The parameters of our lives are defined by the memories that echo through our heads at 2 am.
*I still love you but this just isn't working.
Have you ever considered medication for this?
It was instant. He didn't feel any pain.
You're just not cut out for this.
I think he's seeing someone else.
Time of death, 4:48.
Have you heard the news?
Are you sure you want to do that?
You're just not a good fit for us at this time.
We need to talk.
Just heard back from the doctor. Cancer. Stage 4.
Don't leave me.
50 years didn't seem so long, in retrospect.
Honey, listen...
It's just a routine checkup, nothing to worry about.
I never meant for this.
It's terminal.
I'm so sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry, but...
Goodbye.
I have to go.
I'm leaving at the end of the month.
I'll miss you.
Goodbye.*
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
Cigarettes and
red nail polish,
and one night stands,
that's what little girls are made of.
Bright blue pills and
soft pink lips,
and whiskey soaked nights
laced in regret,
that's what little girls are made of.
The sharp boys who whisper
behind street lamps in parks
know nothing of
what little girls are made of.
Broken hearts,
crushed dreams,
bitter souls, and
black coffee,
that's what little girls are made of.
Tear tracks and
bloodstains,
bruised knuckles and
fire.
That's what little girls are made of.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
I'm not the most
put together person.
I'm really a small
hurricane of a girl.
I am not a metaphor
or a simile.
Not a ****** mystery
or a floral print dress.
I am flesh and blood,
bone and sinew.
I bend and break,
and snap back again.
I will keep you on your toes,
and never let you rest.
I will love you with everything
I have.
I will **** your marrow dry,
if you look at me the wrong way.
I am unafraid,
and I have nothing to lose.
I am a stack
of paperback books
and a broken
typewriter ribbon.
I am gale force winds,
and raindrops like steel.
I am wounded pride
and a mended fence.
I am learning to forgive myself.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
I never thought I'd be
a pack a day
kind of girl.
I've seen the school assemblies,
heard my mother's shrill voice,
Don't you know what those things will do to you?
I've heard about the tar and the ash
and the cancer and the ventilators.
But there's something
about smoke curling around itself,
warm and inviting in the sharp,
snow scented air,
tiptoeing around my head
like a house cat.
There's something dangerous in
the scent of smoke on my skin,
in the taste of ash on my tongue.
Something that seems to say
*I am not the kind of girl to **** around with.*
It's a secret, a sly smile,
something that is all mine.
It's a destructive tendency,
it's a bad decision.
But it's mine, mine, mine
to make.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
I am too much of everything
and somehow
not enough of anything.
I sleep too late,
put too much sugar in my coffee,
have too many shoes,
say too many things,
and hold on for much too long.
I am a mixture of the things I want and need,
the things that mean nothing and everything.
I am passionate about many unimportant things
and woefully apathetic about the issues that truly matter.
I fall in love 3 times a day
and often forget to brush my hair.
I am too loud
and I talk too much
and I have too many opinions about things
I know nothing about.
I romanticize people and books,
foreign countries and fictional characters
to the point where they may all be
figments of my imagination.
I am entirely made up
of quotes and song lyrics,
2am phone calls and long lost dust jackets
from books I know better
than my own soul.
I do not know answers
to questions like
where,
or when,
or how,
but I know
with some certainty,
that I am too much for you.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
Since we spoke last,
I dyed my hair twice.
And got a couple jobs.
And quit a couple more.
I nearly got a tattoo,
but settled on a piercing instead.
I signed a lease for my first apartment,
and changed my major back
to the one you talked me out of the first time.
I got lost a couple times,
and learned how to save myself.
I figured out how important real friends are.
I went on a few dates,
and said a few things I regret.
I missed you and scorned you
in equal measure.
And finally realized
that everything in life is a lesson.
I learned what I will and won't
accept anymore.
And I could probably kick your *** at Halo now.
I changed my music tastes a couple times,
and tried not to think of you.
I learned how to code websites,
how to smoke menthols,
and how to hold my liquor.
I learned how to get off my phone and
enjoy life once in a while,
because I don't have to wait for you
to call anymore.
I counted hours and stopped counting months,
and realized that those anniversaries are just
other days now.
And that's okay.
I realized that life goes on,
no matter how much you're sure it won't.
And that's okay too.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC
I think we both know
I got
the better end
of the deal.
Love,
-L
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
It has been one year
to the day
since I spoke to you last.
I do not miss you -
that is not what this is about.
It's just that sometimes
I feel phantom fingers in my hair.
Sometimes old photographs choke me up.
And remembering the good times hurts more
than remembering the bad.
I'm not sure if you would recognize
the way I wear my skin nowadays.
My hair is a different color,
and about a foot longer.
It has been one year,
365 days,
several startling discoveries,
a few tear stained nights,
half a dozen new beginnings,
and at least one bottle of whiskey.
But I still can't get
the taste of you
off my tongue.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
Brave girls are not always the perfect ones.
They don't need to fight dragons or win wars.
They do not always know when they are bested.
They are brave for riding on subway trains,
and for speaking when they don't know what they mean to say.
They are brave for feeling, hoping, praying.
Brave girls don't always need luck,
but they know a dash of it won't hurt.
They aren't unafraid; they are not sure of themselves.
They cry more often than most,
and they live in paperback fantasies they created
in their elementary school days.
Brave girls try new things often,
but still fear change when it comes for them.
The know it is the way of the world, but they resist.
They love unconditionally, and that is the bravest thing of all.
They don't always know where they'll end up,
but they cross their fingers and wait.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
The lost princess wanders,
gracefully wishing she could get back home.
But home is a place that has no borders,
she does not know where home is now.
The weight of reality pushes down on her,
the real life and the real world.
She cares for none of it,
prefers fairy dust and magic.
She will forever be six years old,
staying up past her bedtime to read about magic.
Being one thing forever, she thinks,
is far too taxing.
She asks, Why can't I dance with the fairies,
tiptoe through the looking-glass,
and to the land of always-winter.
I am all that I am not, and there is beauty in brokenness.
She has all but forgotten what that felt like,
those old days in glowing sunsets.
But once in a while her heart hums at forgotten magic,
and she remembers life through a kaleidoscope lens.
One day maybe she will fit in here,
but until that time she waits.
Hoping for a glimpse of what she used to want,
of all she used to hope for to come true.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 7:45 PM UTC