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.

Confession Time

And maybe you'll never see this because I'm typing this up on a Saturday night.

The typist came back from the computer lab with no results. The keyboards are jammed.The ink went dry days ago. And the words are stuck. I stole all the words and I have no intention of giving them up. You open and close your mouths and all that comes out is air.

 Like fish gasping for oxygen, flopping around on the deck. Hooked to the pole. Poor fools. #sorrynotsorry

Are you skimming this over? Are you reading this waiting for the big reveal? Or are you telling me that what I have to say is important? Are you validating my emotions like my therapist? The one who doesn't let me alone unless I commit to safety. Eff that.

Let me write you a love poem. But all the words I can think of would cut you like knives and I don't know if that's what you had in mind. And your cuts look too fresh to endure that kind of reopening. I'm not saying you're not strong, I'm just saying you're not strong enough yet. You have to tear the muscle fibers beefore they build up bigger.

Are you listening? Are you reading? Are you waiting to hear why the crazy bald girl had to go away? My hair has grown out, you know. It's almost two inches long. Like the average boy's. And I like it that way.

I tried to peel open my head, you know. Like an onion. #foodtalk The Mad Hatter told me the gears in my head are what need fixing, like a clock. Spread on more butter. Shmear on the jelly. You won't ever get better that way. We're all mad here. Technically this place is called a psych hospital. 

Someone gave me a paintbrush, and I didn't know what to do with it. I told them I wasn't creative and they quoted Van Gogh to me. Someone like that. Ended up with yellow stains on my sleeve and no paint on the paper. And I hate yellow.

Someone gave me a piece of paper. And a pencil. But the pencil didn't represent commitment like I thought it would. And the eraser overpowered my weak apologies.

All those days, those months, and I still haven't figured out how to say it. I tried to tell my eleven year old sister why I had to go away, and she asked me when I'd be back. I didn't know what to tell her. Why meal times were so strict. Why I cried when I had to eat the trailmix. Why I wasn't allowed to have shoelaces. Sharps. Glass containers. Why I couldn't go in my room by myself.

  

Here it is: We're both drowning in the Pacific. Maybe the Antarctic, but the cold would kill us first. I'm a weaker swimmer to begin with. I'm more vulnerable than you are, and I pretend like it's what I want.

Problem: I like drowning. I'm trying to breathe all this water through my lungs. Right now I'm dying, and I'm trying to figure out if I hate dying enough to choose to live instead.

I am in treatment for my eating disorder.  That's for you suckers who didn't read the whole thing.

Now the words are out and my hands are trying to grab them back half heartedly, but they cling to your clothing like campfire smoke. Reputation. Shame. A bad joke. 

I wanted to be real. Real like the media pretends to be.

I tried to pray to God, but I couldn't talk religion in the dining hall. 

The truth is I'm scared to see you all again.

No, I'm not just talking about this class. I'm talking about the school. Lone Peak. 

Scared I'm not going to measure up to that picture you hung up on the wall, to that picture you point to in the yearbook. Scared with all the layers peeled off, I'm not going to look as pretty as you thought. And this is a confession.

I'm scared I can only be this brave on the computer. Behind a pen name, even though you all know the girl behind the mask.

And maybe you'll never see this because I'm writing this up on a Saturday night.

PS Don't tell my therapist because I wasn't supposed to be social networking yet.

Nelson, I Didn't Know How to Say it

Dear Nelson,

I wanted to say goodbye, but I didn't know how. I didn't know how to say those words with a smile glued on my face. Smiling like I was happy to go.

I don't know how to use the art of small talk effectively. I didn't know how to talk about the weather when I wanted to talk about heaven. I didn't know how to pretend that I wasn't scared.

I didn't know how to tell you how much this class meant without sounding like a kiss ass. Without telling you I wanted an A to hang on the refrigerator. I didn't know how to say I like writing. Without sounding like I was fishing for compliments.

I didn't know how to hold back the tears... Without wanting you to tell me it was okay to cry.
I didn't know how to hold back the tears without letting a few fall. Because the truth is, I'm scared of change.

I'm scared of the unknown. Of the hurt behind your scar. Of the person behind the mask. The number behind the variable. The punchline behind the joke.

I'm scared of smashing the spider in the locker room. Because I don't want God to kill me so thoughtlessly. I don't want God to crush me under his shoe. I don't want him to consider my life as meaningless. The meaningless life we grant the ant or the mosquito.

I'm scared of oblivion. I'm scared that if I am remembered, it will be for the wrong reasons. As the girl who shaved her head. As the girl who went away for a while. As the girl who couldn't get over her boyfriend.

I'm scared that you hate my favorite song. That every time you hear my favorite lyrics, you're laughing.
That you're making fun of this post.

I'm scared to say I'll miss this. I'll miss typing out the words that hurt to read. The words that make my mom cry, and not in a good way.

I'm scared to say "I'm scared." Out loud.

I'm scared to admit that it hurt when my mom cried last night. When she took one look at me and broke down. When she was cringing as I chopped off my hair.

It hurts when she says that I don't have feelings, that I'm cold. That I don't love her. That I don't care. But it's easier to pretend she's right. My feelings are uglier laid out on the kitchen table next to the centerpiece. My feelings aren't the bright colors that make up the rainbow or lead you to the pot of gold. They're the green-grays, and the purple-blacks.

I'm scared of pen. Of making mistakes. Of permanent marker. Of permanent things.

I gave her the razor but I didn't give her permission. I held my breath instead of saying "no." I'm sorry I told you to leave when I wanted you to stay, but don't think this whole letter is an apology.

I clicked "publish" when I wanted to click "publish." I should have touched "save." But the words wouldn't come to my head in enough time and God told me He wasn't ready for me to make those kind of decisions. Those impulsive ones.

And I did anyways.

I'm sorry if you hate my hair. If you hate my taste in music. My laugh.

Because I want to be one of the kids you remember for something good.

Love,
Me

Bricks and Bloodstains

Dear Life,

I can't decide whether you look better broken. I mean this as a compliment, you know.
I'm too afraid of cutting open my fingers on your sharp edges. On your shattered picture frames. I sliced open my fingertip with the page of the last year's yearbook. The page where someone wrote "bitch" next to my picture.

They lied. You're the devil. I'm too scared to put you back together.

If my fingers melt along with the super glue... People will know I'm trying. And it's more acceptable to pretend that I don't care where you're taking me. That I don't care about my grades or what college will accept my A- in physical education.

Let me tell you something. The newer brick houses aren't worth much to anyone. They're not the same quality of bricks. New bricks aren't photographed in black and white. It's the ones who have held up their walls for a hundred years. Those are the ones who have been through your snowstorms, your hurricanes, your floods. The shame, the graffiti, the abuse. The bricks that belong to the mature part of the city. The mature part of your heart that knows love is overrated.

It doesn't matter how long I stay here. How long it is before I give way. Before my walls crumble and my structure deteriorates. Before even the ghosts call me haunted.

Because no matter how long I stay, the rains will keep beating on the tin roof. The icicles will hang from the eaves. The cold and the dampness will find the unlocked windows. The bricks will be worn down time and time again. The water will weather the stones and the wind will erode your promises.

Mommy told me to stay strong. She told me that she's sending me away so I can get better.

But if I'm fixed... If my walls are mended, if the broken window is repaired, if the new door is refitted, people won't pay as much attention to me. When your house has been remodeled, you don't spend any more time investigating the cracks hidden beneath the new coat of paint. The reason for the draft. Your story has no value anymore. You're simply a survivor.

And I'm a house that's in the renovation process. The longer the cabinets take to get here, the longer you'll look. The longer you'll notice.

And when you're done, you'll admire my new roof. You'll say that I look "as good as new."

But this isn't the real me. You buried the real me beneath the charming new wallpaper and the unfamiliar carpet. You hid me beneath the facade. I felt more myself with the blood stains in the rug and the chipped paint. The wall nicked where it made contact with your Android. But the cell phone didn't break.

I broke instead. And maybe that was preferable. All you cared about was the cracked screen. Well you can still dial the fucking phone, so why do you care so much about appearance?

The cracked screen with its dried blood. But it wasn't the phone that was bleeding. It was me.

And the blood stains your vintage wallpaper from the inside out, so you plaster on more and more wallpaper to hide the hurt. But you still don't see that my heart is broken and my mouth is fixed shut with your cheery wallpaper. The plaster stops me from smiling, from speaking, from crying.

There's new bricks. The chipped ones, the scars... All were taken off the exterior and carelessly thrown into the church dumpster.

I fucking hate wallpaper.

Love,
Me

For You's Bedtime Story

This is "For You."

This is a love story.

Sometimes, he felt he would have preferred to leave this place. It didn't matter if you were a prince of a forgotten city in the middle of nowhere. His parents' faces were fading fast from his memory, and he couldn't quite recall what he was meant to do. To be. None of the aristocrats expected anything from the young man except that he wait at his golden castle until it killed him. He always felt like he was supposed to be something more than the boy peeking out from the front window and looking over his kingdom.

In this small town, everyone had their own agenda. The planets gathered around him at all the parties, but nobody ever came close. The other stars always insisted on having lunch at their place, and frankly, they were a little too high maitenance for him anyways. He would never be the biggest star in Hollywood, so he stuck to his corner of the universe.

He felt a little lost. He felt a little misunderstood.

The only resident with whom he could identify was an older man named Pluto. Ever since he had an affair with that asteroid, his title of "planet" was removed as was custom, and he spent the rest of his life an outcast. The two kept in touch, but even the Sun was apprehensive to get too close.

And then he saw Luna. That subtly feminine glow. They way she smiled in the darkness.

And the way she looked at him invited the prince to come closer.

The way she saw the potential of the human race. They way she said man's footsteps on her skin felt like a message from God. Her breakup with Earth, how he had called her cold and pockmarked. Scarred. How she had never felt loved the same way since.

The way she bit her lip when she was concentrating. The way she sobbed when she watched the Holocaust from above. The way she still painted with color. The way she painted with red and it didn't remind her of blood.

Her lips quivered when she was stuck in a crowd. She preferred to be hidden in the background... Unless it was night and she could comfort the lost children looking to the sky for help. He tried to make her laugh because he thought it was the prettiest sound he'd ever heard. The way she couldn't breathe when she laughed too hard. The way she wrote poetry.

And the way he felt so confident that he would make a difference. When he didn't realize all that he already did. His charisma. The way his laugh lit up a little something inside everyone. The way he wasn't scared to die. How he made her feel more exquisite than anything else in the solar system.

The way he listened to life. The way he wasn't afraid of breaking the rules. When he kissed every blemish, every imperfection on her skin and told her he loved her. The rebellious side. How he held her hand when she cried. The time he told her why. Why, why, why.

She shivered at his touch, even though she had never felt so warm.

And when they kissed, another star was born.

Affairs with Death Herself

You: The majority of college students can't afford therapy.

And how many serial killers are born in college?

Him: My name is Antoine. This is a confession.

Yes, I shot her.

Liked the look of fear in her eyes, to be honest. 

See, I was having an affair with Death. She is a beautiful girl, don't get me wrong, but yellow is NOT her color. There's a reason you always see her wearing black.

Each bullet I shot was a "How are you" question mark. Exclamation point. 

And she answered me with the death count in the newspaper.

Strangulation was the best compliment I could think of. 

And the dreams she filled my head with let me know that she understood.

Poison confessed the name of the last girl I loved. I slipped the powder into her drink and knew I was ready to give her up. I watched Anna's eyes close for the last time, and I kissed her forehead. Even though I knew it would cause an argument in the morning.

When Life and Death argued which of the two held the most influence, she wouldn't let me get involved. See, they disagreed whether it was more valuable to give birth to life or prevent life. But they did agree that humankind was one of God's most pitied experiments.

I wasn't offended.

She didn't count me among the humans.

Two weeks ago, I penciled my latest kill into my notebook, then I tore out the page and threw the crumpled confession into the fire where she could never be recovered.

I saw Death smile at this declaration of my love. I saw her tear up and reach for my hand. Don't tell me I didn't, because I SAW it.

I know there's not a heaven. There's too many stories about it for it to be anything more than a bedtime story. The type used to reassure kids they'll see their mommy again someday. I don't think so. It isn't that easy. The truth is something you have to make a concentrated effort to find.

I told her I wasn't afraid to die. That didn't mean I was ready.

Yes, she filled my head with fantasies about what it would mean when we were finally together. Yes, I hung myself. Yes, it hurt like all the bedtime stories tell you it doesn't. And then a numbness crept over me like sleep.

No one kills themselves because they want to die. They kill themselves desperate for the pain to stop. I wanted to know what it felt like when you couldn't feel. When your nerves were so damaged, feeling was no longer possible.

Wanted to know if Death was peaceful like she whispered to me over and over. I wanted to know if she had a fake profile on that Internet dating site. If she was who she said she was. How much botox she'd had done, and if she really looked alright for being old as dust. Literally. I'd always had a bit of a thing for older women.

When I hung myself, I wanted to know what kind of words that translated to. I wanted to tell her I loved her in words meaningful enough.

Wanted to know if the "kiss" of Death was all it was cracked up to be.

I'll be honest. I think I liked kissing Anna better. 

I liked feeling warm lips better than cold lips on my throat.
I liked talking without all the fucking metaphors.

Think I liked loving more than I liked being loved.

Think I liked Death when she was a concept rather than the chick sleeping next to me.

I should've dated Life instead. Death is the uglier twin, and I like red hair better than black.

I think regrets mean less when you're living and more when you're dead.

And how do I tell her this now?

You: Is that all you would like to confess?