Reasons you would make a great brick.

If brick had a human face, it would look like yours...

• I could tell you my whole life story and you would stand there wearing the same face as when you came in.
• You stare at the same spot for a long time, just noticing. You tell me that when you draw, you look at the detail. Bricks see detail.
• You've never been an A+ swimmer. 
• I never forgot when you punched Brian in the fourth grade. Everyone said he deserved it, but I never quite understood. I did see the black eye the following Friday.
• You're real quiet. Not in a bad way. You think too hard about what you say before you say it, like your words are limited. 
• You're a city boy. Your footsteps add to the history, your heart beating the time. You belong. You may not be noticeable, but it's how you walk like a Paris local that made me fall for you in the first place.
• You're reliable. You say you're there for me, and you don't even move a step.
• You build people up. 
• You're concrete, something real to focus on. You told me once you don't believe in the abstract or in idealism. I don't think you believe in a lot of "isms." You believe in the here and now.
• You're unique. No one has your same pockmarked cheek, the same scar on your arm from when you were a kid. But sometimes, you try to bury the scars under your layers of t shirts and hoodies. Even the past is offended by the fact you're always hiding her away.
• People pick at you and pick at you and call you a "faggot," but you're still standing. You'll last centuries, but even those comments leave their dents.
• You always looked strong underneath those baggy clothes.
• You were her starting point. Her first friend. And bricks start up from ground zero.

Try, try, try again.

My fingernails are biting the palm of my hand. The skin breaks. Blood. 

Blood stains the bricks.

The bricks can't take it anymore. The bricks watch the beggars with their hands outstretched for spare change. Bricks see the cutters, carefully pulling their shirt sleeves down, concealing the way they slowly tattoo their bodies. Bricks see those starving themselves with something to prove. Bricks see the little kids who know Daddy is not coming back. Bricks see the hopeless, the desperate swearing to end their lives when they get home. 

Bricks break eventually.

And the mayor turns his attention to the government building on the verge of collapse. Has it taken down.. Rebuilt with new bricks.

Because that is always the answer.

So basically, I'm a 6 year old that swears.

First day of high school tomorrow. What the hell was I thinking? I went to school to register and I saw the sophomores over there like "nom nom nom..." Kids are roaming the halls like it's a completely normal thing to do during class. And the librarian did not want to give me my books until the computer system was up and running.

Today I cried in the dressing room again. And I cried when I left treatment today for the last time. I'm leaking. Like a broken pipe. Like a water bottle you left in your backpack. Like like like.

Reasons I'm still six years old:

• I like to color.
• I like chocolate milk.
• My mom makes my snacks for me.
• I am picky picky picky about my foods touching.
• I can't cartwheel.
• I look for yellow cars everywhere I go.
• When I think about my "first day of school," I swear I'm not sleeping tonight. Even though I woke up late for the first day of my senior year. I never said it had to make sense.
• I miss my imaginary friend.

And I keep beating myself up even though Nelson told me to carry my crayons with me wherever I went.

You, you tourist.. You that won't ever read this. You're the one who will tell me I'm not innocent enough to be six anymore. And you're right. You. You're the life of the party but you're too afraid of opening up anything but a bottle of beer. BTdubs, your friend messaged me on Facebook last night telling me you'd been thinking about me. Lies. And I was upset with all these intrusive memories of you. The day we sluffed seminary and kissed the whole time in the park. The times you told me I was never as pretty as the girls you hung out with. The night we... And it all shoved past my careful wrought-iron gates. Those ones which I had ordered specifically after you. After you had broken down the cement walls, the brick enclosure, and stumbled blindly, effortlessly into my heart. I was too broke to order anything else. Well friends with benefits after relationships never do work, dear... That's why I'm back to building. Erecting more gates. Ha. Erect. Guess I'm not a six year old anymore.

I saw you at the dance last week, yeah you that commented on my blogpost telling me we'd find each other. I know who you are. And when I stopped dancing and looked behind me, I saw you. We even made eye contact, which was kind of a big deal for me. And I'm sorry I stared. Listen, I tried to catch your eye, thinking if you looked long enough, you'd see. "Maybe you were looking, but you weren't really seeing." But it's my insides you'd recognize.

And if you see a girl with a shock of blonde hair that looks like she knows where she's going, but doesn't want to go there... please be nice to her.

Ten bucks that's me.

How to Kiss

I don't know why I'm writing this. Maybe it's because I had Starbucks with Grace Kelly and I wanted to brag about it. #thisisnotametaphor Maybe it's because the sun set and now depression is settling in like a housewife watching reruns of Downtown Abbey on Sunday afternoon. And even though people say I can "call them anytime," I'm too scared to reach out with these arms that want so much more than words words words.

And I'm chilled to the bone. The world looks dark when I finally get out of bed and glance out the window. The headlights are blinding. And I keep telling myself I'm so sad.

And the printer keeps printing on those lazy days. And when it stops, it says "Load printer with plain white paper, then press okay." But why does the paper have to be plain? And why does the paper have to be white? Because when I'm printing those wedding announcements on red paper, red stands for sin sin sin. The color of paper has a hell of a lot of responsibility.

And we all know I had a Britney moment. You can even search that shit on Facebook. But if Britney survived 2007, you can wake up without pressing the snooze button this morning. Or so the story goes.

Depression has strangled you over the years, but he lets go sporadically enough that you're still living. Sometimes you call him "dipshit" for short, just to make yourself feel better. Even though your clever nickname isn't that much shorter than the diagnosis itself. You're trying so hard. You're doing everything Ashleigh tells you to. You're spending hours a day working on all of those therapeutic assignments. You're grabbing at your throat gasping for air. You're writing a book no one's reading. You're singing a song called love love love but you skim over the title like you skim your milk. And you tell yourself the calories aren't worth it. And people tell you to start writing a new book halfway through. Start over your life story. To start singing a new song when you've just started belting out the chorus, shitfaced singing karaoke at the bar. But it isn't that easy. Load the printer, press okay. Press alignment page face down on the copier, press okay. Repeat: It is not that easy.

Shit shit I started to write this about how to kiss. But I got so distracted.

She leans in. You lean in. And you fucking kiss her.

I'm so sorry.

letters never sent.

(Lololololol dying. Whatever the hell you quote, make sure you do it on vintage wallpaper.)

Dear you, you, and you,

I never thought I would send you a letter before I texted you back. Before I called. Before we had another conversation. Note: This is not a conversation. I am doing all the talking, and whether you listen or not, there is no room for any more interruptions. 

What I remember about you: skin skin skin skin. Sweat. I have starved myself. I have cut myself. But I strangled my heart in the chase for your collarbones and it cut deeper than my razor.

And it's one of those days where you listen to the music of the broken dishes. And when you write reminders on your lover's hand, you're caught looking at blurred ink the next day on your throat.. This is what the romance novels call passion, porn calls S&M, and the police call abuse.

I'm not asking you to leave God behind. I'm asking you to purchase a plane ticket. I'm not asking you to stop gambling with death or her sisters. I'm asking you to wear sunscreen. I'm not asking you to swear that you love me. To remember me when you and your old bones' reality is getting out of bed in the morning alone. Regret. That's one thing. Forget. That's another.

I was afraid of my temper. And the day I hit you, you hit me back. And my mind screamed "WRONG," but my mouth threaded itself shut without a needle, and my tongue was stuck with all the heaviness of a lead weight.

They told me I wasn't loud enough. I wasn't crazy enough. I wasn't spontaneous enough. I wasn't funny enough. I wasn't pretty enough. I couldn't keep your attention long enough. I was too annoying. I talked too much. I tried too hard. I was too quiet. I was too nice. I was too easy. I was too much of a doormat. I was too "good." I was too much of a slut. I wouldn't have sex. I would have sex. I was too naive. I was too dark. I was too fat. I was too scarred. I was too broken. I had too many problems. I was too crazy in the bedroom. I was too angry all the time. I was too depressed. I was too much of a feminist. I was too needy. I didn't text enough. I could never hang out enough. I was too opinionated. I was too insecure. I was too much. I was too little. I didn't have enough friends. I didn't wear the right clothes. I didn't do my hair. I didn't "fit in" with his friends. I didn't do this. I didn't do that. I WAS NEVER FUCKING ENOUGH FOR HIM. HIM. OR HIM. OR HIM. HIM. HIM. HIM. HIM. HIM. I'm a fucking contradiction, apparently.

Caution: For God's sake, this is a park. Pick up after your brain. Climb a tree and don't mind how you fell to the top before you reached the bottom.

And when we died, I went to hell and you went to heaven. And no matter how many notes I stuck in the suggestions box, you didn't join me any more than I joined you. Final judgment is real shit, "final" and all that.

I should go to the hospital and deliver speeches. Words of wisdom. To the babes barely hatched from their eggs hours ago, newly delivered from the stork's nest. "You'll hear it's a 'dog eat dog' world out there. But they're preparing you for the wrong shit. It's a 'death eat human eat human' paradise, then perhaps some pretty puppy as a bedtime snack." Perhaps they'll one day realize the metaphorical significance of it all.

And in the end, I was love and I was reckless, and I was against you and the rest of the world. You were lust and I was determined, and no matter how much I wanted the jock or the hipster or the druggie or the _________, you drowned in your superficiality when it was sink or swim. I was the afterthought.

and if you ask me why i swear, i'll tell you i'm one of those "typewriter people." 

P.S. My sister asked me why she didn't get any sugar to help the medicine go down. I told her we had to prepare ourselves for different kinds of medicine.

My mother is a republican: Updates from rehab

Dear dear dear,

I sleep with a ski jacket on, three extra blankets, and I've asked for permission to pull my bed away from the window. I still wake up in the middle of the night with my feet cold.

I sleep with a CPAP mask and I look like an elephant. Accidentally wrap the cord around my neck in my sleep and get woken by the night staff. I once thought that love is someone waking up in the middle of the night to check to see if you're still breathing. Like my mom does when I sleep at home. I decided the keyword is waking up to check. Love is not the night staff.

Yesterday I told my mom I missed her, and you can never love somebody as much as you miss them. And the boys cried wolf for the thousandth time, the lights went out, and I couldn't think of any more excuses. My throat hurts from all the words I should have said, but didn't. The sentences are sliding down my throat like unchewed noodles and the exclamation points are stuck. Like a lump in my throat from all the crying I didn't do in group, but should have. What does it mean to be real?

Because sometimes I miss being able to relate to someone in the "real" world.
"I went to school today."
"Yeah.. Well.. I went to rehab. Celebrated five months today. Someone accused me of purging and I don't think my therapist believes I'm telling the truth. Sometimes I want to cry."
"Congratulations." Like it was my birthday or something.

Confession: I used to be afraid of the word "rehab." Like it was worse than the word "treatment" or something. Like it meant you needed more help than the rest of 'em. Now I'm afraid that I've become rehab. I'm afraid that the puzzle piece that was me no longer fits into the puzzle that was home. That was the world. I'm afraid that I'm better off stuck in a facility. I'm afraid of going home.

Sometimes I get tired of the lesbian girls talking about sex. I get tired of the straight girls talking about sex. I'm tired of telling Johnny to stop making penises out of his play-doh. I'm tired of having to answer the question of whether I'm bisexual or not. I really don't know what it would mean to say yes.

The graffiti in the bathroom is really world class. It says "my ass itches" and "#soberliving" in pen on the wall of the smaller stall. Maybe the sex-obsessed girls forget their pens on their way to the potty.

I wrote on myself and they called it self-harm. I cried and they congratulated me for opening up and feeling emotion. I wanted to throw open the windows. I forgot they don't open. For safety reasons.

Happily Ever After: I used to say that marriage was legalized slavery, but I'm not sure if I said that to get a reaction or because I really believed it. I was scared when girls talked about finding their big hunk and dragging him off to the altar. I was scared of all the cliche chick flicks about finding love and living out the fairy tale. I was scared I wanted the same thing. Look at how broken this porcelain doll is. Look at all these cracks she's had to glue together. She may be a doll, but she sure as hell ain't a Barbie.

This is about pen and pencil, crossing things out, and running out of things to say. This is about saying "I'm fine." Which is no longer an acceptable answer to any question. This is about crying in the bathroom because you feel lonelier surrounded by people than all by yourself. This is about apologies, and how there's either too many or not enough, or they're not sincere, or wanting to cry.

SHIT this is about wanting to make up words like Dr. Seuss but you can't figure out what you want them to rhyme with. This is what it feels like to be stuck on flypaper. This is about swearing when you're not supposed to. And calling it poetic license. This is loneliness. This is bullshit. This is hate. This is love. This is real on a page that is always trying too hard for too long and not thinking of any pretty metaphors. This is about wanting to look up shirts that say "zero is not a size" but getting too triggered by all the pro anna pictures saying "eat less." Not fucking kidding.

I wear my brain on my sleeve, but my heart on my forehead, so I always know what I'm thinking, but I never know what I'm feeling. And everyone else can see my anxiety plastered there above my eyebrows. And when my heart breaks, the blood pools, dripping into my eyes, and I'm blinded.

I ran and ran and ran, but when I turned to look behind me, the knife was still there along with the bottle of pills.

"And how do you feel about that?"

The last time someone left, they wouldn't let me give her a hug.

PS Listen to "Rehab" by Amy Winehouse.

Zero is Not a Size. Zero is Hardly a Number.

And you try on your boyfriend like he is the last pair of jeans in the store. Desperate to walk out of there with a pair of pants in the shopping bag. Desperate to fit like he is the brand you idolize and you don't want to settle for some American Eagle shit. But no matter how hard you try, he's too loose in the thighs and too snug in the hips... And you hold your breath to button him on.

But when he's into rock, you're into indie. And when he wants to go out for Thai, you'd rather stay in and watch reruns of __________, ordering the nearest Domino's Pizza. You want to be the party girl, but secretly you'd rather sit by the train tracks and draw, even though you never were into drawing. Or go to the coffee shop and write in your notebook, using your dark coffee as inspiration. Because you're too hipster for caramel machiatto and too hipster still for Starbucks. You're the queen of misfits.

But you're too scared to try on that kind of boyfriend. Shop in those kind of stores. You'd rather stick to your True Religions and your Big Stars, even when American Society for $40 at Nordstrom is your soul mate. Or the old, worn Levi's you found in the thrift store. The jeans they sell in Wet Seal, God forbid. Or maybe you should model those Hudsons that fit like a second skin. You'd rather pretend you're a size two and skip breakfast and lunch instead of trying on the size four just to see. But your Miss Me's are trying just as hard as you are. Listen up. Stop trying to be something you're not. Stop trying to wear the brand everyone else is. And know that you aren't held back by a number...

_______ (pronounced ___-____) love- I don't have to tell you wearers out there it runs a little small. And you feel exclusive just because you have a skinny ass, but that's all your boyfriend values too. If you were anorexic, he wouldn't tell you to eat. Not because he doesn't care, but because he likes you just the way you are. And you told me that he's the love of your life because he "accepts" you. Just the same way you swear off cheese and nuts, counting fat grams the way others count calories. Although Vogue tells you that's how you earn heaven, you're caught in the hellfire. You taste like disintegration (not the Cure album) and you're digging out your grave with a plastic spoon from the cafeteria where you watched everyone eat but you. You reek of mints and cheap perfume. And even though I don't use hashtags often, you know I'm speaking truth.

Jolt love = Low maintenance love. You watch YouTube videos together all night and can't keep your eyes open in the daylight, but at least he keeps you laughing. There are some people you're meant to fall in love with and some people that push you off the diving board before you were ready to jump for yourself. There are some times that you want chili dogs and some times that you want chili fries. I love you more than I hate you, but Ed is still holding me back. You're the reflection of romance and the reflection of tragedy. I thought I was "letting myself go" but maybe I was letting myself be.

 Let's riot. Let's run away and form our own society. Ever since zero was the new two, I never hated myself more. And I was the size zero. Let's cut out all the sizes and base them on your figure. Size 14 could be called " classic hourglass" instead. Instead of realism, I choose idealism, and don't tell me I am being naive. When I cut just to see myself bleed, I didn't intend for him to judge me as if I was goth Barbie. There are some things you are meant to judge and some things you are meant only to see.

Life doesn't score you like golf. You don't get ahead by wearing a smaller size than par indicates. Than society determines. Life doesn't score you like football. If you wear a size seven, you don't get that touchdown sewn into your stars. And life doesn't score you based on a point system. Ten points for dating the star quarterback. Five points for dating the hippie. Zero if you can't keep a boyfriend and you sleep around. Minus five you haven't lost your virginity by your thirtieth birthday.

Somedays I wonder if I'm being heard. Or if I still have to cut off all my hair for some attention.