Too many parties.
Too much numbing.

I hate this song.
I hate this ****.
Just kidding, this is so fun.
lol nope.
wher u b at????
oh my god I think someone roofied me.
probably shouldn't have smoked.
YAY TRUTH OR DARE!!
****, I'm hungry.
im not tired.
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

She felt so one dimensional.
Like the  clock hung up on the wall.
No one sees the gears.
Without proper acknowledgement they hardly exist.
All people see is the clock's face.
All people want is the clock's time.
Not the clock itself, but what it represents.

And when people look at this face, they don't often like what they see.
Where is the time going? It's moving too fast.
or
There's so much time on our hands. How shall we **** it?

Never the right balance.
Not even at noon.

"What does the wishbone tattoo signify?"
Depends who's asking.
If I like you it's because not all things that are broken are bad.

If I don't then it's because I needed more luck.

I'm sorry for the things I said
I'm sorry for not loving you
The way you needed me to
But I loved you the best I could.
Honest.

I have you in my heart,
and you occupy my head,
now all I need is you in my bed.

there's this game she likes to play where she talks to people and in the most subtle way possible, tries to tell them she's dying.

it's funny because she's dead by the time they notice.

i'm a bad investment.
a fixer upper
that you'll be lucky to break even on.

there's mold in the attic,
water damaged floors,
but worst of all:
I'll never feel like *home.

restless
brooding
desperate
moody:

all wrapped together in a 5,2" package.

I can tell when I'm trying to hard to sound like what I feel a writer should.

this is hurting,
but I'm deserving after the way I hurt you.

I don't know how to begin to ask for forgiveness
for my sickness.

I wish it was the flu.

treading lightly
so you don't see how tightly I've bound myself
to keep from coming undone.

It's unravelling:
The ball of yarn in my hands.
It's fraying
As I drag it through the mulch.

But I need it
To find my way home.

People don't fix loneliness.

But loneliness likes company
That's why she went to the party.


*Parties are a celebration of loneliness.

I don't want to be alone,
because then I'm forced to deal with myself.

And being alone with myself and my thoughts,
that is one of my least favorite past times.

I can't endure the silence when I am alone.
Music is constantly buzzing
So I can't think

When I get thinking, I get stuck in my mind,
Like a crab in a castnet.


I'd enjoy my loneliness if it was with anyone else but me.

I rely too much on others to sew me back together.
I wanted to be the one to fix me this time,
so I'm not waiting in pieces until someone arrives with a needle and thread.

So I found a playlist to suit my mood.
And weathered the storm.

My socks are a conversation starter,
They have more to say than me.
I request a Kid Cudi song
To the kid with his laptop open to YouTube,
Pretending to be a DJ.
Someone takes a long pull on the hookah.

I discuss True Blood in the backseat of a car with a girl from Hungry.
I drink a Capri Sun.
Eat some Ritz.

My mind is sober and waiting for my body to catch up.

Most love stories follow a similar pattern.
One which unfolds in chronological order.
How quickly that pattern grows mild,
underwhelming.

What if the same love story was told in reverse?
(Hear me out.)
What if the story started at the relationship's end,
and progressed to the beginning?

Two lovers being slowly unsewn from each others' memories.
Back to a time before the two had ever met.

The black cursor pulses with intimidation;
urging you to fill the white blankness with letters that form words and transition into sentences.

I drink just enough to make me comfortable
in my own skin.
Just enough to make me warm.

You ask me why I'm crying.
Do I need a reason?

"Because I feel like it."

This isn't going to be
one of those pretentious poems
Induced by a wave of sadness.

I've written far too many
Of those.

And I won't let myself
Be miserable again.
There are too many
Numbing medications
For me to tolerate anything less than neutral.
Even that is uncomfortable:
indifference.
impartiality.

Makes me anxious.
Like I'm waiting.
Treading water.

I wish I was a dimmer switch so I could fade in and out.
So the transition through my spectrum of emotions was smoother.
So I wasn't so "on" or "off".

No one wants all darkness;
and the light always seems too harsh when it's bedtime.

Turn me until I'm right where you want me.
Until I'm perfect.

He needed her to cope
and grew to love her;
for she was the prettiest thing in his view
But now she's obsolete.
He opened his eyes
wide.
Too wide.
So wide,
that he saw that there were prettier things.

So distracted by the beauty all around him,
he forgot to love her.
Forgot he ever had.

Through our time together I too learned a lot.
I've taken the experiences and grown from them.
I learned not to give up at the first sign of trouble. Sometimes the discomfort fear provides is necessary in order for us to better ourselves.
I'm sorry for blowing things out of proportion.
And mistakes I never atoned for.
I'm sorry for the times I was so busy trying to fix you that I forgot to improve myself.
I wish you many successes in your future.

The road glitters
Like tar flecked with diamonds.
I'm warm from the buzz of graduating from wine to liquor.
My mouth tastes of cinnamon
And the cool air feels blissful against my skin.

Though their faces seem happy to see me,
I don't know these people.
They know my name,
But not why I came.

There is an odd sense of community on the dance floor.
I'm drinking a clear fluid that tastes like fruit loops.
Strangers are spliffing in the garage.

I don't check the time
Because I'd like to pretend it doesn't exist.

I must admit that it gave me a thrill when you said you owned the rights to my body.

"Where do I sign."

I think I blushed when you told me to sign with my tongue.

I could almost pretend it never happened.
That I'd never lost the sensations I felt now like refreshers
Making my limbs tingle
as if I were a  carbonated beverage.

It was hard to be happy.
Harder to stay happy.
Too much work.
Easier to be sad.
Or miserable.
So I was.
I committed to it.
Stopped pursuing happiness
Even though the constitution says I have a right to it.

I grew to enjoy my misery.
Convinced myself it was what I wanted.
Got used to being alone.
Numbed myself to bliss.

And then you.
Not even anesthesia could numb me after you.

He said: "Life is like a balance beam."
We were at the park.
I was in one of my "moods".
He wanted to cheer me up;
Make me smile at least.

I said: "I'm stuck in my head."
He said: "Hop on."
So I did.
He jumped.
The balance beam bounced.
I struggled to remain balanced.
He calls out life obstacles
For each jump:
"Your car broke down."
"You lost your job."
"Exams are coming up."

Bounce.
Weeble.
Wobble.

I fall.
I'm not dead.
I laugh.
Everything is okay.
I'm okay.

He said: "I got you to smile."

"You're an open book, but in a language I can't read."

*I'm the book you'll never take the time to read to the end.

1/2 cup of narcissism.
3 teaspoons of pretentiousness.
2 sticks of vulnerability.

Why did you feel like you had to prove something to everyone? Innocence isn't bad you know. You were going to wait. But you were just so **** eager to prove your point. Perhaps a bit of it was spite. You felt over sheltered, so you overcompensated.

You have bad hair and bad taste in boys.

Still you shouldn't have broken up with him via text. Twice.
Making the third time by phone call wasn't a bad idea.

You have small *****. Get over it.

Stop being so insecure. Do things by yourself. You’re prone to codependency and neediness is not a good look for you

Invest in a pair of cute thigh highs. Delete your ****** blog. Get your eyebrows waxed (it doesn't hurt that bad).

While I have your attention - DON'T ******* FAIL CHEM!!! You end up retaking it with the same teacher whose face resembles that of a rat.

Enjoy being a social butterfly because it'll get old quick. Also beer is gross so you didn't miss much at parties.

*You'll grow into your skin.

It seems like flattery
To make someone your everything;
But the thing about that is
It's not healthy.

The cure?
Medicine.
Bed rest.
And a distraction couldn't hurt.

And I can't stop this thing my mind does.
This constant battle of what I want versus what I need.
What I want versus what I get.

I used to write down the things worth remembering.
The things I'd rather die than forget.
But now those things are in a box;
a box I don't open.

I've remembered enough.

I step out of the bathroom, the soft yellow light casting a trail from the doorway out onto the carpeted floor of my bedroom. You're sitting criss cross in my bed, your elbows resting on your knees. You look up when you hear the door open.I cross my arms across my chest and walk towards you, hoping the lighting is merciful.   You push your legs out so that they dangle over the edge of the bed. I position myself between them as my hands trail up your legs.

I'm not wearing make up because I feel that you'd prefer that I didn't. I'm wearing my pink Calvin Klein bra with the lace trim and my black partial lace, partial mesh underwear. I feel self conscious, but resist the urge to ruin the moment by making fun of myself. I'm not waiting for you to say something to make me feel pretty. I don't need you to when I see the way you look at me.

You help me up into your lap so I'm straddling you. You lie down on your back and stare up at me. I'm comforted in knowing you're just as nervous as me. But the nervousness isn't the bad kind - but exciting. The alt-J album An Awesome Wave is playing softly in the background. I recall adding Intro to my Little Death playlist and laugh under my breath. Your hand reaches out to caress a tendril of my hair. I feel your touch from my split ends, to my roots, and all the way to my fingertips. I do my best to keep them from trembling. But knowing you're just beneath me has a way of making my entire body pulse in anticipation.

I want you. I want to feel you. I want you to feel me. I want it to feel unnatural when we're clothed together. I want you to hear all my noises and show me all of yours. I want our bodies to move in time to the music. Eyes closed. Sensations have a way of making you see. And I see all of you tangled up in all of me.

The music swells. The drums. Guitar. My body feels like an instrument in your arms. Your hands. Exploring my notes. Play me and I'll sing loud. Fingertips between my lips. Mine. Yours. Mouth on mouth. Mouth on neck. mouth on chest.

Your mouth tastes of gummy turtles.

You haven't gotten less perfect;
I'm just becoming more aware of the fact that I have.

I could drink,
but what would I do when I sobered?
I could smoke,
but what would I do when the haze subsides?
I could cry,

Hello.
You already told me that.
You're so pretty I kind of hate you for it.
Stop talking.
I don't care.
Do you wanna hang out?
I miss you.
Please don't go.
I'm sick of crying over you.
Is it something I said?
You're just like my father.
Sorry.
What do you want me to do?
You're mean.
I thought you'd call.
What you said kept me up all night.
I'd rather you didn't do that.
You're good at hurting me.
What happened?
I don't believe you.
I hate you.
Leave me alone.
Stop.
Goodbye.

Maybe I'm too willing
To share the intimate details of my life.

Maybe I'm too willing
To be the right person
for all the wrong reasons.

Maybe I use my dad as an excuse
to hold on too tight.

Angry people are just people;
People that were sad too long.

Bitter people are just people;
People that were angry too long.

Spiteful people are just people;
People that were bitter too long.

I know the weight at which I will find balance.
Yet I can't seem to loose the last pound.

The scale is always tipping.
I'm too light.
I'm too heavy.

I'm too available.
I'm too busy.

I don't sparkle anymore.

"Trust your womanly intuition."
But what if I don't want to?
What if my tuition says:
"you can't break the cycle."
Or:
"you're a **** up."

I'm tired of these things.
These things my mind does
To sabotage.
I'm tired of protecting myself
From me.
I'm tired of not having the words
To explain how I feel
In a way that makes sense.

**** intuition.
Can't trust it
Because I can't trust myself
To do the things I say I will:
"Be happy."
"Be productive."
"Be better."
"Forgive."

Things feel sticky.
Soggy.
Itchy.

I feel frayed.
Broken.
Chafed.

I want to fade.
Pause.
Sleep.

Every memory
is a painting in the gallery of my mind.

Will you be my curator?

Use your lips to numb mine.
Use your hands to smooth away my rough bits
like sandpaper softening wood.

Char up the walls of my mind
so my flaws melt away.

Mince my mouth
when I talk too much.

Peel off my scars
as if they were stickers.

Cut me up
and put me in a jar.

Before I touched you
I knew you felt right.

I knew I'd write you cheesy poems.
I knew you were just what I needed.
I knew I wanted you every night
For the rest of my life.

*"I know you're the one I'm meant to love."

I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips
as I read back through yesterday's journal entry.

I want to stand under the spray of the shower with all my clothes on.
Perhaps while the water is cold
to give me a thrill.

It's like lying with your head beneath the blanket
just long enough to labor your breathing.
How long are you willing to bare the discomfort?

How long can you hold your breath?

Boo-boos heal if the right person kisses them.

Yes, I do like being vulnerable.
Because it enables me to still believe in magic.
It enables me to fully give myself to a person,
to love without withholding,
to love the way I want to.

He didn't see me.
I only existed when I was naked.
Life resumes full speed when I get dressed.
But I wanted it to stop just long enough for him to see me.
Really see me.

Now I'm cursed with longing.
Longing for validation.
Longing for someone to confirm that I exist.

If I don't get the acknowledgement,
maybe I'll disappear.
Maybe I was never here...

and that terrifies me.

One of my favorite animals is a giraffe.
They're so awkward and lanky,
yet despite their strange appearance
there is a a grace in there gallivant;
there is a beauty to their mien.

They don't flaunt their attributes
or covet the patterns of their wildlife peers
because they have been graced with the privilege
to indulge in the secrets whispered by the leaves
amongst the tree tops.

If I were a book,
what would my cover lead you to believe?

Colorful knee socks - a bit quirky.
Nose ring - acquired during a brief rebellious phase.
Purple hair - craving attention.
Lack of eye contact - lacking self confidence, socially awkward.
Chipped nail polish - not quite a girly-girl or a tomboy
Combat boots - attempting to seem edgy.

Maybe your assumptions are right.
But you'll never know until you read the book.

Advice is a funny thing.
Always given, but never taken.
Advice is obvious.
"Don't do that."
"Trust your heart."
"Sometimes you have to learn the hard way."

Everyone is qualified
to tell you things you already know.
But I'd rather someone unqualified tell me something I didn't.