She wanted him.

Not the him who calls after midnight
from a diner off the freeway
Because he doesn't work for another 12 hours and if she wants to have dinner with him this week
she'll come

But the him who drinks coffee with her in the morning before work
after their alarm told them
they'd slept tangled in each other,
again.

Napoleon Bonaparte once said that it takes more courage to suffer than to die.
Unfortunately for me, and perhaps for others, I am not courageous.

I look out into the world and everything it stands for, and all i can think is that, even though I am all alone here, there must be someone out there who is more alone, more lonely, and I should get over myself. It may be very self-destructive and will bring me no good, but it is a constant in my life. At least I know, no matter what I am doing, I will always look out at the moon, think about my life and other people on this earth, and, despite my loneliness, still care.

As I sit out On my porch and stare up at the stars way up above, I am again five years old, chasing fireflies with an open jelly jar as i stare up at the sky and only want to dream. I have always dreamed. It seems to be the one thing that I am actually good at. Sure, living would be nice, but what about dreams? In dreams, I get to say what happens and when. I get to have as many “re-do”s as I want and there is no one to stop me from the insanity. In my dreams, I am always happy.

And that’s the issue with dreams, isn’t it? That we can all sit there with our eyes staring blankly into space and think of a place or time where everything is exactly how we want it to be. We get whatever we want in our dreamland, and maybe that’s why we’re all such a mess when we wake up or whatever. Our dream is gonE.

In dreams, there are no rules. There is no one telling us that we can’t do this or that because of some law or some principle of physics. No one is standing there, arms crossed (or maybe folded, but who cares,) saying “You can’t do that,” because the truth is, we can do that and there’s nothing you can do about it. In our dreams, we are daring. We are the person we wish we could really be.

When I am dreaming, I am able to say what I think and people seem to really care and they seem to want to listen. My world is perfect and I am not worrying about not being wanted or liked. See, when you dream, whatever your greatest fear is will never ever happen. Then it would become a nightmare. But when that is about to happen, you just change your dream and make it all better.

When you get to dream, you are able to more happily face the world the next day, since you have just discovered something new about yourself. You are able to make stupid decisions and ones on a whim. You are able to do more than you ever realized you were capable of doing. Dreams allow you to be yourself, even if it really only is for just a little while. A little can really be a lot.

Through dreaming, people are able to make groundbreaking discoveries and solve issues that they otherwise could not have solved. I wonder why it is, then, that so many young people, full of brilliance and wonder, are given so many things to do, that they barely have any time left to dream? Why is it that the world seems so very against people dreaming and relaxing for awhile?

In our dreams, we are able to take on character traits we wouldn’t otherwise get the luxury of having. Some people are beautiful. Some people are talented. Some people are happy. Some people are successful. Some people are lovely, all around. Some people are in love. Some are loved in return. Yet, no matter what it is that people dream of being, it always has one element in common. It is always the trait that they, and maybe their heart to, always desires.

Courage is something i have in my dreams. I am able to tell how I am and be honest with myself and the world around me. Yet, when I snap into reality, all of those traits of the girl I love being, they disappear. And then I am stuck being boring old me, whose lack of courage causes her a bunch of problems.

At the young age of fifteen I dragged a blade across my skin
After fingers went way down my throat.
And sure, I felt like Hell, and I knew it was wrong
But, honey, I was going to look like Heaven sent me down.

It had become apparent to me that no one was going to believe
That some poor, lonely girl could ever become problematic
Because she didn’t look the part
And so she could never ever play it.

So I knew that I had something going for me
Even though I still doubted that I really belonged.
Because, sure, love, I had no one there,
But that also meant that I received no unwanted questions.

There was a little voice inside my head,
My conscience, holder of my sense of rights and wrongs,
Telling me it wasn’t right, it hurt,
Telling me that I should stop before I went too far.

But the voice telling me the reasons I should was stronger.
It’s not like anyone will care, it said, you have no one.
All people want is someone who will look like who you’re going to become,
Then you’ll have friends, real ones this time, it said.

Sadly to say, or so I’m told, it’s supposed to be sad,
I went on and on doing stupid things,
Not once caring about how much I was destroying myself,
How I only continued to feel worse and more alone.

Day after day, I did the same **** things that I had been
Told were wrong for any young person to do.
Yes, it really was something that I was not proud of
Ask around, or don’t, it’s not as though I told a single soul.

I did not want them to feel bad for me
I did not want their fake pity and concerned glances
I did not want to find out that I was only wanted
When I was troubled and nothing but a charity case to be fixed.

A few months passed and only red marks
Resembling lines, some straight, some intertwined,
Of sadness and shame that I still felt,
Were how I chose to release everything I felt.

I was not concerned with anything more than being
Alone and able to chose how my life was
Without anyone else trying to dictate my life for me.
I was not letting those I don’t like write my story.

Only later would I find out that I am able to
Write my story myself and call my own shots.
There are still purple marks all over forearms and thighs.
But, for the next few months, I may just be alright.

I did not feel the need to do anything stupid
Anything that I could not undo or fix.
And so, for a few months, I was alright.
I somehow found the will to fight myself.

I found that I had the power to decide not to do this
It was really nice, you know?
And so, for the time being, I really am happy.
The issue is, the problem is myself,

About three days ago
I heard a strange sound
But when I went to find it
I was only met with silence

So I threw my earbuds in
And hoped that they would drown it out
I wished that nothing more would come
That somehow I’d fixed it all

Then, there was a loud noise
I jumped, startled, frightened
I really wanted to scream and shout
A part of me thought it would be best
If I could just run far, far away

Yet, I am one to ignore thought and logic
Especially when it is my own creation

That all said, I did not want to confront it
But I felt compelled to come toward it
I was going to see what it was
I was going to see what had made me wonder
But where to go, where to look?

So I approach the windowsill
And hope for the very best
But when I look out the window
All I see there is a clear, sunny day

So I retreat back to my chair
I wrap a blanket around me, in a cocoon
I place my earbuds back in
And blast the music way, way up

So many people ask me what I would do if my words were limited
And never do they ask me about what they should do,
Were their words the ones being limited.

They all stand there, so content, so easy going, so willing
Just to be themselves. And so they scream and shout,
Never realizing that words are something to not take lightly.

Did it never occur to them that they’ll have to say something more
Than just the words that they think people will need to hear?
Why do they ask me what to do? Why do they think I’ll know?

Should I know how to reserve my words and still say something,
Were I not confined to only knowing that words are beautiful,
That they all mean something,

Perhaps then I could help them out,
Use more words in a sentence than I would in an essay,
Possibly end up helping them out.

But at what cost? At what price?
I have been selected because I say so little.
Should I ruin it once to help out many more?

My heart tells me that words need to be reserved and
People need to conserve their syllables
Or else no one will listen, because everything will become background noise.

Stupidly, my mind disagrees with my loving heart.
It would be better to risk everything just one time
Because what’s the loss of one when it means the rescue of many?

As always, I embark on quite a debate with myself on the matter.
Do I want to do this, when so much is at stake?
There’s a great chance that I may be inclined to say more, again.

So many people continue asking how I say so little.
I sit them down, say it will only be said once.
Once silence falls, they finally understand that
Silence can have as much power as words.

I must have been seven years old when I found out
That only the prettiest girls are the ones that people care about.

I must have been confused and cried my eyes out
But all I remember is that she was popular and oh so kind.

I must have been wondering what I had done wrong
They all seemed to be my friends, so why did they change their minds now?

I must have been worried about her, as all the others were.
She tripped and scraped her knee. It would be rude to not care.

I somehow had managed to give into the idea that I didn’t matter
For I had a broken arm and no one had asked me about what happened.

I must have thought that it was normal to be passed by so easily by all
Because everyone readily rushed to the aid of the poor girl with the scraped knee.

I suppose that it all made sense to me, even at the young age of seven.
Popular and pretty are all that anyone wants to concern themselves with.

I must have been willing to be a doormat filled with a whole lot of compassion
Just so that I could hold on to the very fake friends I’d managed to obtain.

I must not have understood that I deserved to be treated well,
Believing that I should be lucky to have anyone who would come my way.

I must have read a lot of books at that point in time
All of them full of some very terrible messages to live by.

I must have known that only people who are well liked get attention
It is not a huge realization, just the stark, awful truth of life.

I must have known that it was only the pretty girls who were the main characters
Even when they are not popular, they are always drop dead gorgeous.

I must have realized that I would have to change to be wanted
Yet, it never occurred to me that others would change alongside me.

I must have thought that I was nothing more than a sidekick
Only later on in life would the harsh truth of this make me cry tears

I must not have figured out that I needed to find better people
However, I really did like them and they really could be quite nice.

I must have been easily deceived in believing my stupid reality
Some stupid reason compelled me to believe that my reality was nothing but normal.

I must have been nine when my identity became the fat, smart girl
Intelligence at least got me some friends, although maybe not all that preferable.

I must have been convinced that I could never be anything but smart
When I became older, I never thought I could be anything else but that.

I must not have known that I was worth something more
Because every time I tried to be something else, I failed each time without fail.

I must have been seven years old when I discovered
That you have to be pretty and popular to get anywhere in this world

I must have been a little kid when I knew what others would take years to discover
That the world is a terrible, awful place full of hurt and pain

I must be absolutely stupid to still think the world is full of generally good people
But no one wants to tell the truth to the world, and I lack all the courage

I must have been fifteen years old when I walked into high school
And realized that, now, everyone else, too, knew what I had known since seven years old