cracked. But if you had certain precautions, the door was open, and they had to watch me from the corner of their eye. They had to flush the toilet for me. Supervise me washing my hands, brushing my teeth. I could not drop a pea on the ground without getting supplemented with boost or getting a single pea replaced from the kitchen. Could only have a certain number of boosts a week or you were phase dropped. Two boost refusals and it was the feeding tube. And it hurts to think that was my reality for so long, because none of you will ever understand what it is like eating a bite of your fear foods and having the whole table congratulate you afterwards. Or cheering for the girls who finally lost their feeding tubes by eating a couple snacks. Or watching the runners get tackled. And you ask why I'm still having trouble adjusting.

I used to be so sure that I was better off without you. I used to feel so empowered. I thought that I had coping skills. And even though they didn't give me the highs that you did, they didn't give me the lows that you did either. I know I deserve better than you. But slowly, I'm crawling back...

Love,

Lxxx

P.S. Watch this. It's a dance video about addiction. It gives me chills.