Yes, Master

I wish it was like the movies.
I wish everything meant what I thought it meant. Maybe then all the things that romantic comedies have taught me would come to use, other than during trivia games. All the signals that I think are saying stop mean go and I keep going straight in the "left turn only" lane. I wish I could say what I mean. And even though I tell you that everything is ok, I really want to yell at you for ruining every chance I have. I would cry a lot more, and laugh at bad grammar. Some days I wouldn't participate in unintelligent conversation, and sometimes I wouldn't speak at all. But my silence would be viewed as rudeness, and my lack of words stupidity. I wish I had the courage for ultimatums. I wish risks paid off and all heartbreaks are just misunderstandings, to be sorted out through astronomical means. I wish there was a soundtrack that warned me of murderers under my bed and when he's about to kiss me.
But instead I'm always wrong, and my instincts mean absolutely nothing. I don't understand boys, and  I don't understand girls. I don't even understand why I choose to stay home on a Saturday night. I think it's because I need a break. I need a break from guessing what you're thinking and resisting the urge to punch people.
But then I see Jesse Schow at a pizza place in Salt Lake and he spins me around. Then I spend time with my family, who let me be exactly who I am even if it involves dancing to "Big and Chunky" and seeing who can make the ugliest face (it's me, I can). And then I get this hopeful feeling because High School politics actually mean nothing and I am the only one who, with God by my side, decides my fate.
So sorry, but screw it all.
-M

What I do in Newspaper....

Please Ignore the Previous Post

And look at these beautiful pictures.

There is something extraordinary about an absence of color.

There is something incredible about the ability we have to see such detail in flecks of black and white and grey. But no matter how fine the sharpness is, there is always a small sense of wonder. How green is the grass and what color is her shirt? And then the real question: Does it even matter?

No. I don't think it does.

 

It May As Well All End Now.

High School

She wishes he would notice her,

That her eyelash would land on his hand,

And he would be forced to look into her eye.

But this is high school.

This is nervous glances

At the social chains binding her feet.

This is that moment

When fantasy becomes tainted with reality

And all dreams are censored by

Strangers with black over their eyes.

This is wishing she could stop stuttering,

And finish a sentence that actually has meaning.

This is high school.

This is forgetting that everyone is crying on the inside

And lying on the outside.

This is trying to shape her body

Into this mold that tells her how to smile

And how to hold hands,

And how to love.

This is wishing on numbers

That life will turn out like the fairytales

And worrying her husband will stop

Wanting to kiss her lips.

And every second that goes by

Is chipping away at the small light

Hidden behind her breasts.

Because her heart hasn't even broken yet.

This is too many forevers and not enough goodbyes.

Watching inside jokes from the outside,

And getting wasted

By the constant waves of emotion

That puberty hasn't taught her to deal with.

This is thinking this poem is only for her.

This is remembering that it isn't.

But then forgetting that everyone else is clinging

To this utter reality

As soon as gossip emerges from the depths of the halls,

And eyes begin to do circles in their sockets.

This is words and phrases and sentences

Camouflaged as solid color.

Just green, just blue, just grey.

Just another girl.

This is laughing

At health-class-lingo,

And secretly wishing that she knew someone on drugs,

So she could feel older than 16.

This is high school.

This is insomniacs who spend their money

On sleeping pills and playboys.

This is "I won't tell"s

And she won't tell either.

This is high school.

This is thinking love is lust,

And laughing in the face of sanctity.

This is clothes strewn across the floor,

And tears shed for sweet nothings.

This is first kisses,

And wishing someone would call her beautiful.

This is religion shoving a cloth down her throat.

Taking her away her happiness,

And her chances at life.

This is her ignorance.

This is her own hand around the washcloth.

This is high school.

This is the melting pot,

Where every lie she's been told,

Like that she can't have a radical on the bottom of a fraction

And she can never start a sentence with "because"

Collides with the facts about life, and sex, and what it means to be free.

This is begging him not to cry,

And discovering that sometimes she can't stop.

This is small scale politics,

That replaces the need for hydrogen bombs.

And this, this is where she learns.

This is learning that love has nothing to do with romance,

And everything to do with the smile

Of a small child and a baby's first words.

This is pretending that there is a deeper meaning,

And that her art represents something.

This is high school.

This is giddy laughs and broken sobs.

This is her hand grazing his and it not mattering.

This is how it starts, and how it ends.

This is all she gets.

This is how she becomes

Who she will one day wish she wasn't.