An Apology.

I'm sorry I haven't been around lately.

It's not you, it isn't even me. It's just time passing and people getting old and hair turning gray. 
Or in my case black.

I'm trying to stop apologizing for everything I do. But I'm sorry, I really am.

I'm stuck in this limbo between good and evil. wrong and write. youth and maturity. And the seam that God hastily stitched down my middle is beginning to tear. 
17-year-old girls aren't meant to be the subject of tug-of-wars.
But in this state of unrest I found you, love. I found you and this time you took everything and you scare the hell out of me. Never let me go. Never let them take me. 
"You have to choose," says the devil and angel tells me I'm running out of time now.
The fools.
 I'll choose you every time.

Because me and you...me and you just are. Like we were supposed to be.
You love me even when I'm stubborn. You love me without make up on. You love me in silence and you even love me in darkness. And I think that's pretty damn beautiful.




I've never jumped off a cliff this high.
Isn't it thrilling?

He kissed me when I was in the middle of a sentence and that is all that matters.

M

I bet you guys don't even miss me.

Shut up and tell the truth already

Well hey, world wide web. Not sure if you are reading this, or even can read for that matter, but hey, anyway.
I'm not sure if I actually have anything to say, but I just started typing, so this should be fun, right?
I think I want to talk to you about strangers. Not the kind who lose their puppies, like, every day. I want to talk about the kind that you meet and know are going to be there for a while, whether you like it or not. No, not like Wow I sense a strong connection and our auras are probable complimentary colors. I mean like Well you're dating my mom so.... 
But here's the thing: I really do want to talk about them, but I have absolutely nothing to say. Get back to me in 8-10 months.

There's also celebrities. They're strangers, right? Even though I feel like I know them. Take good ole Anderson Cooper. I knew he was gay before he told me. We must be friends. I like him. Also Matthew Gray Gubler, one day he'll realize. One day.

This blog post sucks, internet. We're strangers, aren't we? I've never met you. Though I imagine you somewhat like the smarthouse. So.

Here's my theory. Maybe it's what I've been getting to all along, maybe I've been planning this post for months. Or maaaybe I have no idea what I'm going to say right now. Either way. Theory. Everyone lies. Original, I know. But really. Those kids at the top of the food chain worry that no one knows their names...and sometimes I think they might cry. Those strangers might even read quality literature for all I know, though I doubt it. But it wouldn't surprise me, because everybody lies.

Wow this isn't as world shattering as I planned. It's actually all a lie. Because we're strangers, right? And everybody lies.

I have read and agreed to the terms and conditions.

This is a thank you post

She was born to make art with words. She was born to make you feel things with letters and spaces and punctuation.

She was born to make art with her body and the way she lives. She was born to be beautifully her.

He was born to make me feel better, and to laugh with me. He was born to smile.

He was born to show people how good they can be. To prove that good people come from bad situations and that chances are worth taking.

She was born to teach me to love. She was born to be my best friend. She was born to teach me to laugh and to cry and to ignore people to see if they really care...

She was born to teach me sacrifice. She was born to teach me the definition of selflessness, and the power of optimism.

She was born to be free. She was born to travel and to explore. She was born to prove that strangers can sometimes be trusted.

He was born to serve God. He was just born to.

She was born to make you love her. To always be there. She was born to watch old movies with and to discuss politics.

He was born to show people perfection. To teach me how to love unconditionally, and how easily I would beat up a first grader who tells him his brain is weird.

She was born because you need opposition in all things. She is love and hate. Anger and affection. Trial and blessing.

He was born to show me how to grow. And to teach me that sometimes life isn't fair, but it's important to do your best anyway. And that age and maturity are unrelated.

She was born to raise people up. To let them know that they're special. To mean every word she says.

He was born to understand me. He was born to raise my self esteem when no one else can. He was born to keep my secrets.

He was born to make people laugh. But then surprise you with his intellect and general goodness.

She was made to be beautiful. To be full of mystery yet utterly simple.


(Rachel, I know you know who everyone is. Shhhhh)

Flutter.

Who even blogs these days?

Bye.

Business and Pleasure

First item*:

And finally;

I wish I was pretty. No, not pretty. I want to be stunningly gorgeous. Because maybe it's just an illusion, but life seems to be easier for pretty faces. All I want is an even playing field.  Is it really too much to ask?

I wish boys would watch me from afar. I want them to wish they could work up the courage to walk up and say hello. I want people to think I'm shallow, and be shocked to find out I'm actually worth something. I want to rely on my looks when nothing else seems to be working. I want to be the one that got away. The first love. The one that could have been.
I'm so sick of being the mistake. Maybe once he would love me instead of her, if I were breathtaking.
I think, if I was pretty, they would spell my name right in the yearbook**.


Am I rambling?
Good.

Because I think I said that wrong. I don't want to be pretty. I wish people would try to see me. 
Get over my overbite and my frizzy hair.
Spend the Summer in the park with me.
Close your eyes, pretend that I'm pretty.
Forget that I sometimes snort when I laugh, and for once stop falling for my friends.
We can go on pick nicks.
We can drive with the windows down, the music blaring.
We can jump in lakes with our clothes on.
We can sneak out, if you want.
We can just live.
Trust me, I know what I'm doing.***

Give me one real chance. 

Let me show you how stunning I can be.

*Uh ok. How good does Gatsby look? I mean I wish Leo was still 17, but hey, beggars can't be choosers.


**Emily Howell? Really?
pg.139


***I mean, I've seen The Notebook.

*

You're untamed, untouchable, unthinkable.

But I'm still trying to figure out how to get you to love me.

"Do you think I deserve your full attention?" "I have a legal obligation to say no."

  I'd like to be a genius. I want kids to read about me in history books, or math books, or English literature book, or any kind of books, really. I don't even care if they hate writing reports on me, and end up plagiarizing the entire thing at midnight. I mean, I'd like to inspire a few of them, but I'd be content with boring them to death. 

   But here's the thing: I'm afraid there's no more genius out there for me to grasp. All the theorems have been discovered by Pythagoras, Georg Cantor, Euclid, and Isaac Newton. Steve Jobs may be dead, but he already invented the computer. I can't create the telephone or the light bulb. I'm broke and I'm broken.

   So instead of becoming a genius, I'm sitting on the couch. I'm watching daytime television and renting movies. I'm failing my classes. I'm not a genius, and I'm discovering what I am. I'm only a combination of fears and phobias.

  I'm a venustraphobic, I'm afraid of beautiful women. I'm afraid of fading into the background while the spotlight blinds them. I'm afraid I'll never be one.

   I'm a spectrophobic. It's not only mirrors, it's all reflective surfaces. Keep them away, cover them in duck tape, shatter them. I don't care, as long as I never have to look into their depths.

   I'm suffering from ereuthophobia: The fear of red lights. Don't you dare tell me to stop. Let me go, let me speed through the intersection, don't even tell me to slow down.

   I'm a gamophobic. Put away that ring, your diamond, get off of your knee. It's not worth it. You can keep your love, I've got my cats.

   I have barophobia. My feet are cement. I wish I could float, I want to live on the moon. 

   I'm scared. I'm so, so scared. But this is me. I'm no genius. I'm just a girl, trying to be remembered. 

"I was drunk and angry and stupid–"

"And blogging."

"And blogging."

This is worse than I thought.

My Best friend/girlfriend

My Ex-Boyfriend

My Current Boyfriend

And My Soon-to-be Boyfriend.

I guess I've got a thing for drummers.

(Includes 2 out of 4)

Reincarnation

    The floor has become my bed. It calls to me. When my mind can't handle the stress and my legs can't stand the weight, it calls. And at first I whisper, "No, keep standing," but I can only keep my eyes open for so long,my head is spinning, my palms are sweating, please catch me when I fall. I am so unbelievably scared.

   But it wasn't until I was lying on the ground praying, "God, if this is life, take me now," that I started to remember. Somehow between the moment I fell and that moment I woke up in the fetal position on the floor of my math class, I lived a thousand lives.
   I lived the lives of every character in every book that I've read. I died with Gatsby and searched the streets of New York for a lock with a key. I floated down the Mississippi. I lived the lives of the tabloid princesses and the prom queens. I lived the life of the artist and the life of the artist's mistress. I've been a mermaid who desperately wanted legs and the girl resurrected by a kiss. I've lived the life of the king who marries the witch, then proceeds to die. I've lived too many lives of drug addicts and not enough of gamblers. I've watched from the sidelines, and I've jumped in the ring.  I've lived a life on the islands of Neverland. I've had my feet bound to appear more attractive. Ive lived the life of the girl who works for the peep show, and cries at night. I've been a marathon runner. I've been to a hundred different worlds, a thousand different times. I've lived these lives with my eyes closed.

   I've seen how it ends, and how it begins.


The secret's in the ink. 
-M

You're red. You bleed red. Not like everyone else bleeds red, because everyone does. But inside your veins, you're red. You are loud. You are bold, and without you a rainbow would be dull. Sometimes you are a little over powering, but you look too good doing it, all we can do is sit and watch you tell us how the world really is.

You're gray. Not dull, muttled gray, but shockingly simple yet completely stunning gray. You're the grey that has two spellings. You're comfort, and you're love. You're the gray that lets me sit in its lap and cry into its gray arms.You're my gray.

You're maroon. Most people see you as just that. But the people who really know you see your complex flecks of red and brown and black and gray that make you who you are, maroon. You're trying to blend into the background, and you desperately want to be someone's favorite color.

You're cream colored. Please don't take offense, you're perfect. From afar you seem white, unreachable. But when you let people see you they can't help but stare and wonder what paint you fell in that made you so rich and stunning, and we all whisper to each other about how we thought you were simply white.

You're purple. We like you for a while, or maybe for a long time. And then we grow up, and you stay purple.

You're blue. Never shallow, light, baby blue. You're deep, royal blue. You're the blue of the ocean. You're comfort and kindness and humor blended into blue. You're a primary color. Without you none of us would exist, or even think of existing. I think when we get to heaven we'll see what colors make you, blue, and it will all make sense because we knew you.

Color your imagination.

And you call yourselves my "friends"

You really believed we got back together? 
Ah, yes.
We got you good
.Happy first of April.

You love me.

Denial

I pretend I'm not sad, but inside I'm screaming.
5 days.
I knew it was a bad idea,
I know.
I should be able to get over you faster the second time, but you brought back those feelings that I guess were there all along, as much as I wished they weren't. You made me feel pretty. You made me feel worth something, and not in a super romantic way, but kind of, I love you, I really do.
So how can I blame us?
Of course we didn't work out. I thought we had changed and belonged together even more....maybe I'm kidding myself.
But i want to kiss you again.
I can't do this.
Love sucks.




I ruined everything, didn't I?


APRIL FOOLS

Paper Cranes

Are those goosebumps on your arms? I'm sorry, maybe I'm making things a little cold, and even though it's out of my control, let me see what I can do. There must be a thermostat around here, somewhere.

Oh and if your warm I'll hold your jacket, and get you a glass of water.

Because that's all I do really. I make sure the doors are locked and everyone's asleep before I dare lay down and force my eyes closed. Maybe because I'm making up for all my mistakes or trying to make you like me. Probably I'm too afraid of living with guilt that I take every precaution to pretend it's impossible.

Either way, really.
All that matters is you, anyway. You're hungry? Here eat this taco I just bought. You're stranded? Wake me up, dear. I'll be there in 5.

This will probably never get published, it's more for my own personal collection of rantings, but what I really wish I could say is this: I will always do you a favor, but sometimes when I end up tired and alone, I wish you'd never asked. Because you never ask me to dances or even invite me to your parties. And you when you say "How are you?" I know you don't really care. Here's the catch: I care. I want to know how you are. I want to hold you when you cry and hear about your first kiss.

I've folded you a thousand paper cranes. My fingers are bleeding, covered in millions of paper cuts. I tried different patterns and different sizes, but none seem to make an impression. One day these cranes will fly, and you'll wish you'd held on. Oh, how my fingers sting.

And I keep crossing my fingers and looking at the sky whispering "karma karma karma" but it doesn't really seem to be working.

I'll see your heart, and I'll raise you mine.

The Signs of Drowsy Driving

I can't focus. I make to do lists and tell myself over and over again to be productive, but all I can think about is the boys who spins me around in pizza parlors and how desperately I want him to notice me. There's monsters pulling on my eyelids, telling me I can't do it. Go to sleep. Forget it ever happened. My contacts are dry. Was I staring? I'm sorry, but the way she cries has a beauty about it. I can't help but watch. 

Life isn't as good as my dreams. And the worst part is I can't tell the difference. My days are foggy around the edges and my nights are clear as crystal. My skin was made for Summer. My hair was born in the sun. My fingers were designed for digging in the sand and my feet don't fit in these shoes. My voice was made to scream.

The miles pass. The days, the decades. And suddenly I can't remember how old I was when I got my ears pierced or my 8th grade class schedule. Please don't ask me my address, the numbers and letters are blurred. I'm begging you to tell me where I am, and how in the hell I got here.

When I sing in church I just end up yawning, and I'd like to rub my eyes but my little brother screams every time I transform into the "human raccoon."

Keep your head up, they tell me. Well I'd think you'd have trouble too if you had this much hair, and this much wait pressing on your shoulders. My bones are trembling under the pressure. I didn't know bones could tremble. I'll lie down on the kitchen table just for a second, wake me in five. 

Things are getting restless. I find myself clenching my teeth and whispering inhale. But right as I'm about the exhale someone hands me a mint, so I hold my breath and wait for them to pass.

I'm supposed to be in seminary, but I think I feel closer to God when I'm writing. No one knows my name anyway. I'm drifting back and forth, and someone better catch me soon, or I fear I'll slowly fall off of skyscrapers and into the hands of those who want me for their own. Maybe I'm waiting for that red-blue blur they call "superman." Maybe I'm waiting for you, I don't really know. So if I'm getting too close push me away, I'll bounce back. And if I go to slow pass me by, everyone else has. 

It's getting late, dear. I'm sorry.

I think I'll stay home and try to figure out what a priority is.

-M

Three pointing back at me

I keep feeling that I'm to blame. It's my fault, all of it. It's my fault I didn't have time to dry my clothes in time for the basketball game, they were only a little damp. Of course it's my fault I can't sing or curl my tongue. It's my fault that I kissed someone I definitely shouldn't have. And I'm still trying to figure out who to shift the blame on to. Parents are the obvious choice, but my mom is too fragile, my father too defensive. It looks like it's all on me, folks. 

You're free to leave. You're free to laugh at me instead of with me. And you're definitely free to tell me it's all my fault.

But no matter what you do, I'll reply with a simple "I'm sorry," and move on. Do I really have another choice? Even if I did, and I chose it, that would be my fault too.

So I'm just trying to stay safe. I threw on my chain mail, and took off my shoes because with them on  I couldn't feel where I was walking. And now I'm silently tiptoeing down the path of my mistakes into battle, squinting my eyes and praying no one notices me, and that it is all my fault.

But I stop, and my eyes refuse to blink. Because I'm staring at all the beautiful people floating past. I close my eyes again because if they notice my faults, it'll be the end of me, I swear. This is their territory, not mine. 

This is war. There's no room for lipstick, or even for the ACT. This is purely about survival, and I don't bother signing up for a gym membership because I'll never be the fittest.

I think it would be easier to give up. Am I right? I could use phrases like "zip me up" or even "unzip me"I could kiss boys just because it's their birthday.I could lie and cheat and win. Maybe I could change into one of those 20 double takes on average, wears sundresses, magnetic kind of girls. I could even hide things from my parents.

I could, but let's be real; I think I'll read about it in books instead.

I'm afraid of personality quizzes, because they seem more powerful than Zues. And the Zodiac Signs have me in handcuffs, telling me I have no control of who I am or who I love. Please, I am begging you, let me choose. Let me choose who to put everything on the line for, and who to see when I close my eyes. Let me choose, and I swear I'll take the credit. I know it's all my fault.

-M

Splinters

I'm getting old. I'm annoyed by eight-year-olds and loved by adults. It used to be the other way around, I swear. 

I'm afraid I've started giving up on my ambition, and when my mom asks me what I'm going to do with my life I can't seem to remember my 10 year plan. That plan I've had for years where I travel and find myself and if I'm lucky, fall in love. All I can think of to say is something about ending up alone and with 20 cats, because they're better friends than people.

 I eat raw fish, which is something only sophisticated people do. And those pretending to be civilized. I get annoyed by the music on the radio, and the other day I caught myself calling it "noise."

I have chronic migraines. I'm protective. I'm scared.  I stay home on Saturday nights. I use big words. My hair is changing color, and I refuse to dye it. I'm afraid to use the word love, because I don't want to lie. I watch movies for their cinematography.

My mom is on the phone until 5 in the morning, and I eat dinner at 4.

I sat down to write about how I'm losing my innocence. I sat down to write about the process of aging, but here's the catch: I'm still so young. I giggle at health class lingo. I stutter when I'm talking to a cute boy... I still use the phrase "cute boy." As hard as I try, I still don't like Raisin Bran.  I want to show off my A on the latest calculus test, but I still have to think twice about how to spell calculous. The thought of choosing a major scares me half to death. I tell people I love them, even when I don't. I still want to cry every time I don't get asked to a dance. Part of me still believes I can be an astronaut. I laugh really loud. I play music even louder. And I want desperately to be pretty.

I'm young at heart, but old at mind.

I'm in it for the music

All I need is someone who understands me. Someone who won't judge me based on the facts, someone who knows the scars on my back are nothing to worry about.  I need someone who will never ask me to buy a lottery ticket, because of lost elementary school bingo games and hundreds of empty cereal boxes. I want someone who will order for me at Subway.

I need someone who will travel the world, someone who will follow me to far off places and find beauty in poverty and in wealth. I want someone who dreams in black and white some nights, and in color others. I need someone who reads. Who can find themselves in the protagonist of classic novels, and who brackets and underlines, but never highlights. I need someone who can escape without leaving the room, and only by turning pages.

I need someone who will ignore my flaws, and never mock my disadvantages. Trust me, I'm aware of them. I need someone who knows when to quit and when to never stop. I need someone with common sense, and good taste in scents. Let me clarify: I don't need someone who enjoys the smell of lavender.

I'd like someone who wears silk and drinks tea in the afternoons because they actually like tea, and not because they think that's what I want them to do. And I'd really love someone who never says the word "poop."

I need someone who laughs at me Hitler jokes and wonders why Daniel Radcliff doesn't use his wand against the Woman in Black. I need someone, and they must appreciate puns. I need someone who listens to old bands and watches old movies.

I want someone who drops to the floor when bad news sneaks up on them, and screams when they see it coming. I need someone who cries during Nearer My God To Thee and when the Titanic sinks. I need someone who hates save-the-aquatic-wild-life movies.

I want someone who chooses to go to school and actually shows a little respect once in a while. I need someone who likes differentiable equations and integration.

I'd like someone with all ten fingers. Toes are optional.