Memories can become blurry, over time,
like underdeveloped photographs,
or incomplete, like sunlight through blinds.

Our lives move ever forward,
like the inflexible patterns of stars.

Once fevered and immediate events
recede, with frightening, doppler effect,
as remembered yesterdays,
become forgotten yesterdays.

New Haven was abuzz. The hotels were booked and moving trucks had taken every free parking space for miles. Last Sunday was freshmen move-in day and 1,554 freshmen moved into their Yale residences. It’s one of our favorite days of the year. The hubbub of freshmen moving, lunching, shopping and later, seeing off their departing parents, created a delicious emotional chaos that we watched unfold, like a Greek chorus.

The movie ‘Love Actually’ begins and ends with montages of people greeting friends, family and loved ones at Heathrow airport - it’s emotional and heartwarming. Move-in days are a lot like that - with their gordian knots of beginnings and endings. My parents were nervous and emotional on my freshman move-in day - as was I - but we all tried, desperately, not to show it.

Welcome to New Haven freshmen, everything’s beautiful, but you’ll get too busy to enjoy it much.

We upperclassmen move in tomorrow.

Flashback to as far back as the mind goes,
Masculinity is mighty and feminism is flawed,
Man is right and woman is wrong,
Boy is strong and girl is weak,
I’m a gentleman as long as I’m on top,
She can’t speak unless spoken to,
No place for women at the pulpit,
Men can’t learn from lesser beings.

Flashback to four years old,
The first time he was told,
Homosexuals will burn eternally,
Because they’re *******,
He said God doesn’t love them,
They’re an abomination to creation.

Flashback to age twelve,
Welcome to the USA,
Export the Mexicans,
Eliminate the rag heads,
Burn the gays.

Flashback to seventh grade,
She left him for her,
The hate talk convinced him,
All gays were wrong always.

Flashback to freshmen year,
It was Halloween,
Debate class in the morning,
She was dressed as a nerd,
But obviously that so wasn’t her,
Because she was Iranian,
He asked where her turban was,
Said her outfit wasn’t complete without it.

Flashback to the close-minded, conservatively, homeschooled child,
Racism was as familiar as his father’s laugh,
Sexism known like the scent of his mother’s casseroles,
Ignorance was his bestfriend,
And hate pumped through his veins.

I don’t know if right wing racist remarks are forgivable,
But the one he was bred to despise showed nothing but forgiveness.

The Iranian girl shed tears,
Which caused him to shed his foggy lens,
For the first time, he saw his own sins,
A joke rooted in hate hurt an innocent girl,
An innocent tear hurt an ignorant boy,
I am an ignorant boy,
I felt her pain,
I stabbed myself with shame,
She befriended me,
She forgave.

Flawed people produced twisted identification,
She isn’t the Iranian girl,
Just a person.

Mexican, black, dark skinned, or light,
Christian, Atheist, Muslim,
Left wing or right,
Straight, gay, man, woman,
Irrelevant.

Mexican, black, dark skinned, or light,
Christian, Atheist, Muslim,
Left wing or right,
Straight, gay, man, woman,
Human.

When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of 4 am’s eating donuts on the bus,
Piled in big heaps to conserve warmth,
Not caring who we were laying on.
I think of lips on fire,
Sectionals that drag on and on in
The scorching sun, and staying
At attention for longer than you can bear.
I think of impossibly quick changes into uniforms,
Asking your friends to zip you up,
Band moms wiping off bibbers and shoes,
And when you’re all ready, realizing you didn’t put on your mic.
I think of falling on turf during
25 mph wind gusts, hearing the hail smash your instrument,
Not being able to feel your face,
But knowing you have to play on just the same.
I think of eating at weird times,
Breakfast at 4 am, lunch at 10 am, and supper at 10 pm,
But knowing that when you get you get a chance to eat,
The band dads have got you covered.
I think of laughing so ******* the bus
You’re crying, sobbing even, sprawled across
Your best friends, and you think you’ll never calm down
Enough to ever play your instrument again.
I think of the drum majors’ voices yelling
LEFT LEFT LEFT
Over and over again until the freshmen finally understand.
There’s always that one that never does.
I think of the moment of utter agony
Before they announce the last place in your class,
And you’re squeezing your eyes shut, praying
That at the very least, you won’t be last.
I think of that moment of utter relief
After you hear the last place in your class,
And it’s not you, and your prayers have been answered
That at the very least, you were not last.
I think of the last competition of the season,
When the seniors are bawling and it seems like
Your entire world is crashing down,
And nothing will ever be right again.
This poem could go on forever,
But finally: finally.
When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of that triumphant moment right
As your show ends for the last time,
That last horns down,
And you know you’ve given it your all,
And no matter what your score is,
You feel in your heart that you have put everything
You have out there,
All the music, the drill, the blood, sweat and tears,
Out there on that football field.
And that moment, you can get no where else, but
Marching band.

I must look like a train-wreck to everyone at this party. Emaciated-chic melting into the couch with shaky hands and sweaty palms has never looked good on anyone. I can’t tell if the bass pounding from the stereo has seeped through my skin or if my heart has turned into a battering ram, using all of its power to break through my sternum. You think I would have learned after all these years-- benzos and ***** are never a good combination. But I still have at least fifty bucks to make at this party off of over-privileged, toxin-craving youth. Besides, it’s a bearable feeling, and I can just sleep it off on the couch here tonight.
       I survey the room, attempting to remember where the stairs to the basement were located. After forcing my drooping eyelids to stay open, I watch a parade of lax bros make their way up the stairs and into the kitchen. They are a mess of scrawny limbs floating in pinnies and their air-filled heads are capped off with snapbacks. Their smugness is laughable and mostly, if not entirely, induced by massive amounts of *******. Please. The only reason people show up to this dump is because of the free ***** and the always-entertaining fight that is guaranteed to happen by the end of the party. Even then, the crowd is mostly freshmen, and they just don’t know any better.
       A booming yooooo crashes down the staircase and stumbles towards me. I refrain from rolling my eyes.
       “Hey, you!” I have no idea who this is.
       “Whatchyew got tonight?” asks the greasy manchild with a few scraggly hairs bursting out of his chin.
       “Depends on what you’re looking for,” I respond, wishing I had worn something other than an oversized sweater and leggings. You shouldn’t hide everything in your cleavage.
       “How much you want for the zannies?”
       Hoping to never see this scumbag again, I figure it wouldn’t hurt to scare him off by jumping the price to seven bucks a bar. But before I can even grab the plastic bag out of my bra, I’m momentarily blinded by piercing red and blue LEDs out the window.
       “Aw, shiiiit,” he says as he races toward the back door.
       I struggle out of the crevice in the couch and calmly follow the manchild, pushing my way through the crowd by the door. My car is waiting patiently for me in the cul de sac, and once I get past the herd of screaming freshmen, I’ll be in the clear. Anyone will move if you start throwing elbows directly into their ribs. It’s a nice party trick to use when the cops show up.
       I’m able to make it onto the back porch, but I can’t seem to find the strength that is located in my legs. My strong limbs have been replaced by jellyfish tentacles. I grab onto the railing of the steps, but I learn quickly that it’s not going to help. I trip over my feet, the stairs, the air, everything, until I am able to lean heavily on the driver’s side of my car.
       The booming yooooo reappears.
       ******* it. I can’t deal with this kid right now.
       “I just gotta text that the cops are on their way back here. Better get out.”
       ****. I face the car and begin to fumble with my keys. While I attempt to find the one that will open this machine, I listen to the wail of sirens a few streets down. I finally retrieve it, but I realize by the time I start the car and head towards home, the cops will be here, and I can’t ruin my spotless record. The knee-high hedges lining the circle would never be able to completely cover me, and every other house on this street looks unfamiliar. I press a small, blue button and hear a pop in the back. Normally at this time, my common sense would **** in and tell me that the trunk of a car isn’t exactly a good place to hide, but I’m starting to feel the cold through the numbness. And the last thing I want to deal with is explaining to my parents how their angel has taken herself off of her meds to make some extra cash.  Better get comfortable, I guess.
       I lumber into the trunk, thankful that there are at least some blankets left over from the last time I went camping with my family. Breathing heavily, I pull the lid behind me. From here, several familiar voices grow frantic and demanding: Dump that **** now... Get rid of it... I don’t care how much you spent, I’m not getting caught with it... I roll gently onto my side, careful not to shake the car, only to rediscover the plastic bag filled with Xanax.
       I freeze when I hear cars pull up nearby. The crash of heavy metal doors boom through the hectic sounds of the people trying their hardest to get out of the way. I listen to the rough growl of a sturdy boot as it kicks aside pieces of broken glass and plastic cups.
       “You think that after the fourth time we’ve busted this house, they would get the hint,” says a stern officer. I imagine him as they type with a faded buzz cut, bulging muscles, and aviator sunglasses even though it’s well past midnight.
       “Well, kids will be kids,” says a more seasoned member of the law. He sounds like my grandfather and has probably seen more terrifying images than an underage girl in skimpy clothing puking in a nearby flowerbed. It seems as though the stern officer is herding the party-goers towards the back of the patrol car.
       “That’s no excuse,” says Stern Cop.
       “So you’re telling me that you never went to a party or had a beer before you turned 21?”
       “Well, that’s different. I was in control.”
       Hearing your rights sounds much less dramatic in real life than it does on TV. For these underage drinkers, it’s a sped-up process that is muffled by their own sobs. The metallic clink of handcuffs echoes through the air and immediately hushes everyone. Soft Cop chuckles and gently closes the door, attempting not to startle the shaken-up criminals.
       I am finally able to exhale as a car drives away, but I don’t feel as if I’ve gotten away with anything. I shift onto my back and look up at the roof of the trunk, illuminated by the blue-green light of my cell phone. Glancing down at the screen, I see the time: 1:47 a.m. I’m going to have to venture out into the world eventually.
       As I gather my strength and roll towards the trunk release, I feel my keys in my pocket along with a tiny click. Immediately, my car begins to scream. I scramble for my keys, hoping that no one is here to witness the embarrassing mess I’ve made of myself. Once I finally get the car to calm down, I hear an intoxicating mix of chuckles and mild profanities strung together. It’s Soft Cop. He knows.
       “Is everything alright in there?” asks Soft Cop as he knocks on the trunk.
       What am I supposed to say? Yeah, everything’s fine. Just chillin’ out here. No worries.
       “Uh... yes, sir. Just give me a moment.”
       I unlock the trunk and start push it upwards, but Soft Cop has managed to get to it first. He is a tall, thick man with a glorious salt-and-pepper colored mustache. His soft eyes look tired like a basset hound’s. I see his name-tag–– G. Lewis. He looks like a Gary.
       “Didjya get a little stuck?” he asks.
       “Yeah.” I smile and try not to let my nervous laugh creep through.
       Gary looks around the cul de sac and back into the trunk, reaching his chubby fingers towards me. As he helps me out, I notice that he’s a lot stronger than he looks.
       “Sorry for breaking up the party tonight. Have fun?” he asks, tilting his head towards me, eyes curious and comforting.
       “For a little. I didn’t get to stay very long.”
       He nods his head towards my car. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he chuckles, “how’d you wind up in there?”
“I guess I just got scared. I didn’t want to get in trouble for being here.”
       Gary finds this amusing and swears that by now, every other cop has left the area. He explains that he’s been left to make sure nothing starts back up. He shoves his hands in his pockets and kicks around an empty Miller Lite can.
       “Listen, I can tell you’ve been drinking.” His voice has changed. I know this tone. This is the tone of Your Mother and I both love you very much, and we’re not mad. We’re just disappointed. He looks me straight in the eyes, concern written all over his face. “Correct?”
       There’s no point lying to him, but who wants to be the one throw themselves under the bus? I’m trying to put the words together, but all I can manage is incoherent babbling.
       “Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble,” he insists. “I just don’t want you driving away in this state. You seemed to have a hard time finding the steering wheel.” A smirk emerges on his face, eventually growing in size to a radiating smile. He’s proud of that one.
       “Yeah, I guess I could take a nap in the backseat.”
       “How about I just drop you off at your house. You can pick up your car in the morning. Sound like a plan?”
       “Yes, sir.”
       We look at each other for a second. No thank you is needed. No more words are necessary. I relax my shoulders and look up at the clear sky. I feel the wind blow, and I don’t seem to mind the biting December wind.
       “Didn’t bring a coat?” asks Gary.
       “Didn’t match my outfit.”
       “You sound just like my granddaughter.” He laughs. “You even have the same blonde hair and big green eyes. It’s uncanny.”
       He then stops and looks down on the ground, eyes growing wide and serious. I know what he’s looking at. I was hoping he wouldn’t see my stash that is now laying on the street: eight white pills in a plastic sandwich bag, sweaty from making a quick escape from under my sweater.
       Gary sighs and lets his lips purse, still looking at the bag. The salt-and-pepper mustache takes over his mouth. He gathers his hands on his hips, shoulders hunching forward. He stays like this as I avoid the opportunity to make eye contact. After drawing some air into his lungs, he finally has the courage to look up with sullen and wet eyes.
       “Well,” he says as he regains his composure. He kicks the bag into a nearby storm grate. “Let’s get you home.”

Slumming.
Slumming around downtown.
Slumming around downtown St. Paul.

A broke high school student.
A broke student with perpetual down time.
A broken down senior student letting go of time.

Slumming.
Slumming down to Raspberry.
Slumming down to Raspberry Island.

Walking across the Mississippi River.
The bridge had been raided.

Marching.
Marching down teal and raspberry stairs.
Icycle nose hairs.
Seeing my breath as my chest shivers.
I found my heart trapped under the solid river.

Teenagers ******* about freshmen that got the bridge raided,
Teenagers ******* about artists they've always hated
and artists ******* about things they've created.

Underagers slowly letting out smoke.
Underagers letting out what keeps their lungs beating.
Underagers slowly letting out steam, cheating.
Me.
letting out smoke that came from the ice.
Smoke of below zero temperature, freezing my insides.

Mindless.
Mindlessly walking.
Mindlessly walking through endless skyways.

Mindless.
Mindlessly talking.
Mindlessly talking about things I don't remember.
Until we've arrived at We-Be-Smokin'.

Huddling.
Huddling in a group.
Admiring the art that claimed the spot before we did.

Scuttling.
Feet scuttling.
Feet scuttling in place to outrun the cold.

Reminiscing of months before when I was sitting alone in Starbucks with my
venti white chocolate mocha listening to crazy George yell at his imaginary
wife. Not being bothered. Not being cold.

High in the midst, surrounded by his peers,
Magnus his ample front sublime uprears:
Plac’d on his chair of state, he seems a God,
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod;
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom,
His voice, in thunder, shakes the sounding dome;
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools,
Unskill’d to plod in mathematic rules.

Happy the youth! in Euclid’s axioms tried,
Though little vers’d in any art beside;
Who, scarcely skill’d an English line to pen,
Scans Attic metres with a critic’s ken.

What! though he knows not how his fathers bled,
When civil discord pil’d the fields with dead,
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance,
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France:
Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta,
Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta;
Can tell, what edicts sage Lycurgus made,
While Blackstone’s on the shelf, neglected laid;
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame,
Of Avon’s bard, rememb’ring scarce the name.

Such is the youth whose scientific pate
Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await;
Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize,
If to such glorious height, he lifts his eyes.
But lo! no common orator can hope
The envied silver cup within his scope:
Not that our heads much eloquence require,
Th’ ATHENIAN’S glowing style, or TULLY’S fire.
A manner clear or warm is useless, since
We do not try by speaking to convince;
Be other orators of pleasing proud,—
We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd:
Our gravity prefers the muttering tone,
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan:
No borrow’d grace of action must be seen,
The slightest motion would displease the Dean;
Whilst every staring Graduate would prate,
Against what—he could never imitate.

The man, who hopes t’ obtain the promis’d cup,
Must in one posture stand, and ne’er look up;
Nor stop, but rattle over every word—
No matter what, so it can not be heard:
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest:
Who speaks the fastest’s sure to speak the best;
Who utters most within the shortest space,
May, safely, hope to win the wordy race.

The Sons of Science these, who, thus repaid,
Linger in ease in Granta’s sluggish shade;
Where on Cam’s sedgy banks, supine, they lie,
Unknown, unhonour’d live—unwept for die:
Dull as the pictures, which adorn their halls,
They think all learning fix’d within their walls:
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise,
All modern arts affecting to despise;
Yet prizing Bentley’s, Brunck’s, or Porson’s note,
More than the verse on which the critic wrote:
Vain as their honours, heavy as their Ale,
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale;
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel,
When Self and Church demand a Bigot zeal.
With eager haste they court the lord of power,
(Whether ’tis PITT or PETTY rules the hour;)
To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head,
While distant mitres to their eyes are spread;
But should a storm o’erwhelm him with disgrace,
They’d fly to seek the next, who fill’d his place.
Such are the men who learning’s treasures guard!
Such is their practice, such is their reward!
This much, at least, we may presume to say—
The premium can’t exceed the price they pay.

Prologue



MyBar. The first time I heard that name, I remember thinking, "who the **** would name their club 'MyBar?'"

Three months, and innumerable trips later, I find myself thinking, "who the **** would enjoy going to MyBar?"

I am not included in that set of answers. Yet here I am anyway, stowing my ID and half muscling, half falling through the front door. Underclassmen from every clique, packed crack to **** on a 16x16 dance floor, in a dark, dank, dive that even the townies don't bother with. The pumped up pulses of the beat can be felt deep down in the bones, as the neon lights cast perverse shadows onto the throbbing masses. The basketball team stands against the wall as some of the more negotiable ladies in the club line up to publicly proclaim their devotion to our athletics department by very nearly, and perhaps occasionally, riding them like jockeys in a steeplechase. The players, sadly, likely felt akin to judges at the Westminster.

The sounds and sights assault the senses, mingling none to well with the excess of alcohol coursing through my system. Disoriented and dangerously uncoordinated, I slide seamlessly through the tightly packed crowd, the gyrating bodies of my fellow classmen gently propelling me deeper like a living, breathing conveyor belt.

Nothing in my appearance hints at the fact that I feel barely able to stand. Though I was a freshman, I was no stranger to getting falling down drunk, and had developed enough of a tolerance to the strange brew to maintain my composure under all but the most intense circumstances, as I would discover during Spring Weekend.

Despite the oppressively tight mass of bodies, the uncontained volume levels, and the array of lights, I manage to focus my intoxicated attention upon the girl in front me. She has hair the color of a glass of bourbon, and a temperament to match. Dark brown eyes, deep red lips, and lightly tanned skin covered up on this evening by a leopard print top and skinny jeans rounded out the package of the most beautiful lady I had ever managed to gain the interest of. Despite her sharp features, she was actually kind and generous. Most of the time. The other times, well, we'll get to that.

This woman is the only reason I'm here tonight. The same could be said for any other night that I come out here. But there's no saying no to her.  Even if it weren't for the fact that I was raised to honor my mates wishes (within reason), it simply wouldn't be worth the headache to disagree. If she wants something, she'll get it, and it's better to have her come home happy than in devil driver mode. Besides, it isn't all bad.

Most people would call what we're doing "dancing." I would call it "public dry *******." But these are the times we live in, I suppose. In any case, I've certainly had worse nights than tonight.

Later on as the crowd thinned out, I was just about to do the same, smoking a cigarette on the snow covered deck around the front of the building. Clothed coitus can really drain a guys reserves. Especially one who's only nourishment in the past five hours has been Jaegermeister and cigarettes.

Our little group begins it's exhausted yet boisterous journey back to the dorm rooms. My girl friend of three months, much like every other night we drink, is absolutely twisted. Propped up between two of us, she laughs uncontrollably as she sways from side to side, bucking us off balance as she does. By the time we get through the door, she's calmed down enough to be inside of a building.  Stripped to our skivvies, we climb into bed and turn off the lights. My roommate has yet to return from wherever he's disappeared to, so before we pass out, well, **** I was there I know what happened.

Anyway, she's just nodded off to sleep when I notice a smell wafting through the hallway. Were I in the comfort of my own home and smelled this smell, it would simply have meant that I left my popcorn in for a few seconds too long. However, being where I am,  I know better than to-- EEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHH

******* THREE AM ******* FIRE ALARMS!

Welcome to St. Bonaventure.

Here again at the edge of the fall
Take a deep breath and close your eyes
The drop off is closer than it seems

You're fading again
Loose crystal smiles cling to your lips
Too tired to hold on any longer

We watched and we waited
But the heart of the beast only grew stronger
In waiting for it to die, we gave it life
Gave it the will to carry on

And no one thought to call
And no bothered to write
We just sat and we stared
Carving bullets out of the walls

Tired movies loop in our eyes
Worn out songs eat away at our ears
The darkness is pressing in on us
Smothering, covering, choking the life force

Remember, darling, we brought this on ourselves
How many times did we say it couldn't get worse?
It can't happen to me?
How many times did we tell them all we were invinsible?

Truth be told, love,
We were only freshmen and amatuers.

i'll give you a
good kick between the
shoulder blades
rub your face
into the ground
until you taste
the dirt
*this is what it means
to fall
don't *******
yourself
into thinking
it's love.

We (Lisa, Leong and I) attended a cross-campus Health *** seminar the other day. I have to admit to some self-consciousness. I was worried that some professor would see us and judge - I still have some self-work to do. I’m fighting to be freer, to be well.

In an effort to destigmatize ***, they gave out vibrators - over a hundred in ten minutes - they ran out - there was a demand. That was pretty sic. I guess no one wants their dad to see a ******* charged on the family Amazon account (again).

Which got me thinking about how sexuality is different throughout the year - by season. Of course, this is the pandemic era. The last two freshmen classes have been the most isolated in history.

Which brings me to mask-crushes. Early on in the year, you may have had a crush on someone whose face you hadn’t actually seen. That girl mask-crushing on you might not think you’re as cute maskless but then maybe she’s not as hot either.

By the seasons. Admittedly, this is a cerebral look at a hot subject but I’ve asked this around and within my peer-group these are the agreed upon numbers.

Fall is when college began, summer tan lines were fading but the cafeteria was still full of summer stories. You were meeting new people or perhaps missing someone. You might have gotten a little flirty after you settled in. Still, temperatures were dropping and it was time to start covering up. ******* was recommended as the safe pandemic alternative but in some cases, new freedoms were too much to resist. ******* - 9, hookups - 1

In Winter things really slowed down, we got out even less and classes got grimly serious. There was a seasonal effect to the darkness. Of course, we needed to stay warm and maybe we cuddled up more. We’d met people by then and hookups happened but usually within our own social groups. ******* - 7, hookups - 3

Spring came in with a sneeze as the world brightened and those thoughtless plants pollinated. It was almost shocking to see how many people there were on campus. You tend to forget how many are around because everyone was sheltering or using the tunnel system. There were chances, on nice days, to get out and have fun again - just as those clothing layers started coming off. ******* - 5, hookups - 5

Then there’s summer - in my experience, summer sexuality is different - everyone’s freer, less stressed, the clothes are thinner, smaller and more revealing. The world is greener, brighter and hotter. Everyone’s making their critical summer decisions now. Some people I’ve talked to can’t wait to go home and get laid - not me - but some pretty explicit plans have been laid out around here. ******* - 3, hookups - 7

What are your ratings?

Fashion’s symbolic sensuality draws eyes, stir passions and maybe even resentments!  =]

Of course, maybe you’re above worldly conceits, above fashion. YOU, go through life as unaware as sinless Adam and you’re excessively handsome, or pretty, obviously.

But for the rest of us - fashion is the medium of our beauty and God created Paris for fashion.

We’re pretending we’ve come to Paris (our immediate, pandemic safety-pod-family) for a family reunion - but REALLY, we’re on safari - a freshmen, college-wear, “back to school,” ensemble hunt (for meeeeeeeeeeee!).

Step 1 (there’s only 1 step) - go to the Rue Saint-Honoré.

This year, I like-like Anna Molinari - most of the ready-to-wear daily-trash I snapped-up is hers - all hers. It didn’t start out that way - but she sould me on an uncharted course at first sight.

Other designers seem to be pushing old-lady-looking floral prints this season. Eeuw! Why?? DIAF.

My gran-mère (grandmother) told me - 6 days ago - as she attempted to tame my run-away hair: “You need to be unpredictable, petite beauté, not some comely young automaton. Then everyone will find you interesting and watch to see what you do next.”

Thank you, gran-mère - I’ll settle for looking interesting any time.

Five years ago
I knew an 8th grader
who felt ashamed for who he was
who felt constantly out of place
who tossed and turned at night
     with deep enough despairs
     with ideas of throwing it all away
     with plans for those actions
     with no dreams, and only one long nightmare

Three years ago
I knew a sophomore
who finally just started to accept it
who reached out and tried
who thought everyone felt the same
     with only blank stares for replies
     with only confused "friends"
     with no family backing
     with no true "inner circle"

Last year
I knew a senior
who carried the burden alone
who perfected his mask
who finally learned how to hide
     with perceived success
     with sarcasm and quick jokes
     with pushing everyone away
     with justified fear of opening up

This year
I know a college freshmen
who is struggling for acceptance of himself
who brags of the physical scars
who is afraid to reveal the deeper ones
     with walls as big as he could muster
     with iron bars to conceal what is beneath
     with pandora's box within
     with that same scared kid locked inside.

Please tell everyone your name, grade,
And what instrument you play.
We’re just going to go over some basics.
You can have a break in ten minutes.
Band, ten, HUT!
HUT!
Come to set!
Attention!
I said come to set!
Heels together, toes apart.
Check your posture!
Guide to your left!
No, your other left!
Your steps are too big.
No, now your steps are too small.
You have to stay at set for three minutes;
If anyone moves, we start again.
Restart the time!
Restart again!
Get your feet in time, freshmen!
Section leaders, I need to see you.  Now.
Your water break is still ten minutes away.
Drum majors, go get more batteries for the met.
First competition guys, good luck!
I don’t care if it’s late, we need to learn the drill.
Someone go run and turn on the field lights!
You’ll thank me later.
First football game, good luck!
Drumline, did I say you could put your instruments down?
Trumpets, get your horns up!  To the press box!
You’ll get it, don’t give up!
Last competition guys, congrats!
Give it your all and don’t look back!
Guard, don’t **** anybody with your flags.
GUARD!
Last football game, congrats!
Somebody please let the bass drums through!
Everybody give me your plumes!
Do NOT set your uniform on the ground!
I expect all of you back next year.
Thank you for giving me your best.
I apologize for when I was at my worst.
I love you guys.

The dull public ruckus of the afternoon train filled the gaps between us.
We could have been part of it,
Drowned so deep in a conversation we could gladly call our own.
But our past selves have already taken invisible
B
R
O
K
E
N
Steps away from each other.
And tucked ourselves in the tight pockets of this companionable silence
As dangerous as the trigger handled by my emotions,
A gift for your forehead.
I will shove all my pain into your being
And watch my reflection crumble to her knees with a familiar cry of agony.
Mauled into frayed flesh in a crimson rose bush
That we had woven friendship wraths from.
And yet, my rasp throat still delivered smoothly.
“How are you today?”

Your usually anticipative eyes
Watched the scenery outside,
Disappearing just as fast as it came.
Did you think of the first day of school?
When we first approached with awkward greetings?
And from a wave and a smile
You start to attach them with questions
Questions that you should be asking me now
Things like
“Do you think we will end up in the same sec 3 class?”
“Do you want to go to ORA with me?”
“Can you save your game? We already hardly bond in class.”
“Are you even listening?”
I was.
I answered every last one,
From the beginning when we stepped into homeroom.
Even the ones you’ve never even asked me.
But now that I come running to you with my stained envelope
Are you still there at your seat?
To tell me
“You know what you need? A good cup of frozen yogurt.”


Now every glance that met
Will be snapped apart like a crisp twig.
Every walk down the corridor past each other,
Will be like two freshmen models on their first runway.
Every move, breath, laughter,
I will always be aware.
Perhaps because your voice
Will always make up for your height in the crowd,
Audible from the opposite side of the hall.
And its only until I let the quietness sink in,
When I have decided to treasure listening to the way you delivered my name,
Leaving your loud mouth like some exotic font.
That till today I still cannot decipher.

What was my height in your crowd?
164cm tall with probably less than half an inch, I guess.
You never noticed how my eyes would wander unconsciously.
Just to wonder
If you still remember I existed,
Somewhere in the pages of your scrapbook,
In the crowd,
Still searching, listening attentively.

Do you understand now?
We are standing at the extreme ends of Newton’s pendulum
Spiked from the illness of our broken bonds.
And I would swing an end so hard I would skewer you
And then the pain will come
Flying back
Stabbing me just as gruesomely.
But it’s so much better
Than disobeying the laws of reciprocation.
My friend, its unfair to be the only one.
Why not requite this one heaven of a pain?

People have pet the conflicted pain like dust off me,
And ignore the bruises that I have willingly punched myself upon.
They taught me
That the heart is a 2-room residence.
Happiness
Sadness
And if you are too happy
Don’t celebrate too loudly
Because you’ll wake the neighbor.

But could it really be helped?
This 1-year worth of what you have given me
You have left 2 party animals as clueless tenants.
Did you understand?
The fact that no matter what silly things we’ve done,
You will always be welcomed home.
And we would continue to drink
Till we are tipsy enough
To walk on the edge of the bridge we have built,
And fall into the hungry rivers
Into the places darker than black
Drowning the air out of our lungs.
But what reason should I be scared,
When you have always been the best swimmer I’ve ever known?
Forever a winner to me,
No matter how many competitions you have paddled out of the pool in disappointment.
It has always been you,
Who would slip over a note to my table,
My hair spilling over its surface in defeat.
Telling me that everything’s ok.
It’s you
Who understood that I was more of a listening person.
Your missing piece to fit your outspoken personality.
You,
The one who could even challenge me to a dance-off just to have the loser ask for the ketchup.
You,
Who could go on forever about a guy you obviously like,
But only say you ‘don’t stand a chance’.
I
The diplomatic one who would arrange you,
Like files in an office drawer.
You
The one who tried to hold us together till the end.
I,
Who failed to treasure your efforts, and share this burden.

And now that you’ve turned down the volume,
And walked out of the door without a goodbye
How am I supposed to handle the next morning, when being sober is an absolute nightmare?
Left alone to wonder what I have done
While we’re drunk, carefree and
Crumbling at the seams.

My dearest friend,
Have I ever told you,
How the number 1
Has always been our own funny little number?
Now if you just take ONE step closer…
Yes, I promise this time I’ll keep my earphones away.
I would point at the signboard above the door
And muse over how your stop,
Is ONE stop before mine.
How your birthday,
ONE day after mine.
Yeah… just like how we are ONE world apart in personality.
Isn’t that why we became like this?
SHUT UP I KNOW I’M A TERRIBLE CONVERSATION HOLDER.
I CAN NEVER PUT MY WORDS INTO THE APPROPRIATE CONTEXT.
BUT YOU KNEW THAT.
You knew.
Now go ahead.
Laugh.
Like how you always do, with that wide grin that reflected nothing but forgiveness,
Stripped down to reveal absolutely no grudges.
Because I deserve it, don’t I?
Because it was my fault,
I was the one, who willingly caused this silent war,
Fraying this thread that I mistook for a hiker’s rope.
There can only be ONE survivor in this meaningless game.
Scold me,
Because there was never such a rule.
I have decided who would be standing alone,
Long ago.
The loser,
The flower that will never find its way back from its ashes.
A.
B
R
O
K
E
N.

M
E.


(hi there. Look I tried ;w;)

The clock strikes 3:30 and the pit behind the school opens.
We feast on the smell of burning skin and sunscreen.
There is chaos as instruments are strewn across the back room,
No exits and the doors are blocked.
My eyes slide past his but I'm too burned out to care.
Freshmen are the worst,
Insisting on acting as if
They are four year olds.
Not a second late, for Whit is never late.
I have lost feeling in my legs
Still I have perfect
Technique just as he does. Water.
Water does not have an existence in this world.
Heat and sun have taken over.
Our tuba players have given up,
There they lay down in the burning
Grass. He never complains.
As I'm close to my breaking point,
Air no longer passes my
Lips and not one note escapes my keys.
The perfect string of notes and rhythm
Sound from my left. He never missed
A note.
March it back,
March it back,
March it back sixteen counts.
An endless routine.
Opening set.
These single words are bitter sweet.
In ten minutes I am free to go home
And write poetry about him.

(this one has a limited audience - but what’s new?)

Some of the best advice from my Fro-Co (seniors who volunteer as freshman advisors):

If you’re stuck in your room (due to the pandemic) open the windows.
Exercise every day - outside if you can (pandemic).
YOU, ain’t ALL THAT. Get used to it - maybe you were hot-crap in high school - but not HERE. You got a 1590 SAT and a 34 ACT score?
Congratulations, you’re one of the average students.
Never, ever, EVER miss a class (as a freshmen).
Visualize your morning the night before and GET UP EARLY.
Time management - TIME MANAGEMENT - TIME MANAGEMENT
Complete assignments as soon as you can.
You’re going to have 4 to 6 hours of homework every night - STUDY
Procrastination will **** you - STUDY
Go to events - be social - but leave early. “Popularity” isn’t important here - this isn’t high school.
Don’t expect to meet besties right away.
Don’t go to frat parties alone.
Hookup culture can be toxic.
Don’t date seniors - just don’t.
Never get a razor cut, your ends will split.

Is it bad that I want to just attack a kid for posting something on her wall.
 I'm just that crazy for her it consumes my all. 

I dont even know her well.
 But this will happen.

 I can tell.
 
* is her name
Getting her to notice me is an aim

There is something so charming about her face
It sums up all the good in the human race 

Maybe I'm just melodramatic
Or maybe I'm insane 
But I've never felt like this before and it makes me crave * I want more

More of your attention. It's like everyday I hurry out of class just to walk with you and share some insignificant broadway *******. I just love when you laugh at something I say and

 I hope this doesnt come off to strong but i think I've felt this all along. 

I adore everything about you and I just want to know if you feel this way about me too

So ** you must realize my feelings are true your love

It’s hard to say when it exactly happened.                        Man, what a boring day. Sitting here for at

There she was minding her own business                         least twenty minutes and she still hasn’t

and here I am foolishly falling in love with                        shown up. I’m starving too. At least the

her. It’s tough to say what really appealed                        weather’s nice here. The leaves are finally

to me about her. She just had a sort of                        changing and it looks like it might rain.

quality about her, just sitting on that                         Poetic. Prime people watching weather.

bench in a nonchalant fashion. Maybe her                        All of them going about their lives, for the

apathy appealed to me. Wouldn’t that be                         most part unconcerned with each other.

ironic, a lack of interest striking my own.                        It’s hard to not feel lonely when people

No, no, it had to be something else.                          prefer Facebook to real conversation.

I had the pleasure of watching her as I                         No body seems to be taking the sidewalk I

walked pass the bench. She seemed                         took today. Everyone’s just ambling along

content to just sit there waiting for                         the path along the street. There’s little

something. Maybe she was waiting for a                         traffic today too. It’s hard to make out

friend to meet her there or perhaps she                         anyone at this distance. There’s just one

was tired and wanted to take a quick rest.              boy walking past. He’s pretty average

She didn’t look at me directly, much to my             looking, nothing special really. Still I’d

disappointed relief. She was certainly                         take that over your typical Abercrombie

pretty. Not a model of perfection by the                         Frat-boy any day, though I’m pretty sure

social standard, but social opinion *****.                         they think the same for me. To hell with

She wasn’t bound by such superficialities                         them. He has dark brown hair, but it looks          

as social vanity. I wish more people were                         almost jet black with the rain clouds in

so. Her eyes were dark blue though they                         the sky. I wonder where he’s going. He

looked a tad gray on this cloudy day. It                         doesn’t seem to be in much of a hurry.

looked like it might rain.                                                Maybe he doesn’t care about getting wet.

She had brown hair cut shorter than most             He just pasts me and I really got a good

and her clothes didn’t look like they came                         look at him without looking. A plaid

from a mall. Blue jeans and brown boots                         button up with blue jeans. Carrying a

too. Not bad, not bad at all. She had a bag                         brown backpack, most likely filled with

with her, which was set down right beside             texts and other class stuff. He stops to

her. She was checking her phone and I’m                         check his phone. Maybe his girlfriend

walking past burping up butterflies. I                         texted him or his mom’s seeing how he’s

walked past her like a sleepy morning                         doing. I’d say he’s a sophomore but he

before Sunday church and stopped. I                         could be older. Judging from his look I’d

pulled out my phone, can’t have me                         say no one important. Two more

looking too awkward just standing there,                         freshmen loudly walk on by talking about

and pretended to check my text messages                         how much they hate some class they’re in.

as a pair of freshmen walked by. I had to                         Mmm, there’s my friend walking down

at least verbally confirm my existence to                         the street. Now I can finally go get some

her. I put my phone away and did a quick                         food. That boy is still texting; maybe it is

about haste.                                                           ­             his girlfriend. Too bad

She was gone.                                                            ­            He was cute

Here’s to the girls who have so much to give and no one to give it to.
The ones who spent their freshmen homecoming crying under a table.
The ones who take pills everyday praying it will take the pain away.

The girls who went through high school invisible
and the ones that are still trying to heal from that.
Here’s to the girls that have scars on their skin and even deeper ones on their heart.
Here’s to the tears that have become all too familiar.
Here’s to the endless nights, ragged breathing, and bloodshot eyes.

Here’s to the girls who know pain,
who have been through it all yet still choose to have a soft heart.
The girls that still chose to fill their lungs with air.

Here’s to the girls who haven’t given up.
The girls who have hope that burns in their souls and shines in even the darkest of nights.

Here’s to you. Here’s to me.

She and I exchanged disdainful glances
across the parking lot. The verbally brash
invitation she gave me at 10:30 two nights
earlier from a low-riding car resounded
in my brain. She wanted our graduating class
to get together and sit awkwardly around
a campfire while a few reminisced
of homeroom and half days back in high
school. And as the last few embers glowed
like residence halls, she would clear
her throat and bash college. She’d denounce
the curriculum, professors, and parking spaces
then praise the days of hurrying through carpeted
hallways and freshmen traffic. To see our classmates
laughing with hands outstretched to the flames
would bring a smile to her summer-chapped lips.
But we’re no longer classmates.
We’re just seventeen people trying to live our lives
outside the confines of Galeton High School. Sure,
we’ll bite our tongues and fake smiles every now
and then, but we’ll never be more than superficial.

I came, I lied, I learned to do both and better
Poked at people’s smiles and made some myself.
This was college, I woke, I drank, I explored
Stared at girls, got caught, stared at myself and got fatter,
Smoked, laughed, and refused to throw up.
Walked to class, but I did not go through the door
Turned around happy, dizzy and hung over
Outside, Gazed at the sun and forgot I was one.
Ignored my phone, fathers calls and mother
Spoke up my lies, tied lead to my feet.
Met a beautiful demon girl and did some lines.
Woke up again to ***, naked letters, I went to the beat
Listened to music, made some of my own
Wrote poems that rhymed too much, sent them to her
Drove my car on weekends running away with miles
Visited her, the demon, it made me smile some more
More ***, she gave me pills, and we cuddled
Alive, long and strong. She gave me love letters
She broke my heart cheated and ran for cover in France.
I lost my mind my grades, no love for my body
My hands, I still had some rubbers and No one left.
I used them once that summer
More coke, ****, pills, I hung out with friends
Thoughts of suicide all the lead the lies
Thought run away, die, run away, die
Luckily I had friends.

My pose is gathered this Saturday morning because I made a pancake and bacon breakfast. We're listening to a Britney Spears song, off one of Leong’s playlists. “I remember when I was about 8,” I say, “I was drawing and singing a Brittney song and I got to the line - “I make no apologies, I’m into phonography,”” and my mom sharply says, “Don’t say that!” And I’m left trying to figure out what I said.”

“People are harsh with her, but Britney is timeless,” Leong says.

“Everyone at Yale fancies themselves a music critic,” Lisa says. There are numerous vocal agreements. “I’m like, “Ok, Pop-off then queen, go complicated,” but in my opinion, you need to have fun with music - that’s the main purpose - just to have fun.”

“That’s like the difference between Cardi B and Niki (Minaj). You can just stroll a Cardi B song, you don’t have to interpret,” Anna adds, “but with Nicki I feel I have to listen to see the point.”

Lisa, surfing on her iPad asks, “Did you guys see that Jojo Seawall wasn’t invited to the kid’s choice awards - because she came out as lesbian?”

Sophy says, “Nickelodeon’s been trying to seem MORE accepting, working in more black artists.”

“Yeah, but they’re fake.” Anna pronounces. Everyone nods agreement.

“He hasn’t called all WEEK,” Sophy moans, holding her iPhone up to her ear like she expected to hear ticking, “I made a ghost of him,” she says, flopping the phone on the couch.

“Should I call the Po-po?” Anna asks, distracted as she searches the kitchen cupboard to be sure the pancakes were gluten free.

“I had a dream,” Lisa begins, “I was a child in a family I don’t know. We were criminals. We stole a car and robbed a store. My dream mom ran the operation. And wouldn’t let me watch TV until I emptied the loot out of the car. Then the police arrived, we saw the flashing red and blue lights through closed venetian blinds, then there was a banging on the door, in the dream, that woke me up.”

“That’s way off track but It’s fine, so fine, I see how it is.” Sophy said, “I’m bleak and no one CARES.”

“Is love something you find, or something you believe?” I ask no one in particular.

“That’s a coffee-cup inscription.” Anna pronounces.

“Aaggh,” Leong says, “An email from my professor - it’s TLTR.” We think it's a policy that professors at Yale have to send incredibly long emails - almost too long to read (TLTR).

There’re only three weeks left of our freshman year, so emails are flying and everyone’s trying to nail things down for a smooth ending.

you don't understand me
but do you even care to try?
let me introduce myself
i am Sam
born into a winter wonderland, at the peak of the Christmas season, with the smell of pine and gingerbread
my mother was a brown-haired beauty who loved as much as anyone could
my father was a diligent working man, who secretly was a head-banger
or not so secretly anymore
i'm the youngest of two girls
my sister was considered a basket-case, until she moved us all with her art
each family has a child with a problem - or is a problem
i had a brain problem, i couldn't operate correctly and no doctor could find the time to find my instruction manual... but they did fix me, at some point
after i was the guinea pig who had to endure test after test and all of their wannabe God decisions
i was the girl at school who people thought came from France
i had an accent, they said
i told them, no
i was born here, under the stars, my mom telling me that the sky was mine to see and create
they laughed and would walk away
i could see it in their eyes
she's weird, they thought
they kept there distance for seven years, solitude fit me well
i had friends, three i think
but they all eventually left, and i was alone again
but, when i was nine, i found a pen and a piece of paper
and i wrote about how beautiful the flowers were
and how big the sky seemed, how lustful the wind seemed, and how i thought it was calling me
my parents read it and smiled, knowing i had finally found the thing that set me free
i wasn't good at sports, but i was a real bookworm
preferring characters to real people, because  Harry Potter was the boy that lived
and if he could survive the dark lord i would survive school and all the mean girls that came with it
they didn't take notice of me till i was fourteen and i got contacts and a gleam in my eye
i started to carry a book-bag and wear make-up and i instantly became "cool"
but i did not want their friendship, i had tried to be there friends a million times
always being shot-down because i was a "nerd" and everyone knew it was bad to be smart
because you had to have a brain to be smart and you had to think on a daily basis
on more than what we just learned in the classroom
i'm now a freshmen and i have four years until i can be free
let go from my birdcage and just fly above the world, touching the stars and reaching my dreams
oh, hi
i'm Sam
i can only be
me

Little girl started feeling insecure at the age of twelve, certainly it wouldn't be the last.

At first the voices didn’t get to her, but eventually, the voices got to her enveloping her into an all too familiar embrace that she wanted to escape.

At the age of 13, it was a fresh new start, it was the start of freshmen year,  little girl was actually doing okay but she couldn't help but hear the voices at the back of her head, screaming at her, comparing her to numerous other girls she saw on instagram, on runways and on the hallways, how different in size and appearance she was compared to all of them.

At the age of 14, little girl thought everything was going to change unfortunately for her, it didn’t when insecurities came crashing down onto her like how reality crashes down unto you after reading a good book, when people did not only comment how big she was but they started being more specific about their implications.

Normally, she wouldn't have taken it seriously.
Scientifically, it was normal for her to grow on those areas because, news flash, it's part of adolescence, but for her, it was just another file to add into a file cabinet, she called life. A disorganized file cabinet, she was too exhausted to organize.

14-year-old girl started wearing 2 sports bras at once, not minding how she couldn't breathe, not minding how her lungs were gasping for relaxation and to be able to be comfortable enough to grasp oxygen, but she did not care with how the way her body was begging her to give it oxygen, her body did not deserve to breathe for being such a burden in her life.

14-year-old girl also learned how to skip meals, it was the year in which she learned how to lie about her being full because it would be embarrassing enough to say that she was hungry at 6:30 am in the morning when she basically devoured everything they had for dinner, to at least fill up the gaping hole of emptiness and unsatisfaction she feels when she looks at herself in the mirror and can't a single thing to like about herself.

14-year-old girl also learned how to act, act sick so no one would question her why she threw up all the food she devoured, when in reality she grasped onto her neck, so tightly, choking herself and made her release all the chewed up food they had for dinner, unfortunately it did not release all the insecurities and coped up feelings she kept inside of her, she punished herself because her body did not deserve that satisfaction, her body did not deserve being rewarded for being such a burden in her life.

14-year-old girl told herself to not eat.  Simple.
14-year-old girl told herself that guys wouldn't like her because of her insecurities.
14-year-old girl had to swallow every tear that was made when people made fat jokes at her. That was the only thing she was good at. Swallowing, devouring, being fat. Being such a ******* burden.

Little girl was always so immersed into her body, always investing time to punish herself because she was never what the norms were.

At the age of 15 little girl gave up on caring.

15-year-old girl realized she did not need people's validation on how she should look physically.

15-year-old girl realized that her body is a temple worthy of praise and worship, not insults and comments about how it should look.

15-year-old girl understood the concept of false advertisement.  

15-year-old girl realized that she is lovable, she is worth love and she does not need any guy to show her that, that the only love she needed was love towards herself.

We were young and dumb and learning to grow up in a world that wanted us to stay young
We kissed under the stars at the lake with our shoes thrown down the hill
Our hands intertwined as we experienced what a french kiss was--
messy, sloppy, and full of my long hair
you would call it weird

We thought we were older than we really were
annoyed that the adults couldn't see that we weren't children even though we still were
We complained about rules and your step-siblings being sent to watch us
We would sneak out of the house at night where we would dance to no music in the streets
and would lay on the trampoline trying to figure out exactly what first, second, and third base were
We didn't really know anything even though you played baseball

We were freshmen in college
miles apart and set up by my best friend
I resisted initially but our connection was instant and I finally realized this is what love was
not awkward kissing that never felt right
not experimental touching
it was true and funny and it didn't judge or get upset if my weird long hair got in the way of a kiss
It was losing my virginity and staying in your arms all night
It was you.
It still is you even these years later
I'm sorry it took a while before I could get to you

7:30PM, October 9, 2015, 65*F, 10mph breeze, 5% humidity (somehow 10% where I was sitting), 50.0001% chance of rain, dark, cold, late, loud...I think that's enough. Alright! Spoiler alert, Birkston High won the game. If you simply have ears you've known that for a while (many of us who were at the game don't). All the people in Grenfolkshire were there, so there were some empty bleachers, but the Student section was full and lively, and did I say loud, because LOUD....! My ears were ringing (at a B8 note, for the musically overcurious people) for three days straight. I think it was a healthcare tactic, dare I say it. All those figurehead townspeople were there as well, like Mayor Arnofold Plattersbury with his orange jumpsuit, waving a pompom in the air like he just didn't care. Really, he didn't-I got whacked in the head with it eleven times. Recently, after taking a recent poll on the recent event, it was found that only about 35% of people really knew what happened, a number that has declined, recently. This very well is contributed to 1.) most of the people are there for the free food and don't exactly major in football 2.) teenagers are highly social creatures 3.) a bunch of hands in the air and six foot tall mammoths standing on the bleachers will tend to block the view of the people who are five foot small. The freshmen had a real problem on their heads. Nevertheless, the Wildcats found themselves with the bell for another year, whether they knew it or not. The Panthers found themselves nose-in-the-dirt, tail-dragging, while we found ourselves filing out like a herd of wild penguins onto the field.

Seriously where the **** are you. I need you now more than ever and I don't know where you are. You've stood by my side since my freshmen year, please don't leave me now. Please. I need you. My rock my anchor my semicolon. Where the **** are you....

-Mariah: "what makes you different"?
•Johnathan: "I don't want you, I need you"
-Mariah: "what do you need from me"?
•Johnathan: "I need your heart and I need to give you mines"
-Mariah: "What are you gonna do with my heart"?
•Johnathan: "I'm going to cradle it right aside my own, I'm going to compress them together so I won't miss a beat of your life"
-Mariah: "well you already missed every beat up until now. My heart has taken a beaten and I don't think you can heal it"
•Johnathan: "I can't heal it by myself you have to help me"
-Mariah: "If you're good enough of a man then you can do it alone"
•Johnathan: (interrupting) "wrong"
-Mariah: "I need a man to be able to carry the load. I'm right I don't think that you can do it, and if you can't do it by yourself you can't do it"
•Johnathan: "So you're telling me that you want a man who put up all the effort to comfort and please you but in return his heart remain empty; what are you gonna do to keep love loving you?"
-Mariah: "I usually make a guy prove to me that he really love me before I can show him my love, I'm worth it. Right?"
•Johnathan: "it's not all about worthiness. Worthiness doesn't always consist of how much value another person place upon you. Especially if a person don't get the results from what they invested all their time and mind in. If the person isn't satisfied themselves, they're only tired, then where's the "worth" in that deal? That's only gambling"
-Mariah: "So you're telling me that I'm not worth it"?
•Johnathan: "Mariah listen do you think I would be here trying to fix something that's broke if it doesn't mean anything?"
-Mariah: "I don't know would you? And how am I suppose to know that you're not just trying to break me more?"
•Johnathan: "because if I was trying to break your more I would tell you that you're only useful for pleasure. Besides if you remember, I said that I wanna give you my heart as well; therefore, I'm putting my feelings on the line too. I can get hurt as well as you could. You do know men can hurt huh?"
-Mariah: "Every man that I came across seem not to care, so from my experience I don't know if men hurt. Men only seem to think and feel with their penises. Look I heard it all and I'm tired of men I don't wanna hear anymore lies"
•Johnathan: "Well have you ever thought that it was just the men that you are attracted to? And have you ever thought that you are attracted to boys and not men? And have you ever considered the fact that boys only do exactly what it is that they think they can do? So mistreating you, lying, and relying solely on ****** relations they thought was well within their rights; moreover, the rights that you granted them".
-Mariah: (She storms off angrily without saying anything)

The truth is blistering to lies told and  lies lived.
Hearing the truth kills all disputes
But if she's scared of the truth then she'll find herself comforted by lies
Men try to be supplementary to souls
And boys deter lives
They chase thrilling moments
And if she run off of fun as well, then let the games begin
But the heart is so dramatic that excitement always ends
Serious men...
Come along and by then pain is plain
She's used to it like a pilot in a plane soaring over terrain
And love is a joystick
She only had a demo
Mistakenly she judges the entire franchise from the games that the rookies played
Discrediting hall of fame names and the ones who has not yet been  inducted
She handed her heart to freshmen and they muffed it
They were too inexperienced to coach her that when she  hear the truth to trust it

Mariah is used to liars
Johnathan is a honest man

I started high school with grand intentions of grand friends and grand grades and boys would only be a street-side fruit stand to glance at while I cruised on by.

Intentions never quite work the way you plan.

My first class of the day, a boy with striking blue eyes, an awkward gaunt, and floppy hair sat down next to me and started talking about Pokemon. He had seen my Pokeball pin on my backpack and had singled me out as the person to vilify him the least. I was uncomfortable and unsure, horrified by his brashness. The seat had been meant for my best friend, Cathy.

But the second his mouth opened the teen awkwardness faded from his face and he become bright exuberance. Stunned and flustered, I stared as he passionately smiled and seemed to revel in our one-sided conversation.

This happened for weeks and I eventually became comfortable enough to talk back. His smile widened as he seemed pleased to find another person who was willing to be a little weird. I didn't know nearly as much as him, but I learned because I loved to watch him beam.

Right before the homecoming dance, he asked me out with a poster that said, "I choose you! Do you want to choose me too?" I blushed and said yes, and we coordinated red for our first dance as high school freshmen.

At the dance, though, my blue eyed beamer was someone anew. He was dorky and the way he danced was flamboyant but terrifying. He often ditched me for his marching band friends, and I felt more humiliated and uncomfortable around him than the bright admiration I had felt before.

When he took me home that night, he tried to kiss me and at the last second I ducked away and gave him a hug before running inside. Those lips weren't nearly as enticing anymore when they weren't beaming at me.

The next week in class, he sat next to a different person. A guy from his science class, I heard from my friends. I shrugged and went on doodling on my notebook. At least I learned now what a Gardevoir was.

There we were, back to square one. Guess it takes more than a semi-mutual interest and a beautiful smile to maintain a relationship. And there I was, back to grand intentions and great expectations, but this time I knew things won't ever go quite exactly as you plan.

He ended up dating Cathy later, and he and I are close friends now. He's actually pretty fun when he bothers pays attention.

But this was the end of our love story.

i tell myself someday i'll start living
not just breathing and moving
and using fake ****** expressions
i don't wanna make waves as a freshmen
'cause i know one you throw the stone
you don't control the ripple
and the waves can reach many shores
so i'm afraid to become attached
and afraid to say how i feel
i'm not comfortable with myself
hell, i'm barely comfortable with people
if it weren't for my three really good friends
Camille, Elizabeth, and Lexi
would i still smile
no
would i start living
no

living, to me, is doing what you love
every **** day
and loving people
and being happy
all the time
and listening to music that makes you dance
going outside
being able to sit with people and not wanting to leave, or feeling like your being judged
not judging yourself
loving yourself
making beautiful art, but no one gets it except you
and when someone does understand it, you fight for them, because you know it's meant to be
and if they slip through you  hands, you move on
no regrets
no broken promises
you go after each dream
every **** one

and one day, you'll die
but you won't say "i wish i did this..."
you'll smile and say
"i'm glad i did this..."

i think it's the saddest thing in the world that some people aren't living
in a sense, they are already dead
they are just atoms moving through the air
until the air stops coming
and the atoms cease to move
they die
never knowing
life