raise the shade
will youse dearie?
rain
wouldn’t that

get yer goat but
we don’t care do
we dearie we should
worry about the rain

huh
dearie?
yknow
i’m

sorry for awl the
poor girls that
gets up god
knows when every

day of their
lives
aint you,
                oo-oo.    dearie

not so
hard dear

you’re killing me

Working in an office with a lot of girls mainly
Suddenly it was that time of year again... Christmas
And the Office party it was looming
As I went toward the pub where we were having our gathering I was feeling nicely laid back and relaxed
Primarily because I'd just been to another pub beforehand and had a few quick scoops/ drinks
Now I was bolstered, all pumped up, I was like a Boxer ready to step into the Ring.

Our pub it was festooned with decorations, lovely colours and glittery things
They were hanging out of the ceiling and stuck on every wall
Above our table a big jovial Santa Claus
Looked down, beaming at us all
As I sat down one of the girls asked rather suspiciously "Where were you?"
Holding up my alibi, a little shopping bag with some items in it
I told her, lying beautifully of course,  that I had to go down the shop to get some things.
As I sat there I noticed the atmosphere was a bit subdued, people weren't talking much
I said to myself, this... this won't do
So I took it on myself to take the lead, I'd be the one to spread some Christmas cheer
So suddenly I blurted out "Wh..Wh..What does Santa say... after drinking a bottle of *** ?
"I don't know" they all said, "what does he say".
I paused a moment for dramatic effect...then I hit them with the punchline...he says "Yo ** **!"
They all looked at me blankly
You don't get it, Yo ** ** and a bottle of *** is the famous pirate song from Treasure Island
Santa's catchphrase is **!**!**!
He drinks the *** and suddenly it's Yo! **!**! (Jeez I thought, I got to explain my own jokes)
Still there not impressed, one shakes her head, another raises her eyes to the heavens, another comments "A silly joke"
But really I don't care, I say to them
I suppose you don't want to hear my Snowman joke then
"O Go on", they say, "get it over with"
It's a bit risque I warned them
What do you call a Snowman... standing outside the window of a Brothel ?
"A hot Frosty", someone said
No! ... The Abominable Snowman.

I say to myself, well at least I tried, I made an effort
I done my bit, now I can sit here quietly for the rest of the evening
Some of the girls have now started to talk amongst themselves
One girl sitting right next to me who I hadn't spoken to in awhile
She suddenly inquires after my wellbeing, she asks"How are you?"
I tell her O! You know me, I'm just... just hanging on in there, yea! just hanging on to the Ledge of Life by my fingertips trying not to look down at all the crocodiles circling below
"Things aren't that bad, are they?" she says a little concerned
I smile and say Well I might be exaggerating there... a little bit
She smiles and offers "You're a real Drama Queen".

Suddenly one of the girls announces that she's done an evening course during the Autumn, she's done Bellydancing of all things
I thought we'll have to get her to give us a demonstration later on (but not before dinner LoL)
This girl then starts asking everyone did they do any courses and what their hobbies were
Finally she comes to me and I say Well I've been making some music on this little keyboard I have, yea! I've been playing...I've been playing around with my *****
(this gets some laughs)
I go on, Actually I've been writing a song
"Writing a Song!" says one of the girls really impressed, "we know you write stories, now you're writing songs, my! you are talented.  What's it about, your song ?"
I tell her it's about a girlfriend whose... well she's a bit of a Goldigger,
Then I smile, I have a great title for it, I call it (I pause for a moment then I say proudly), I call it...Octopus of Love.
"Octopus of Love!!" says one of them dismissively, "what kind of name is that for a song.  There should be a Society for Prevention of Cruelty to songs"
I ignore her and then suddenly launch into a verse of the song

     She said she was a dove
     But she's my Octopus of Love
     A hundred hands in search of one thing
          only
     Yea! My wallet, my Pride and glory.

     When she whispers in my ear
     Her fingertips they tiptoe across my rear
           and into my back pocket  
      O! She's my Octopus of Love
      She"s not at all what I dreamed of.

     When I hold her in my arms
     She sets off all my alarms
     She tells these great big whopping lies
     Man! She's got a finger in all my pies.

    She said she loves me dearly
    Visiting the most expensive shops
    Buying the most expensive gear
    I say, could you not make it more cheaply instead,

  O! She's got me in her grasp
   Her tentacles they hold me fast
   Then she asks what's all the fuss
   And she's so innocent looking
   Man! She's a lovely Octopus.

"I wouldn't be giving up the day job just yet" says one of the girls,
"That's funny" says another
Then someone ups and says "Tell us another one of your little stories",
"A good one, this time!" adds another
"Yea! A good one! We need a good laugh" says another,
I feel a bit slighted by this for some reason, the way they say it, their attitude
It's like their making light of my Art, my labours, my great works
Like their just bits of fluff for their titillation
So suddenly my mood it darkens and my voice it takes on this ominous ring and then I say a little threateningly
"So you want to hear a good one, do you!"
With this I smile and then say menacingly"I'll give you a good one"
Then I look at them slowly one by one
And it's almost like I've gone into this trance state, switched into ghostly mode
A distant remote look comes into my eyes
It's like I'm looking through them into the far distance somewhere...  
And then suddenly I intone real solemn like and with great gravitas
"The Great American Novel!"

"What's that?", asks one of the girls
Now most of the girls are married Moms with kids
They wouldn't have gone to college, they would have gone straight into work after school
So they probably wouldn't have known about English literature and  the Classics and all that high brow kind of stuff
Their only exposure to literature would probably be the so called Chicklit books down their local supermarket,
So I say to them 'You never heard of the Great American Novel'
"No!" says one of the girls, "what is it?"
Well, I start to explain, it's like the Holy Grail for all writers, novel writers anyway
How can I explain...how can I put it... The Great American Novel...
It's like this amazing fantastic legendary mythical beast of such great beauty and magnificence
That roams free and unfettered on the literary plains of a writer's imagination,
Many an author on his death bed admits, "I seen it once, I had it in my sights...had it in my grasp but I let it get away". They then turn their heads away and cry bitter tears of regret...
Or...or it's like... it's like this Great Mountain
that's no one's ever been able to climb
It stands there defiantly, supreme in its isolation, it's peak glistening in the sunlight or shimmering in the moonlight
Unreachable, unattainable... unconquerable
(I'm really on a roll now, I'm waxing lyrical and there's no stopping me)
The Great American Novel...it's like... y'know it's like that old fairytale, what was it called
Was it Snow White. No! Snow White had the dwarves in it
What was the other one?
One of the girls whose always been a bit negative, she suddenly says rather unhelpfully
"It wasn't Pinocchio was it?"
Of course I get her reference, when Pinocchio would tell tall tales his nose would grow longer
Then I point to her and say rather surprisingly "That's it!! Sleeping Beauty!" Remember Sleeping Beauty
The King and Queen have a beautiful baby daughter
At the christening all the good fairies come and bestow Blessings on the child
She'll be the most beautiful
She'll be warm and kind and generous
She'll have a lovely heart
She'll be so wise and so artistic...
Then suddenly who should arrive but the Wicked Fairy
She wasn't even invited to the ceremony and she's really angry
She storms into the Palace right up to the child
Then she says "When this Beauty, this Child grows up she will have an accident"
It's like The Great American Novel is the Beauty, the Child
And it's like she's saying "This Beauty no one shall have, no one shall ever write The Great American Novel"
And of course, when the child grows up she's so wonderful and so amazing
But then she has this accident and falls into this strange deep deep sleep
And everyone in the castle too, they also fall asleep,
And suddenly this big thicket of dense thorns springs up around the castle so no one can enter it
Many a brave young man having heard of the Great Beauty behind the Wall of Thorns
They valiantly try to get to her but are invariably driven back by the thorns
Alas! They fail and gradually the story of the Great Beauty passes into legend.....
That is till one day, a Knight appears, a Knight so noble and pure of heart
The moment the blade of his sword touches the Wall of Thorns
A path opens up right through the thorns leading to the castle
He finds everybody there fast asleep
He climbs the Tower and finds in her chamber this incredible Beauty sleeping
He is so taken with her that he must kiss her on her lips
In that moment her eyes they open and she smiles a radiant smile. And the whole world awakens again, comes alive.

I look around at all the girls, their all a bit spellbound by my story (at least I like to think)
I go on 'It's like I was walking in my mind one evening, seeking some inspiration
And then I just turn a corner and there he is, in all his glorious splendour
Remember your Greek myths, the fabulous white winged horse... Pegasus... this beautiful mythical beast
Just there drinking at a pool right in front of me,
So quietly I sneak up on him and then suddenly I jump up onto his back
He rears up and then spreads his mighty wings
And starts to rise way above the earth
My eyes they are suddenly opened, and I see what I had not seen before....
I look at the girls but then just as before, a strange dark look comes over my face and I say
" I'm really afraid but I think, I think I've done it
I think I've nailed it
Yea! ... I think I've written The Great American Novel.

I go on 'Yknow  whenever a new book comes out the Critics, they all wonder
Will this be the One, will this at last be The Great American Novel
Of course, their always disappointed, the candidates they all fall short
It was a good try but...but not quite
A valiant effort, maybe next time
In the Critics Room one of them will be given my book to read
Slowly as he reads, his eyes will grow wider
And his jaw will start to drop in awe
When he finishes he'll sit there in his chair stunned, almost like he's been shellshocked
Then he'll rise unsteadily  with his finger pointing at the book
He'll be stuttering and stammering
"What's wrong!", people will inquire of him
He'll look at them in a mad crazy way
"My eyes... my eyes they've seen it" he'll say
"Seen what?" they'll ask
"It...it... it's The Great American Novel.
They'll all stand up and gather around the Book
Suddenly someone will grab a pair of binoculars and look up at The Great, the Holy Mountain
And there on the top, on the summit
There'll be a lone figure standing with his little Irish flag
"Truly he is the One", they'll say, "and a feckin' Irishman, wouldn't you know".

"So what's it about then", asks one of the girls interrupting my flow
What!', I say
"The Novel! What's it about"
I look at her and then I smile and say rather mysteriously 'Well, that's another story isn't it'.
"Wait a minute", says the girl whose usually very negative, "so the valiant Knight with the noble heart, that's supposed to be you is it ?
I raise my hands innocently as if to say what can I do
"O! I think I'm going to be sick", she says. Then she continues "Where did you get the time to write a Novel anyway. All the time we thought you were working you were probably just there daydreaming over in the corner".
"It's not very long", I say to her "my story".
"How long is it ?", she asks curiously
"Actually it's only about ten or eleven pages".
"What! Ten or eleven pages!!!", she says jumping on this with exaggerated disgust, "that's not a Novel, it might be a short story but it's certainly not a Novel. For it to be a Novel it has to be several hundred pages long ".
I tell her But 'I didn't need a few hundred pages just ten or eleven was enough, it's all there, the whole thing'.
"But it's not a Novel", she maintains
I answer, it's the spirit of the thing that matters, the Spirit!
She then gathers herself and I can feel an offensive coming
"I don't want to rain on your Parade", she begins, "but One you're not American, Two it's not even a Novel, and Third if it's anything like your song I for one won't be holding my breath".
I look at her a bit crestfallen and then I say
"You really like to burst my balloon don't you" , then I say, "I'm reminded of the classic lines of W.B.Yeats the great Irish poet
And then I declaim theatrically
"And Great Art... beaten down".

Anyway now the spotlight moves away from me, the girls start talking among themselves
"Let's leave him to his delusions", one says and now our meals are starting to arrive, I'm forgotten about for awhile.
For some reason the word "Parade' has stuck in my mind
And the pub has suddenly grown more boisterous, some people are singing and blowing whistles (those paper things that roll out and then roll back in again) their throwing streamers and confetti about
Suddenly I'm reminded of those old ticker tape parades they used to have over in New York when they'd be celebrating something or someone
All the faces looking out the windows of the skyscrapers and all the streamers cascading down, and the cheering crowds
And up on a big Podium there standing, the President himself.
I look up at the wall at Santa Claus smiling back at me
And I say to myself "Hello Mister President"
I can see him welcoming me up onto the podium, then with his hands he quietens the  crowds... and then...then he speaks
"Fellow Americans, we've waited a long time for this day
Many thought I'm sure that it would never come but some...some still dared to believe Yea! That one day a man would appear and that a Book would be born"
(holding up the Book) I give you the Book
It may be a slim volume
But don't let that fool you
Sometimes good things come in small packages...
Yes! I give you the Book,
The Great American Novel!!!
And I give you... the Man (motioning to me)
"He told it like no one else could, he said it like no one else could say it
Let the bells ring out across the land, in every city and town...in celebration"
So sitting there I raised my glass to Santa Claus smiling on the wall
And said quietly and secretly to myself
"Here's to you Mr. President, Merry Christmas!

Man...
I should not even be speaking to you. You don't got that broken look, & your edges aren't sharp enough.
That exoskeleton never saw the light of day, it laid down and died before ever being concieved. Boy, you ain't no mystery. It kind of breaks my ****** heart though, yknow?
No, ydon't though.
I mean, yknow how it feels to bleed out all your aura, feeding it to, **** I don't even know, the unknown. Dark energy. The infinite divine, the great conundrum.
Givin it to god? Wherever you find him or her or whoever. Whatever.
I guess it doesn't really matter as long as you're happy.

In the dust clouds of the destruction the bedlam be loud & disgusting & lovely & you may find solace if you so choose. That ***** is  hiding specifically there, you just gotta look. But it WILL be exhausting & exasperating & emotionally draining.
All the ice'll melt before it bubbles & becomes vapor & you won't believe it, all cause you can't see it but that's ******* stupid.
They say people don't like to be called stupid.  Yet the sad reality is a lot of them are, or at least they just got a lot of really stupid tendencies & would rather not address those kinds of things. But see... man, I don't think anything's sacred anymore.
So simply. **** it, go with the flow, just...float.

Oh I wish.
I could take myself serious, so others might take me serious but I end up sounding crazy either way. I think we're all losing interest here. & I'm gettin real sick of tryna make sense of myself, to myself, to & of everybody else.
So if anyone needs me you know where to find me. I'll just be kickin it in the middle of "the ****" like. This is my normal.

her patience was starting to wear thin, impatience growing as one of the pervs from the table across his eyes preying on her. she gave him the finger and her hardest glare.

where the hell are you  she typed out, texting him

be there in ten i kinda just got out of bed...sorry

she just sighed looking out the glass panes that gave a view of the busy street, letting her thoughts wander. sam was waiting for her bestfriend, noah to show up. she was going to help him find a flower shop that caters black roses. he was going to give it to jean, the girl of his dreams as he liked to call her (sam just knew how much of a cliche he was underneath; they barely had a conversation in which he didn't insert her-sam stuck up with it and listened to him, always assuring him that he's going to get her who wouldnt)

"sorry im late" he says, panting as he arrives, varsity jacket slung in his arms

"you owe me" sam says cooly, ignoring the drum pounding in her chest. he looked like he always did; and gave off the same effect to all the girls in town (he had quite a following though he didn't mind)

playfully he rolls his eyes at sam and the two walk their way into his beat up camaro (which was very good at overheating and taking too long to start)

"bet this thing would come up with its tricks again" sam started with their usual banter

"oh hell no it's got my back"

"your flat back"

"my bootiful ***"

sam scoffed "wanna bet?"

"game on" noah smugly retorts with the smug smirk on his face that showed off his angelic structures

"on three two....." sam had her fingers crossed please don't work please don't

noah tried gunning the engine a few more times, turning the key into the hole over and over again but the engine kept dying. he tried for one more time;it was a miracle that it did. he faced sam who's face turned down into a frown. "ha you owe me now"

"i owe you none" she says slumped in her seat though deep inside she was enjoying this. their friendship had alot of these immature playfulness which she usually started.

"just buy me an extra waffle cone and we're even"

"*******"

noah laughed and sam heard the lilt in his laugh that she grew fondly of. they drove off the road with only the radio to filter the silence for a while. sam started tracing patterns on the car window.

she felt something for noah and it wasn't something she expected, neither was it something she was looking for. the first time they ever interacted was in a class they both had. his eyes had that mischievous spark that day and  he wore a devilish grin-sam thought he was the perfect guy to turn into one of her casualties or better yet get his heart broken. but all they did after class that day was hangout and drive around town. sam was quite shocked with the numerous things they have in common. since then, they've meant alot to each other. although it was different for sam. sometime in their friendship she started feeling something for him, someting more than friends do .she hated it; the thought of it made her want to rev her guts out;

she was never the type to like guys or girls and fantasize about them being together or even feeling the same way. she was the type of girl who played with guys for a night (a week was her longest) whenever she felt like it. she toyed with their hearts and felt satisfied when she saw them with tears in their eyes. she felt no remorse for leaving them in the gutter. she was never vulnerable  she was a heartbreaker. she was that type of girl. but with noah it was all different, it was all new. it was like being on the other side of the spectrum

it frustrated her, all of it. most of all the fact that she couldn't do anything about it. she couldn't just steal him away from jean especially now that he stood a chance. plus, he was serious about her, sam could tell-even if she tried making moves on him, he'd leave because that wasn't how he knew her-they went so well together: her being on the cheerleading squad with her perfect friends and her perfect grades, perfect life ahead and him being the quarterback of the football team and the perfect college waiting for him, heir to his father's company someday-they were the power couple. they deserve each other sam thought bitterly. she could be one of the "perfect" girls in her school if she tried. but she didn't, didn't find the need to because why bother? she'd rather be on the outside and deal with her own company and just resurface whenever she felt like it. he had dreams;she didn't. she was just a heartbreaker, a mess.

yet she didn't want to lose noah; couldn't lose noah-it wasn't a risk she was willing to take. around him she let down the high walls she usually was encaged in and instead had vine trellises wrapping around her almost as if caressing her. it wasn't like in the movies but it was a **** cliche which she felt in gradual waves.she could hear wind chimes in the edges of her nicotine corrupted lungs whenever she was with him and none of the nails splintering against board in the emptiness of her house she felt in the dark while her sister slept soundly in the next room, none of the stale unfamiliarity of her mother working herself thin in her round the clock shifts, staggering home the next morning smelling like alcohol. she felt something other than the hollow in her stomach when she's out partying with strangers, the bass sounding too much like her heart breaking and her existence decomposing. she felt none of the filth she did when she slept with guys and let them make love with their exes through her body. she felt none of all the ugliness, heard none of the monsters' calls. noah made her feel pure. made her feel bliss. there was no irony, no catches, no waiting for the other shoe to drop in what they shared.

some days she's accepted that they'd always remain platonic, that it was better for them to stay this way. but today wasn't one of those days, for it was one where she wanted nothing but to plant her lips against his and make him tell her that he feels the same, for him to wrap her arms around her and bury her face in the crook of his neck, drown in all their memories, become the memories become an us. it wasn't love but he made her feel loved.

her daydreams were cut short when noah parked the car infront of the flower shop near the outskirts of town. she smoothed her hair as noah opened the car door for her. she felt her palms sweat, immediately telling her brain that he was really just sweet and it's jean that he likes stop spewing up hurricanes and thunders for every sweet thing he does.

"so first stop"

"i still don't get why you can't just buy her a bouquet of plain roses and spray paint it black. i'll help out yknow" she replies in her usual mocking way as they enter the shop, the floral fragrance enveloping them.

"because you gotta put all your effort and your heart to get her"

"yeah right, hey you gotta put effort in spray painting too yknow like shaking the can and making sure the roses are all covered. we can cover your heart in black paint as well if we still got any left" she replies sarcastically as they start perusing for black roses.

he rolls his eyes at his best friend, throwing one of the discarded dandelions at her direction. she picks one up and throws it at him quickly. it was only a matter of minutes til they were both on the floor laughing, sneezing in intervals, dandelions scattered around them. the florist scolded them when he saw the mess they caused and made them pay for a daisy and a petunia boquet that was haphazardly upturned in their rowdiness-no black rose in sight.

sam laughed as noah took out his wallet and paid the florist who's face was now red. she heard him mutter a sheepish apology and for a moment, she allowed or tried to let herself get lost in the fact that she and her bestfriend were spending the day together she tried to forget that she was spending the day with him to help him be with the girl that he likes.

***** girl. godly beast.

I couldn't be
one of those
beautifuls
if I pleased.

tribal bones stained
with European empirico
I am black death disease,
just human trash
that learned to read

& I believe bootleg genius
is being
massively reproduced
more cheaply & as we speak
is being weakened
so as to be spoon fed
to the cool kids.
yknow they
couldn't do it
by themselves.

never sweated.
laughed instead
yes
I seen em
inchin to the edge
but
I didn't
do anything about it.

I kinda feel guilty
cause I didn't
do anything about it.

It's just a ****** up
awful sound,
a whole generation
hitting the ground
at once.

Man. it really
puts things in perspective.
kinda makes you wonder
what's coming next.

medicine medley
ineffectual
malady infectious
witch hunt etiquette,
I think in pictures
disney depictions of
apocalyptic ****
yet to be decrypted

I rip myself to pieces
every day.

YOU NEVER WANTED TO BE A GARDENER
I can feel the weeds poking
through the mulch in my stomach.
stop plucking them out-
they just grow back louder.
yknow, for a gardener,
you spent a lot of time
in mortuaries.
I just didn't realise I had one
in my chest                                  
I didnt realise you'd notice        
didnt realise you'd try to pull
the weeds out of that too,
and plant daisies in the beds
instead.
Did you know daisies are weeds?
yknow, for a gardener,
you were never very good.
But I still let you into my house
to water my arteries.
every single time we kissed
I left with a mouth full of flowers;
you left with a mouth full of mud.
It's not your fault you couldn't
keep up with the gardening.
you tried everything to get rid
of those *******.
Didn't your mother ever tell you
not to kiss a girl who tastes like
weedkiller?
They tell me you gave up gardening -
But I know you still keep a daisy
pressed in your bible.

when i told people in my first block class at school, a science class, that my favorite movie was straight outta compton, they all laughed.
and i guess i understood why. im a little white girl that was wearing a skirt that day. okay, so thats nice.
i guess i cant like things because i live in a pretty nice neighborhood and im white and im a girl.
but guess what.
i like straight outta compton because i understand the people part of it. like oh god.
i used to love going to the movies because i could escape my reality, which ***** more than people know because i dont tell them things sometimes, but i havent enjoyed a movie in years because every reality in my life has completely taken over and defeated me.
but maybe i like straight outta compton so much because for the first time in years, i actually connected with something that felt real to me.
yeah ok, its just a movie.
but watching the movie, i got to meet these characters and they became my friends. i dont care about how lame that is.
this is a poetry site. look at all the angst. and my gosh, look at that fourth wall i just broke.
ice cube is my friend. ren is my friend. yella too. all my friends, and i watched them get shoved to the ground outside their own recording studio.
because they were black.
and sitting in the movie theatre seat in my nice neighborhood in my white skin, i cried.
i cried my eyes out, because those actors onscreen were telling me a story in the personas of these new friends of mine.
i cried when eazy found out he had aids. just when nwa was about to get back together.
it was like watching a personal potential victory slip right between my fingers. it felt so close.
and i watched his body shake in agony. eazy cried. he had months to live.
in my white skin in my nice movie seat in my nice neighborhood where ive never had to watch anyone die, i cried because in that moment, all of it was real to me.
you cant explain something like that, not even to your friends.
in my nice neighborhood where there arent streetwalkers and people doing coke and peoples houses getting rammed down by the cops, my friends dont want to listen to nwa because of all the cussing.
and i think, there is so much that you miss if you initially reject it because you dont like it, because you think that it hurts your character.
hear no evil, see no evil.
you dont want the cussing floating around in your head.
its bad. its sinful.
but my gosh, its only words.
i dont think that eazy wanted the doctors diagnosis in his head.
i dont think that he wanted to deal coke and get almost caught by the police. i think he wanted to stay in the safe neighborhood with me in the nice movie seats crying about some other character on the screen that had their dreams crushed and their life taken.
i dont think that ice cube wanted to be taken advantage of by his manager.
i dont think i would like that either.
i dont like that people think that my friend, ice cube, isnt as smart as the little white girl in her biotechnology class. people might look down on him because hes black, or because gangsta rap made him do it, or because he didnt come from the nice neighborhood with the movie theater that i was crying in because my friends were being beaten.
maybe im crazy for saying this, but....i think maybe the movies arent supposed to always entertain us or make political statements or educate us or wow us with light shows.
maybe theyre meant to give us new perspectives we dont get because we live in nice neighborhoods with our movie theaters and our friends nwa that dont get to live here because they came from compton and got thrown in jail because they used their right to freedom of speech or got aids and died.
my friends werent all good. they did drugs and abused women, and im not okay with that, but i love them anyway, yknow?
because theres just one type of folks. not real or fictional, not actors and audience, not black and white.
just folks.
just friends.

So, I lay where we did earlier today
Where we were yesterday, and the day before
Drowning, surrounded in blankets ((the blankets hold much more than lint and old lousy dryer sheets stuck on the edges) ))
They hold memories, laughs, smiles
The pillows witnessed our secret telling
Watched us kiss
Watched us fall in love over and over again((at least me falling in love with you, i'll never understand how someone could love me yknow)))
And at night they remind me of you and remind me to miss you
They make sure my dreams are dark nightmares of losing you
Nightmares of you not loving me
Dark thoughts of losing trust
Losing our smiles
You left your drink on my table and I wouldn't dare touch it until I know you're coming back to me
For what if you never come back and all I have left of you is that old cup of flat mt. dew on my broken little table
Every time I look at it I can be reminded of your lips, taking a sip
(maybe then I won't forget how it felt when your lips touched mine.,..,..)
My bedroom screams of you and always will so please don't leave
My life is sad until you come back the next day don't you understand that???
I couldn't bare the memories here
I couldn't bare the perfect marks you left with me
You etched your name into me in places I'll never forget so
Please stay
Because alone, in THIS room????? That's not something I could bare

Frenchie. there's a lot that i'll probably never tell you. either in fear that it will drive you away, in spite of the numerous times that you've told me you won't leave or run because the chance of something scaring you off is slim. or simply because it slips my mind. trauma, am i right? you say a lot, and i mean this in the best way.  you can talk, and you can tell me as many things as you want, and i'll never properly believe them because i've learned that words are ****. then again all we have are words, smiles, and through-the-phone, air-blown, crush-induced kisses that bring back memories, and yet rewrites them as something entirely new and, of course, much much better. something ours. i hope it's never given to another person, this sweet kiss of life, the final kiss of death, an angel brings me to heaven, enter whatever aesthetically pleasing line you want but it will never be as good as, "and so the lion fell for the lamb." haha. it's 11:16 pm, August 9th. and i'm laying in bed. for reasons i'll try to explain in a second, i'm tearing up, as i have been for a while. i think i first started tearing up the first time we called, which isn't so much a bad thing as it is a surprising thing. because it was a sad happy cry. it's similar to breaking a piece of jewelry that you really enjoyed, but then buying something much better. you loved that plastic, feeble, oversized, first love bracelet, but now you have a moonstone or (enter favorite gem) filled, perfectly fitted, wifey-made promise ring. you'll keep the bracelet somewhere, forget about it, find it again, and again, and again. discovering it under blankets, and pillows, and promises that we've tossed around ourselves. it will peek from inside my black coffee, in the dirt i praise, in the trees, in the music we'll listen to together. in the color brown, Frenchie, that's where you'll see, i'll see, we will see, that piece of plastic. dark brown, the colors of his eyes. my favorite color for the longest time. i don't want it to mean him, so it doesn't. but that's where it comes from. i'll find it, we'll find it, up until you get tired of seeing it, of seeing me see it, and take my hand, begging to throw it out. but, my to be discovered favorite gem filled, wifey-made perfectly fitted promise ring, it might take a while, with me quietly begging for your help, to get rid of him. not because i want to wear it, but because i horde emotions the way i horde stuffed animals. it's a labrinth to find the bracelet, we have no map and somehow we have to get from this forever smile to the closed-off corners of my mind, where even i, as it's supposed owner, struggle to collect, and comprehend, and conquer my horrid thoughts. but Frenchie, we laughed. and it was the first time in so long that i've been able to laugh with someone like that, and not worry, and not expect, and not be afraid. except, since we're here it's already obvious, that ended up making me afraid anyways. Random, but there's this song in my head right now. "make me behave like an animal." Sir Chloe's Animal, everything by Sir Chloe is absolutely incredible. but, let's continue. you may not believe me when i say this, but i'm scared out of my mind so entirely that every second between our conversations is an hour added to my inevitable future breakdown. how weak, and pathetic, and disgusting, i know. i have told you so many times that i can't like people, that it's so hard for me to connect to someone new, and yet it's day three and i'm imagining that i'll be happy if only you'd hold me, as if that's what you want to do, as if that will heal me, as if that should happen. as if i'm taking things slow the way i want to, and yet don't want to. if i could properly explain in words, i'd tell you with lengthy descriptions, both vastly and vaguely, calmly and excitedly, slowly and quickly covering deep hidden and obvious and in-between meaning, proving how desperately i want to be with you, be yours and you be mine, and how, ****, how i hope you don't **** me up. because all i can think when we talk is "****." you breathe, and, between each of your heartbeats, i figure out that i like you more, and more, and ****! the way your face looks so angelic when you sleep makes me just think "god, she's going to really hurt me. she's gonna **** me up, and chances are i'll thank her for it." to be hurt by you? that would be a blessing, and yet i'm shaking. what a interesting concept. i'm sure this is proof that i'm ****** up already. i keep bringing up the time. three days, Frenchie. Three. and that's it. that is literally it. that's all we've been. so explain, please, why the first few words you said had me ranting to my friends. please, tell me, how within a day, everytime your name popped up on my screen i would giggle like a child. please, explain to me, why everytime i talk about you, my cheeks hurt so much from smiling. i'm crazy, absolutely crazy, and i know my friends have to be thinking so too, because it's been. three. *******. days. but why? as in, why is that so bad? three days, what's so wrong with that? why does liking someone have to have a time? let me explain something that i've been thinking about. two years, on and off, thirteen breakups. that was Justin and I. roughly six months after the final one, i met you. "cause everytime you hurt me, the less that i cry." i'm way too good at goodbye's. i never particularly got that song the way i do now. had we stayed apart the first to the maybe fifth time we broke up, i would have took longer to heal. but it was time thirteen, so it was all expected, hurtful of course, but expected and so, it was almost boring. almost. it would have been if it didn't rip my heart out. i rebounded. hard. many times. many people. zero regrets. but this connection to you, sometimes i catch myself fearing i'm picking up where Justin and I left off. which, yes, is really toxic. but then i remind myself, this is how a good portion of relationships start. if i like you, i'll act like it. if i want to be with you, regardless if we just met, i should act like that. right? right, that's what normal people do. but we already explained i'm not normal. i'm ****** up, and i overthink. i'm ******* up. so ******* up that i can't hold eyecontact with you because i was "trained" not to, because i'm not used to, because it makes me nervous, because i hate the way my eyes look and i believe that you shouldn't have to look at something so disgusting. god here we go, i'm talking about him again. blaming him with my "trained not to" rather than blaming myself for letting it  happen. i let myself feel like that, i let myself bow down. that's on me, that was my weakness. admittedly so, yes. i'm scared of looking in your eyes. maybe out of submission. or maybe i'm afraid of seeing what i once saw in his. but truth be told, i think i'm scared of looking into anyone's. maybe i'm once again overthinking things and it's just regular anxiety. "regular anxiety," what an interesting statement that even I can't properly explain. and by the way, i never want to compare you to him, not even the good things. (just realized this entire thing is bipolar and has been written and rewritten to a point where the overdramatic stuff became simple conversation). but why not the good things? because i don't want you to be like him in any way, and i don't want to be with someone like him again. i realize that i will eventually, and might have already without properly realizing it, compared you to him. but, as i like to say, if i don't look at it, it isn't there. so we're not going to pay this any mind. there's so many things that i can say behind all of  this but my mind is going too fast, and it also just realized that most of this is literally so ******* stupid that i should shut up about, i was truly overreacting. maybe if i remember, i'll retype this until it sounds less crazy and obsessive. good thing i edit before i show, so yes i was planning on showing someone. but probably not a lot. only a few trusted people. but now that i read and reread i might just keep this to myself. not that it will matter if i explain, seeing as i might never show this to you, but it's nice to give this to a ghost of you, although it leaves my imagination running wild trying to figure out how you would respond. everytime i type something i want to rewrite it, and i have been rewriting it by the way, because there's no way in hell this captures a fraction of a fraction of the surface of how i'm hurting, even though i've been typing for almost two hours trying to find better words and longer sentences. this all sounds so meek and weak and pathetic in comparrison to the metaphoric erruptions and hurricanes and other natural disasters. haha. this doesn't feel natural. it's like i'm begging for attention, or manipulating you more. fun fact, he called me overdramatic, and manipulative, and tons of other things i won't get into, so i often use the words on myself. because it was and is accurate. i keep making myself out to be a victim and he said i always did that too, that i always victimized myself. he said it a lot. let me explain: i panic so much, i get sad over the smallest things. for example, he was mourning over the death of his mother and started yelling at me and wouldn't tell me that he loved me back, which i shouldn't have gotten mad over but i did. he told me "jesus, i can't even ******* miss my mom without having to make sure you're not having one of your episodes." of course i apologized, and tried to fix my issues myself when he got tired of me or in general and hung up. literally, believe me. i'm so ******* sensitive and it's annoying and i'm annoying, i'll never understand how i got the amazing friends that i do. Apollo knows that i don't deserve them. and please ******* please, i just want to stop crying because it hurts so bad. but after writing it down i feel so much  better. i stopped crying, this is part of my editting by the way, and i feel much better writing to you, ghost Frenchie. but really. it. hurts. so. bad. so bad to a point where my heart seemingly stops, i'm left breathless and NOT in the best of ways. and then said heart explodes. over. and over. and over. in milliseconds, again and again and again, all while the usual me laughs and tries to make my eyes look lively, you might get this but there's so many hours of the day where i hope no one can see the pain i'm in. because i literally have zero ******* clue how to explain the way that i feel. eeehhhh, how edgy. i'm sooooo misunderstood haha. when it hurts, my jaw clenches, i'm no longer in control of my breathing, my head hurts, my brain becomes helium and all i can think is "fuuuuuuck." but ****, as well, because. "i don't wanna be your friend, i wanna kiss your lips." i just want to touch you, and lay on top of you, legs around your waist, snuggled into your neck, breathing in your scent and finding shelter in it, listening to you sing whatever song you put in the background, the smell of **** and cigarettes and us. and beg you please, between each kiss, each time my hand finds yours. please, promise ring, please, please. please. learn how to love me. love me, please. heal me. please fix me. please make me okay. because i'm not. and i haven't been. and i don't know if i ever will and, ****, i swear i'm calm now. but knowing that, knowing that i will never be okay? that hurts worse. because it's proof that i'm aware i'm nowhere near good enough for you. i added on to Justin's issues. I don't want to add on to yours. "But J, remember, I told you that making sure you're okay is giving me something to take off of my life." but you need to focus on you, i can't just take all of your attention. i know that seems like i'm wanting you to tell me "i want you to have it," but that is literally the way i feel, please don't tell me that. i want you to drink water, and eat, and call me. god i feel awful for not calling you today, holy absolute wow. Frenchie, you're hurting on your own without my added everything. You deal with so much, you've dealt with so much, from your birth to the girls and boys of your past, and **** it. ****. we're talking and i should make the most of it, but i really just want to make you okay. i lied to you, y'know. you asked me about my best quality. i told you that i gave good advice, but truth is i probably don't. i think that my best quality is that i make jokes out of everything, i try to make people laugh all the time. that's not always a good thing. last time i texted, i said something about holding you and giving you a watermelon to make you happy. that might have ****** you off. truth is, i doubt there's something only seen as good in me. there's always a second face to everything that i am, i'm a two faced, four faced- no no. twenty faced *****, and not even like a bad ***** i mean like. little ***** baby type faces. and i know for a **** fact that your life has been worse than mine, Frenchie, my issues are literally nothing compared to yours. so, once again, i can't let you add my issues to your own, and yet here i am pouring myself out and begging ghost you to fix me. i mean what you don't read can't hurt you, but something tells me that i want to give it to you. everytime i think about showing you this, i cringe. because jesus three days, man, and i'm writing this absolute *******? and yet i can't just stop. i can't just leave. i'm too selfish for either of those. i have **** to say, and call it growth but i'm gonna ******' say it! y'know? someone's gonna read it eventually. half of me hopes that they send it to you without my permission, but the fact that i'm writing this out proves that it's more than half of me that hopes. and yet the thought of you reading this makes me wanna swallow rat poison. i can't just let you free, y'know? give you the chance to run without wanting to grab you by your legs, pull you back, breakdown and just ******' scream that you're mine, MINE MINE MINE, until you feel sorry for my hoarse voice from crying, scared because now you know, now you ******' know, Frenchie. the opening to run, the ability, it's here, it always has been. but you won't take it, you won't, will you? will you? no, i don't think so. because you've been through worse, because you want to convince me i'm not as bad as i make myself out to be, because you're not afraid, because "it takes a lot more than this" to scare you. don't you see? i'm manipulating you into liking me, Frenchie, i am. i know what to say, how to say it, i read people, i get under their skin, and then i play victim when they flee my spiders web. and i love it and hate myself, haha! ******* ****, please, ****, oh, please, like me. oh, Artemis. please. i want to try, and i will, but, seriously, don't. do not trust me. don't love me. don't like me. run. please. please. you shouldn't, i'm not good, i'm really not. and no one gets that. i'm the Jerry of the world, people are attracted because they feel sorry for me. that's my magnet's secret. pity. **** it. listen, i'm proud and upset at the fact that i'm doing this to you. i've admitted it, dearest Ghost Frenchie, and yet continue. because in the ways that i want to show you my crazy, use it as a "please help me" and keep you here, i do actually want to try for you. read that as many times as you want, I want this. I want to try, but this is my warning that maybe no one will read. this is an entire universe of new things and old things i haven't or thought i couldn't feel. i've thought about it, and i've almost done it, but i can't block you, save you, and leave it at that. because i actually want to try and be good enough. i had cried to my friends saying that you would hurt me, but i wonder if i'd end up being like your exes and just be more proof that you don't need that this world is ****** up. oh wow, there i go again with my manipulation. just. ****. i want to be with you, even though i don't deserve it, even though i have no right to, even though i know that you, lovely butterfly, have a life ahead of you. though small, i'm still a spider. this has been on my mind for so many hours that i've spent typing this, but i should have said so much more to you when you told me that you were having a bad night. you admitted that you were too stressed to even eat and that you didn't want to take it out on me, calling wouldn't be a good idea because you didn't want to snap at me. can i please just say that, good Aphrodite, the fact that you're humane enough to say that, to warn me, means so much. you don't want to take it out on me, you didn't know for sure if it would happen but you wouldn't even let it happen because? ****, because you're, ****,  you're a good person. you care about me already, and that's so ******* heartbreaking and heartlifting at the same time because, AH! ****, she LIKES me? likes, me? likes. me. Frenchie. likes. J? and at the same time. why? Frenchie seriously likes J? Haven't they warned her? i almost didn't text you, i almost just left you on open, just so you could come to me when you wanted to. i don't know why, but i responded. sort of like a puppy, y'know, that's just been yelled at. or, rather since you have cats, a kitten literally just purring and rubbing themselves along you even though they clawed your wall and you screamed. i was hesitant, but i knew that you'd try to be nice, i think? truly, i don't know my reasoning behind that, but you responded anyways. and maybe i'm wrong, but you sounded so soft and it made me smile. because you were trying, and it's dumb that i have to say that but, relationship wise, it's been so long since anyone has TRIED. when you leave me on opened or when you don't respond, my heart drops. which isn't to make you feel bad, because i know you're either frustrated, or busy, or it's a habit, but it scares me. because, again, three days??? and yet you leaving for a little just freaks me out. also, allow me to admit this. while we called, i have reasons for why i'd wake up everytime you moved. i was scared that i'd wake up and you'd be gone. not to be creepy, this is supposed to be romantic, but at least twice i remember waking up, and you were asleep, and i looked at you. god, you're literally so beautiful, Frenchie. you're literally so unbelievably gorgeous that the sun pales in comparison to your radiance. can i say more depressing, Justin related things? i shouldn't, because him being mentioned is literally making me look worse, but i never really feel up to talking about it with anyone besides, well, you. talking about exes with you, it's just, comforting. you telling me you were having a bad night gave me these wretched flashbacks and- oh, ****! this isn't meaning never tell me, like, please, please, always tell me, just, uh, let me explain cause, uh, ****, oh, Hades, it hurts. it's dreadful, really. he, uh,  he would get upset about something, or really anything that he could think of, and uhm. just, haha, stop talking. for uh, for literal hours.. and hours. and hours. out of nowhere. i wouldn't know why, so i'd blame myself and then i'd spam him, thinking that would make him want to answer and begin my whole, "please, don't leave, please, Justin, please, i'm sorry, i love you, don't leave, you're supposed to be my daddy, please, you're supposed to be mine," skit. i mean, see? proof. he couldn't deal with his own issues because i needed attention and reassurance. all. the. ******. time. i won't give excuses, he really just needed space. but space felt like a break, which sometimes he made for. but, right, for me, Justin was famous for his "just leave me alone's" and then the "i don't want this anymore" or "i'm really tired of you" haha. or it was the whole, "you're just not what i need in my life." or i mean "there's someone else" or, of course, haha, the, uh, last one, my personal favorite "we're just not compatible." like, oh, really? i mean, yesterday you hit me and told me that i was a ****, like? we're not? we? we aren't? compatible? wow, like, really? so, no future together? like, uh, oh! c'mon Mistah J!  ouch that hurt to say, but please laugh because haha, TRAUMA, am I right? but, wait? does that count as trauma? hm, i mean some of it was traumatic, right? wait hang on, yes. wait. being beat- ? well, not beat! i mean, like, i could still, y'know, move-? jesus **** what is wrong with me. i don't want to call it traumatic cause victimizing. haha, ****- but uh anyway. i'd be left trying to off myself in some petty way. because i felt like if he couldn't love me, if he, Justin Ryder, the long-legged **** who knew me better than anyone, couldn't love me, honestly, who would? "But, J like. you have friends!" yeah, i do, and i did then, too. but these lovely, amazing friends didn't come to mind the way they sometimes do now. sometimes. i mean, why do i feel like it has to be romantic for "i love you" to count. i say "i love you" to my friends all the time, honestly, because they need to hear it and i've lost so many people without telling them, y'know? but anyhow, right, no one came to mind. just him, and his lack of love for me. i mean, he was God. he was MY God. he was my world, everything, my reason to breathe, the reason i existed. i loved him. more than i've ever loved someone in my entire life. and, i mean, that's why i let him come back so many times, with open arms and apologies from me that should have slithered from his own serpent lips, the reptile. they rained from mine, eagerly, harshly, on repeat, no questions asked. he hit me, i apologized. he made a mistake, i said "i'll never do it again." i blamed myself for a lot of things that he did to me, gave excuses for him, too. y'know, the cliche "you don't know him like i do." god, i mean, i was right about that. no one knows Justin Ryder the way that i do. i hope no one ever does. Frenchie, dearest promise ring i keep referring to for poetic purposes, you asked me if i was over him. i am. i don't want him back. but if he ever texted or called, i'd break down, lose myself, hysterical hurricane J. not because i miss him, just because of the **** that i went through with him, Frenchie. it's small, y'know, compared to what others have went through. but it really, i mean, REALLY, made a huge impression. i don't want him. i keep saying that, everytime i do it becomes less believable but please understand that it isn't him, it's what he did. but **** there i go putting the blame on him again. Frenchie, are you over her? see, the fact that someone came to your mind means that sometimes you question it. unless you really just thought to yourself, "who, am i over who J?" maybe i'll never know. but you should know this. desperately, quite desperately, i want to tell you that your smile makes me feel safe. and i haven't been able to feel so safe from such a small thing in months, almost a year. because how could i trust his smile, y'know? even before the very end, in the middle, in the first time, how could i ever trust his soul-stealing smile? especially when i saw him making it at whatever girl he chose next or, funny thing, even during our time together. i want to explain to you, Frenchie, that i know you need space, and that, even though i realize that, i'm so terrified of ******* up the way i did with him. when i'm upset, i need to be smothered. not everyone is like that, i have to cope with it. haha, wow what a *****, i have to cope with your ways of coping, god i annoy myself. but. regardless of the amount of friends i have who assure me that, "J it wasn't your fault, Justin was the issue, J you weren't the toxic one" i can't believe it. i refuse to think that it was just him. another lyric so a song i enjoy "it takes two to toxic," i keep thinking of songs, but i think you understand that, too, my adhd love. i should have, could have, done better as a person for him. not saying that i regret not, but the fact that i could and i didn't? maybe i should have shut up, maybe i should have said more. everything was beyond the severity of walking on eggshells, which he said often that he had to do around me because, i mean, i've explained that. it's just more proof, you see, that i was too sensitive, proof that i should have been tougher, said less, comforted more. but didn't he know how he made me feel? that i was trying, truly trying my hardest? didn't he know that i loved him so entirely that i gave up my best friends so he'd look at me. didn't he know? didn't he? honestly, how could he have not. i worshipped the literal ground he walked on, didn't i? did i? or am i exaggerating again? should i have ran? yes, no. yes. maybe, or maybe he should have? i don't know. **** me, this? this really, this isn't about him. but it is. because he made my head all ******, the time with him anyways, cause once again it was me, too, and everything is like, oh, ****, a minefield or something. and i don't want you to think that i'm not over him. because i am. him, as himself, i'm over. but the way he made me feel, the experience, the way he changed me? i don't know. did i change for the better or the worst? i wish you could have known me before, maybe you would be able to tell me if the me that i am that now is better. but maybe if i knew you before, my time with him never would have happened. but i hate myself for it. "it" as in everything from the time i got with him to now, every word i've now spent almost three hours revising and rewritting, i hate myself for. that's what's ******, i don't even hate him for it or this, i literally just hate myself. i sound like such a ******* idiot for all of this,  but i'm not, Frenchie. i'm not. well, hang on, i mean i am. i'm a literal ******* *******. haha. but this is how i'm trying to explain to you, and if you ever read this maybe you'll get it. but, i want to make you happy. me. i want to make you smile more and laugh like you did, like WE did. and i know that i got attached so ****** quickly so my whole "it's hard to love people" thing seems fake. but it isn't. i can't. i literally can't tell you how hard it is. and this right here, this is hard, too. because i'm fighting with the "oh, J!! this is different" side of me and the "**** her, *******, everyone is the same" side. i'm pretty sure i told you this, but i broke up with my last girlfriend because she actually gave a **** about me. and it made me want to puke. when i did, when i left, she told me that she was in love with me. and i ran to the bathroom. and proceeded to cry, getting rid of my lunch and dinner, and almost just ended it right there because i thought, "****. if someone can love me, can say those three sacred words, to me? TO ME? i must be hiding so much from them." i just want to scream. yknow? to the world, to my friends, my family, you, that "i'm ****** UP IM ****** UP IM ****** UP PLEASE LEAVE" but "oh, gods, don't leave." please, ******* ****, if you're not ready, if you don't want me, please, tell me. if i'm too much, especially after all of this, holy ******* ****, please, tell me. because i can't take it. i can't. tell me now, these three days in where i'm confessing i want to be with you, that you can't. because i wouldn't be able to handle it much longer than from here. oh, **** yeah, it's going to hurt so much. i kept saying that i didn't want to like you. but everything draws me in, dearest Edward, and it ******* *****. it. *****. because i'm beyond aware of possibilities of the failure. and, yet, i couldn't be happier. in the middle of my frequent breakdowns, i'm so entirely full of joy. my mother tells me that i'm glowing from how entirely, like, happy i am. you're miles away, Frenchie, and yet you make me happier than i've been in a long, long, LONG time, dancing and singing around my room like an absolute idiot because i'm thinking, y'know, MAYBE. MAYBE THIS IS THE ONE. "J MAYBE YOU CAN BE LOVED, AGAIN. MAYBE SHE'LL LOVE YOU, MAYBE YOU AREN'T AS BAD AS YOU MAKE YOURSELF OUT TO BE." and everything looks so ******* amazing with you in the picture. and, still, i always ask myself, is this too fast? am i still not ready, still taking things too fast, should i shut up, am i hiding too much, doesn't she get my bipolarness and bpd? you do right, you do? oh ******* ****- **** all that, those last few questions are entire other things, and it's now 2:07 in the morning and i'm ******' done. the end done, I won't write anything else. except this. Frenchie, I know you love being called that, but there's something so entirely personal about being called by your name. sometimes I catch myself slipping on typing. maybe it was a mistake to tell me your real name.
frenchie.
sydney
a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet

i'm currently
writing poetry
instead of doing homework
for a class i have in an hour
i was going to yknow
try a little
but after a bit
i said to myself,
what the hell
and quit.

i'm so tired of college
honest to god
i wish dad would let me drop out
but no
college is what the 'good' kids do
you can't be profound
worthy
intelligent
without a college degree
so why is jenna marbles
dancing in her underwear
...i'll just tell my english teacher
i was too busy
writing poetry
go to hell,
educational *******