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.

Boys Drool

Bewilderness

You confuse me. I'm supposed to love you. My heals should be above my head, because you make me smile and make me laugh and stutter. You make me nervous, and I'm supposed to love you. But I can't. I simply can't. And I can come up with reasons like how you're too immature, or you'd be a horrible partner, but that shouldn't stop me from loving you. I'm the reason I don't love you. And that's all there is to it. 

You confuse me.  I look into your eyes and I swear. I swear that if it's possible to be possessed by the devil, then there's an angel in your soul. There's a saint inside of you, and I swear it quiets the demon inside of me . And you're too good for me. You're brilliant and kind. And I can't quite comprehend how I deserve you. Maybe I don't.

You confuse me. You are me and I am you. And we lay on the bathroom floor together, because there's birds, and old men, and Ku Klux Klan members painted in the stucco. And they're all looking right at you. Those men who painted the ceiling must have known. They must have known that we'd curl up in the fetal position, with nothing to do but fantasize about fictional characters with upside down lives.

You confuse me. I'm supposed to be a moody teenager, right? and I know that if your read this blog I probably sound like one, but I'm really not. I'm generally happy. But sometimes I feel like I'm supposed to hate my life, and my mom, and school. And I'm supposed to use the phrases "You're ruining my life!" and "Get out of my room!" on a frequent basis. But no one is ruining my life, and if you'd like to visit my room, you're welcome. 

You confuse me. You kiss boys who aren't too good looking. You love me more, but you seem to have forgotten.

You confuse me. We've taken completely different paths since that day last February, and yet there is no one in the entire world who makes me feel the way you do. Romance has nothing to do with us. It has nothing to do with how late we stay up on the phone and the way we can be completely honest with each other. It has nothing to do with the person I am with you versus who I am when you're gone, though I'm still not sure which one is me. What we have? It's love without the romance.

Sorry if it confuses you.

The Cure to Laziness

  Let’s be real here. Whether you call it “Senioritus” or tell everyone that you are “just tired because you were up all night taking care of your sick grandmother”, the truth is much simpler: you’re lazy. But never fear, ladies and gents. There is a cure. There is hope. There is a chance for you. With our clinically proven formula, you’ll be off your bum and into the world of productivity in no time.
Supplies:
1 Planner ( Write down every assignment. Make sure to put an empty square next to each item. You’ll be surprised how fun it is to check those boxes)
1 Decent Sized Backpack ( Not one of those baby ones that barely fits a pencil that girls carry around to look cute and feminine.)
5 oz. Motivation (WARNING: Do NOT Default to wanting to meet your parents expectations. You have to want it for yourself, not because you don’t want to receive that wow-you-horrible-daughter-is-that-a-minus-next-to-your-A-grade look.)
1 tsp Sugar (to make the medicine go down)
6 grahams (for s’mores)
6 grams Determination ( Don’t give up on your chronic laziness. Never feel discouraged. We all have it; at least you are trying to turn your life around. Say lots of motivational things to yourself such as “yes you can” and “I believe in myself” and “Oh my gosh, I am worth it!”
2 (or more) Good Friends (Let them know that you are trying to change your life, and encourage them to change with you.)

1 Pair of Magic Jeans (Sisterhood of the Traveling pants style for moral boosting.)

Rewards- As Many As Desired ( Reward yourself when you meet your goals. Take yourself out for cotton candy ice cream or throw yourself an anti-laziness party. Because you’re worth it.)

   Mix in an Olympic sized swimming pool for best effect. In all seriousness, if you want to cure your chronic laziness, start today.  Order in the next 15 minutes and we’ll include a free bump it or Snuggie with your purchase.

CAUTION: Side effects may include productiveness, respect for yourself, heart attack, stroke, and death.

My Life Will Go As Follows

Go on Goodreads

Read

Watch Movies

Eat

Make Pumpkin Pie Shakes

Go To School

Make Friends Transfer Into My Classes

Listen to Music Really Loud

Go on Goodreads

Miss california

Read some more

Write

Eat some more

Cry while watching Parenthood

Tickle My Little Siblings

Try and Control My Hair

Taco Tuesday

In Bed By 11

Up By 7

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

And I am loving every second of it.

Timing is Everything

Sometimes having faith means believing in what God thinks is right as well as when He thinks it's right.

And I'm trying to remember that, I swear I am.
But right now I need something, anything. At least I think I do.
I need to feel pretty.
I need to feel loved.
I need to feel worth something.

So I ran.
I ran to a hill in the middle of a field and I documented it. Because that's sort of all I know how to do.
"I'm sitting on this pile of dirt, and if it was a cliff I think I would jump.
Because this pile of problems in enveloping me and there is no way out.

But one day I'll be happy. I have to be, right?
I can't spend my life on this hill, with frostbitten fingers, waiting for the things I've always been promised by pop songs and Disney channel original movies.

I want to call my mom. I want to cry in her arms, but I'm too busy holding in her tears

And I want to scream, but I'm all alone out here in this field, and I plan to stay that way. Because if I scream the murderer will pop out of the shower curtain and the police will start to question my intentions

There is no such thing as trust anymore, because everyone backstabs everyone. And all the backstabbers pull out their knives but that doesn't heal the wound.
And we try and say it wasn't us, but our fingertips are on the blade, darling.

I'm sitting on a pile of dirt.
I wish it ended in the ocean."