It was summer '95
When I decided to get back home
Seeing that old little town I kinda miss
Where I met my high school friends like 5 years ago,
Dated some famous guys from the football team,
Then graduated with honors, finally

First stop was my old house
I swear I could still hear
My father's laugh,
My mother's deep breath,
Or those strange noises my little brother used to make while sleeping

I stepped into my room
Got lost in some random teenage memories for a while
But I was fine...
In fact, I smiled
My eyes just caught something, right at the corner

It was a phone
And it was my favorite
Cause back then when I was young
There was this boy who always stayed on the other side
Waiting for me to pick it up
So the cable could resonate my voice into his right ear
Probably his heart, too

Late at night, I still remember
When anxieties ate a half of our bravery
We started singing a lovely lullaby
And when the lyrics didn't make any senses anymore
We stopped, just to count each other's breaths
Until the sun kissed the night sky above our sleepy heads

But it was my fault
I was too young and naïve for understanding love and its game
That's why I kept on dancing inside the fire
Thinking it was peaceful and warm
Ignoring the ringing alarm
Not knowing even the smallest spark could burn me down

The nightmare began that night,
When I called him and he wasn't there
I thought oh well, maybe he was busy?
So I drove to his house at 10 pm
Just to drop my heart and let it sink

There he was
Kissing my friend at his lame party
Without even inviting me
When I stood in front of the opened door
A bottle clanked
The ticking clock paused for a second
Then he screamed my name, saying he was sorry
But everything around me had turned into a black and white photograph
I couldn't hear anything
I couldn't feel anything

People on the street looked at me curiously
As I ran away with tears on my pale face
I didn't really care
I slammed my car door and pushed the gas pedal really hard
Hoping winds would blow the pain away
But it never did

At home I blasted the radio on
Soaking myself in sad love songs
I spent that night crying
And the next night
And the night after the next night

A knock on the door woke me up from this long and gloomy nostalgia
I took a deep breath and stepped out of my room
My husband had been standing there, waiting for me
'what did you find?' he asked while grabbing my right hand
'nothing,' I shrugged. 'Just a life lesson.'
He laughed and sneaked into my room

'That was the phone you used to call me when we were teenagers...?'

The nostalgia flashed inside my head once again;
There my husband was
Screaming my name
Saying he was sorry

Just woke up with sweat
and thoughts a blood dripping
down my face.
A sick grin laid across my face
came as soon as Saturn's rings.
Listen closely, the story I will tell
is quits misleading.
For I would never **** a man...
now would I?

He would break into my home
and **** my Mom and Dad
then go for my brother
and guess who is next:
Me!

He'd come straight on in
and I'd be on my phone
he'd see an opportunity because
guess who's watching ****?

He's take what little clothes I have
and throw them across the bed.
He wouldn't care about my screaming
because there is no one in the room.
He'd whip his **** out and
try and slip it in.
I'd scream and cry and
wonder why
"what the hell did I
do to deserve this?"

He'd try to get my hips to
cooperate as he tries to ride fast.
but what he doesn't know is that
this ***** is on the soccer team and
can surely kick his ***.

Somehow I would be on top now
and have his knife against his throat.
I'd smile sweetly and decide to say,
"I learned this from a show!"
I'd slice his blade across his neck
just hitting his jugular vein
because everyone knows that
once it's done
it can never
be replaced.

(r.a.)

someday i'll
fall asleep
to the sound
of your heartbeat.

Who the **** is Jane Austen and
why the **** do we consider her works masterpieces?
Jane "boring" Austen lived an ordinary life and wrote very articulate
and pointedly ordinary examinations of character and mundane things
such as first impressions, and virtue, and proper court manners
She is the equivalent of an Oscar-winning author, because she has
mastered the art of being stunningly, fascinatingly mediocre.
She is precisely in the middle, and so balanced there that we applaud her
verbal gymnastics skills.
Works like these don't seem to carry an opinion of much of anything,
They just kind of blankly exist,
the kind of production that, if turned into a movie,
would have a nice, bland, Enya soundtrack.
There are no tears, nothing to make you feel,
It acts to make you numb,
leave you with a vague sense of discomfort and frustration, like
"What's eating gilbert grape" or "little miss sunshine"
in that everyone agrees blindly that they're good, but
they're not exactly sure why they're good, because
they're too close to life and too far away, there's nothing real,
it's too unpleasant to ignore and too familiar to watch.
It's useless, I can see this **** every day,
movies and books are about extraordinary life, to inspire us,
change something,
not just to make us okay with how stagnant we are,
or to examine our stagnation.
These books don't change anything.
I refuse to read or to write anything that steps around
the eggshells that are the fragile opinions and egos of
this, the 'everybody gets a trophy' generation,
I will not submit to anything less than feral reality and a
crazy, completely insane world, because that's what it is
my beautiful blood is more than beautiful,
it's wild and hot and pumps faster with every gasping breath,
and it deserves literature worthy of the heart that holds it.