When I was little.
When I was little.
WHEN I was little.
When did that "I am" become a "When I".
I've lived my whole life,
I've never stopped,
I went straight from one to two,
two to three,
three to four,
no pause,
no breaks,
straight on through to the tender age of 19.
I went from
barbie dolls to polly pockets,
bratz dolls to bicycles,
ipods to computers,
computers to cars,
cars to cigarettes,
cigarettes to alcohol.
When did it happen?
When did the little girl become,
a teenager,
a teenager struggling with herself,
with her life,
trying to decide how she wants to spend the rest of it.
I want to go back to first grade,
sitting up in my bunk bed crying because I couldn't read yet,
to classroom parties,
recess,
staying up late the night before 5th grade practicing my long division because I was afraid of my new teacher.
I don't stay up late worrying about my long division anymore.
I stay up late worrying about the state our world is in.
Scared to death that I'm going to give in to society.
I can't bear the thought that the little girl I see in all of my old pictures,
with all the hope in her eyes,
grows into a tired adult,
faking a smile because she forgot how not to.
Going through the same routine.
If I could go back to a younger me,
I would give her ear plugs.
So she wouldn't be able to hear the boy in her class tell everyone Santa Clause isn't real.
So she could block out the insults thrown her way because being 90 pounds in 4th grade was WAY to fat.
So she could muffle out the reality,
and live in her own world for awhile.
I'm living this life not entirely proud of who I am,
or the choices I make,
but I want to make sure of one thing.
If I ever run into my younger self one day in another reality,
I want to make sure I've made her proud.
Because being a kid is hard,
but so is being an adult.
Life is difficult,
and the truth is harsh.
Because when one turns into two,
two turns into 19,
19 turns into 45,
45 turns into 70,
and 70 turns into a headstone.
And at that point,
we've got to hope we did it right.

I like to pretend I don’t have emotions
In my mind I’m better then those weak-kneed, angsty teenage girls who write about true love in their journals but have never worked up the nerve to actually talk to a boy
I enjoy my feeling of superiority
But no human is without their flaws
My flaw happens to be you
When you’re near I seek out the nearest mirror and check my reflection
Fix my hair
Straighten my shirt
I clear my throat as I try to slow down my pulse
I tell myself to breathe, slowly; inhale, then exhale.
And when our encounter is over
And we’ve gotten no closer
To the place I long to be -in your beautiful freaking arms
I walk away and daydream of our lives together
Next thing you know I’ll be scribbling your name all over my notebook.
You turn me into a cliché I never thought I’d be
******* you and your beauty

…and your charming personality

…and your perfect smile

…and your witty remarks

Just ******* you.

I knelt beside my bed last night
looked at the crucifix above it
and pretended it was God.
Truth be told it’s a ceramic cross
that I was taught to believe in.
Stare at it, confess your sins, absolution is yours.
And that’s what prayer is.

I spent 12 years in Catholic schools.

School taught me little about God,
Other than how to recite the Our Father
And why I should remain a ****** til marriage.
As well as how lucky I was
To have my parents pay for my schooling
Just so I could say prayers I didn’t understand out loud.
My parents worked hard
For my sister and I to wear uniforms
and say the rosary 5 times more a year than we would have.
I wasn’t taught faith
Or how to seek kindness.
I was told to accept Catholicism
Or risk damnation.

My family went to church every Sunday.
We said grace before our meals,
And we thanked God for food we bought ourselves.

This sounds atheistic.
But it isn’t.
Because I believe in God.
However I do not believe in ignorance.
I do not believe in hate.
I do not believe in discrimination.
Three things the Catholic Church practices.

I’ve never believed that saying  “****”
Was a one way ticket to hell.
I never believed that missing mass
Would be more suffering I’d endure in purgatory.

I believe in a God
That accepts us
For everything that we are.
A God that will not mind if
We didn’t spend an extra hour
Kneeling in a pew
Listening to another human
Preach to us HIS interpretation
Of a book
None of us will ever
Fully
Understand.

I don’t believe in a tall man
With a long beard.
I believe in a young girl with brown eyes.
I believe in an oak tree that’s branches have
Seen more than I ever will.
I believe in everything.
Because God is everything.

I’ll kneel by my bed tonight
And look at my ceiling.
Because my ceiling is as good as any crucifix.
I’ll say my prayer
For everyone
Who recites their Bible
Fears God
And squeezes their rosary tight
In hopes that it will give them something
They’ve always been lacking.
Faith.

There will be days where
you can't move,
can't get out of bed.
Where you have no desire
for activities. But then,
there's that flicker of hope, that
"You can do it!" voice that
keeps shooting in your mind.
Then, you get up and have the
strength to do anything.

Where does strength come from?
What does it mean? How strong
you are? Courage? If we have
strength, we must have weakness
right? Our weakness show we are
only human. We aren't perfect. Hell
no we're not perfect, an I'm fine with
that. Life isn't about figuring out
our flaws, it's to celebrate we have life.

My strength comes from being myself.
There are days where gravity works
overtime and where lifting your fork
seems impossible, but I'll still smile.
Rain or shine, I smile. Everyday is
a new day, a new chance to be
yourself.
Believe in you.
Be strong.

You came to me flawless
Skin smooth and unbruised
And my arms were painted
Scars from the past exposed

And I tried to assure you
That you would come away clean
That love doesn’t hurt
That love isn’t mean

But you walked away decorated
One arm black, one arm blue
Tattoos from clinging too tightly
To someone who wanted to run

The sharp words we threw around
Dug deep into your skin
Leaving permanent lines
Etched into your porcelain arms

Yet, I’ve spotted you lately
With skin smooth and unbruised
You hide your scars from the world
With an innocent smile

It has taken me nearly 19 years to accept the fact that I am stuck in this body,
a body that I have loved,
and hated.
Although,
more of the latter occurred than I would care to admit.
I'm stuck in this life,
as this person,
and I have to be okay with that.
Because not being okay with that,
doesn't leave me very many options.