pair is.

At the beginning of the semester we were given a checklist.

Fall in love with:

• Paris
• Your journal
• Your blog
• Someone in the class
• Yourself

And although I've almost finished, I think the list is wrong. 

Paris was never a boy to fall in love with. 

Paris was a shelter. A Home to come home to after all was said and done.

A refuge where the outcasts and the liars and the beggars held hands and shared themselves. 

A dark alley filled with torn coats and kept promises.

Paris was the only way to walk through the halls without falling for popularity.

A street light waiting for the perfect lovers first dance.

A trophy case. Empty hope with plans for the future.

Paris was never about robot hearts or dancing videos or baguettes on the street corner. 

What our bones said didn't matter.

Paris is where the grass can't be compared elsewhere. 

Where our hearts stopped fitting in boxes and started beating in measures.

Where the dress robes of graduation didn't change our heads.

We measured the ink stains that Pairs left in our backpacks and the hymns Paris put in our minds.

We even laughed at the street vendors goofy art. 

It is our stroller to take the love of our world on a walk.

Because strollers will grow too small and walking will turn to running, 

but the starting place:

the first home, the first heartbreak, the first proud poem, 

will always dance with us.

Paris was the beginning of the you you didn't know you were going to find.

An open love letter from the past and the future. 

It was signed in handwriting you didn't recognize but a name you'll always wear.

Paris is where the fountain of youth becomes a reality and the antidote to all your problems stops coming in bottles.
A worship ground and a sacred city.
Lights turned out to hold the reverence.
Fuzzy feelings and worn-out notes.
Shattering lines and world-spinning emotions.

Paris was always yours to love, but it was never going to stand still.

Is this real life?

Real Talk.
I check for comments on the daily and I run out of things to like on Instagram. I still have Candy Crush on my phone and I'm still on level 167. One of these days I'll beat it.

Real Talk
My Dad is dead and sometimes I milk it more than I should. My Dad is dead and sometimes it feels like people are laughing that they have it so much better than I do. Sometimes I ask God for his voice or a dance at my wedding. Sometimes it hurts the way I look at my step-father. 8 years a blended family and I still don't know how I feel about him.

Real Talk
I was never the shine on the team. I loved to dance and I loved to sing and I loved to cheer. But I was always the background noise or the front spot or the ensemble.  All I ever wanted was to shine.

Real Talk.
I want to tell you that you make me smile in a different way than I'm used to. That I'm not sure how much I like it yet because every brand wears a little different. That I don't have the time or the energy to go somewhere with my life right now and that's not an excuse, it's the truth.
I want to tell you that I'd like to try, but I know my heart isn't fully healed from the last rental. That I want to learn to be alone again before I try to mess up someone else. That I know it's not worth it if I'm not ready so I'll just keep hitting snooze, and hoping you come back in 15 minutes.

Real Talk
You are lying if you say you've never called yourself fat.You are lying if you say you've never called yourself skinny. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't had to divorce myself from a mirror who worshiped and resented my body all at the same time.

Real Talk
 I've got a lot of problems. I've got medication on my dresser to attack disorders I still won't admit I have. I like to think of myself as a positive person but I'm scared the pills paint my smiles. I hate to gossip but it's my number one hobby and I wonder when I'll grow up and stop needing back stabbing validation. It's the first thing I'd tell you I'm trying to change about myself.

Real Talk
I'm cutest couple in the yearbook with a boy who won't make conversation with me about the weather. If that's not awkward I don't know what is. I don't even know if I'm allowed to ask him to sign the page. And I guess I can be thankful we haven't sunk to subtweets and painful comments, but I still wish we were above echoing silence and dinner left out to get cold.

Real Talk.
I have no idea what I'm going to read for the slam or how to write something that makes you remember me after they hand us our diplomas, after we wave goodbye to the lockers we never used. But real talk, I want you to remember me. I don't want to be a face in your hallway I want to be Sarah Matthews. That girl that comes up in conversation a  few months from now and you wonder what I'm up to. and maybe that's all the bucket list was really about, but who knows.

Real Talk
I'm not a trashy person but Saturday night you'd think I was raised by wolves. And there are a thousand more I wish I would have kissed. Around the fire names were taunted and I didn't have a single objection. and maybe that's just how I thought I could be remembered. But garbage gets put on the curb on Thursdays and it's never thought of again. Or so they tell me.


REAL TALK
we all feel inadequate for different reasons. We all have growing pains and water balloon lungs that feel better under summer sun. Every last one of us looked at the sky at least once as a child and saw a future we've probably given up on. Popsicles and lemonade stands, the sidewalk used to be for more than just walking. And so were our hearts.

Real Talk:
This world needs more Cameron Mitchell fans.

My, (or so I thought)

This one goes out to the sophomores. The cheerleaders especially. This one goes out to the girls who already weigh less than average and don't understand that. For the girls who were told to lose weight, to work out, to stop eating. For the broken smiles and acid washed teeth I see myself in every day.

Your dreams are not worth trading for a pair of size 00's. Trust me. You're going to need more than a sugar IV and half a cliff bar to get there.

The most expensive brands will tell you that your salvation comes through two fingers to the back of your throat and the water at the dinner table will taunt you until it fills more of your life than you do. The first 10 pounds, the first milestone, the first pair of jeans and swimsuit and boy who looks at you as an object will validate your progress in a braided way. Lies mixed with the truth, working from the outside in.

An elevator down and a staircase up. Soup will become your very best friend and your very worst time. You will crawl into a jail cell and ask them to lock you away from yourself. But they will give you a spare key in case you need a drink break. Don't take the drink break. They will give you a blanket of warm thoughts and happy memories, but all you'll see if how skinny you were in the pictures. You'll frame a hand stitched promise and you'll memorize every mistake the needle made because of your hands.

and you'll drop enough weight to forget happiness altogether.

You'll have problems child, you'll never look at boys the same and you'll never underthink the way they look at you. The magazine covers will never be edited and you will glorify the dizziness that sets in when your feet step on dry ground. Anna and Mia will take over your cell phone and no one will get a word in or out.

Your dreams are not worth trading for a pair of size 00's.

Because when you think you have swam oceans to become a new you, you'll hit new landmarks with new sights to see and new reasons to crave thin. Because you will take every airplane ride out of this Hell and every boat and every back road and every bike ride away from the city and you'll still end up somewhere you can't call home. and you'll want a drink break from the running.

This one goes out to the girls on the fence. With one foot in the kiddie pool and one foot in the tanning bed. This one goes out to the secret formula worshippers and the thigh gap wanters. This one goes out to the mistakes that don't need to be made. Your dreams are not worth the double 0.

No Boys Allowed.

This post is for the girls who were pushed off a cliff into an empty surprise party.
  And to anyone else that watched winter melt into spring as best friends melted into strangers.

This moment is a horizon. This moment will stretch out forever if you let it.
Close your eyes darling girl. Let the undertones of sleep memorize your mind so they can paint your perfect sunrise. We all spend too much time looking at constellations named in the past.

The man who found the big dipper first is dead and gone, so let him be.
 He'll never shake your hand for a job well done, so stop waiting.

The Romans were the first to piece together broken lives and call it art, but they don't have to be the last. Their mosaic spells are sold across the world as valued, and as soon as you're finished with all this midnight sky, yours will be too.

Don't let the keys on his left hand convince you there's a lock on your door. He is a baseborn food chain and you are climbing the steps out of this mouse trap. You were not carried in the sand without water you were driven to the edge to appreciate a better view. Trust me, the jokes are so much funnier when your laugh is not for his.

Salt shined eyes and powder pressed hair, you opened your mind for too long last night.
If sleep can't cure your disease at least it can take your breathing away. Insomnia is your best friend's cousin:  follow her on instagram but do not spend entertaining efforts on the weekend. She will leave town if you forget to introduce her to your multitude.

And nobody tells you that April showers bring gifts for his new lover. Nobody prepares you for the way her laugh rings like a church bell on the wedding day of a deserving bride. Nobody warns you to look away from the paths your feet have thoughtlessly carved through your tile day.

 But I'll tell you this is not a place to stay.

They'll offer a seat and a glass of milk and tell you it's a welcoming world for the afterthought. It's never a welcoming world for the afterthought. Cardstock lies and scissor cut love. They mass produce greeting cards for this exact occasion. Paint buckets filled with emotions you'd like to store in the garage and old pajama pants your embarrassed to admit you wear. Time will throw them out with newspaper articles about the weather. And you won't remember this sunset very long because nobody talks about the first attempt if cancer is cured on the third.

A basket full of candy and a throat full of rum. Do not leave your images behind simply because  numbness includes you in her dinner party. Memories of the night you walked without a cane will always lift more than the wheelchair days.

That senior boy doesn't know where he's going. You can hitchhike all you want but it makes more sense to just call a taxi. Tell the driver you'd like to go somewhere nice. Somewhere with silk tides and permanent marker tattoos. He'll know where to take you.

This is not a pause. This is not a recess. In dodge ball you catch the ball to save a life but you catch a ball to take one. I'm sorry you were wearing the wrong color jersey when he tried to be a hero. Capes were never meant for high school hallways.

Wash his mustard stains out of your favorite T-shirt and finish the self-help poem you won't admit you've written. If his coordinates don't line up anymore forget about it. Odds are, you're both periodic and one day you'll find each other and have a real conversation. But surprises can't be counted down to.

It's okay to hate the sun and cry when it rains, but it's so much better to just clap for the thunder.

AP Week.

My hands smell like roast beef and that jacket I stole from you in 9th grade computer tech still smells like risks I never took and flirting I never picked up on.

We've drawn ourselves in a circle of fire

 but somehow I ended up on the inside 

alone 

and you don't know that it's okay to pour water on something that was never supposed to last through the night.

I'm too tired to make conversation and too worn out to feel alone.

 Come sit with me and drink in this thing they call beautiful. 

Come sit with me and trace the stars with the tips of pencils that were never meant to fit our backpacks.

 I'm sitting in a cold room learning about plagiarism and I wonder if you can be arrested for stealing the lines from my veins and not using quotation marks. 

There are 17 kids in my English class. 14 that regularly show up. 

That's a disappointment I've learned to find consistent.

Which makes it much easier to hold.

Rocking chairs, pendulums, my stability :

Things that swing. Back and forth like a wave on a roller coaster in spinning hamster wheel.

forgetting where the cycle starts and how the triggers came to be.

A starting gun.

Every track meet another starting gun.

and sometimes you take off running but most of the time it's just me.

and I get to the finish line alone and wonder why you only run half the races.
Why you never cared about taking places.
Why you won't fill in the spaces.

You think I look like a slob because I haven't gotten ready all week.
I think I'm making strides in my confidence by not caring what you think.
If you want to see who your real friends are, take off the make-up and watch who still wants to be seen with you in the halls.
It might surprise you.
And all the boys you were kinda flirting with will run and you'll realize how much better off you are loving yourself than waiting around for someone to do it for you.
I wish I could make a metaphor out of the way this week has treated me.
It'd probably win me the poetic Olympics

But for now all I've got is a stream of thoughts and emotions that can't come out of my fingertips just because they've got a soft landing place below.
I wish you could see how many colors my mind can make out of the word stress and how deliciously appealing procrastination feels on the shoulders of a 4.0

I've got 99 cents in my pockets but the world is out of pennies to make up the difference.
Karma said she'd help but then she found out I've been screwing with happiness.
She never liked that
.
Jealousy was just a word to talk about the cheerleaders
then you made it about everything else.
Happiness and an open arms approach to society.
You made a goal in my mind and I took steps toward the ribbon.

and maybe this post is too long
but I don't feel any better about the world so maybe it wasn't long enough.
We're writing to save ourselves.
I just hope I never find out from what.

I hope you sleep well tonight.

I don't expect you to read this. Hit 'ctrl f' and type in your pen name.

Sorry it's longer than the constitution. (yeah probably just don't)

I remember sitting at Jackie O's and deciding his smiles were not worth all the trouble in his feet. I remember finding out about her blog and feeling like I cracked the Mona Lisa smile. I remember finding out that she remember the middle school headband and thinking of Sheridyn. I remember being invited to her house and being invited to open my eyes that maybe people loved me.
I remember when Sterling Dahl gave me a giant green Valentine. I think it was just to get rid of his Japanese assignment but it was much needed for a 'freshly ex girlfriend'
I remember when I saw Malark Shattux in a new light.  I remember finally believing that he could treat her right.

I remember the state flower of Utah and the capital of Florida.
I remember the cereal box spoons that changed colors in your milk.
I remember making fun of Westfield Singers but secretly wanting to be one.
I remember when Limited Too made you cooler than Justice.

I remember junior year when I told my mom I felt like I had a real friend. Thanks Alis Priddy, you're the best listener/comedian/math slacker I've ever met. and I voted your blog best kept secret. Cause although your words inspired the multitudes no one knew your heart inspired mine.
I remember how empty the commons felt when I found out about Trevor Powers. I thought about his senior year and his brother and the conversations in the weight room.
I remember when June Carter showed me her journal in English. She quoted me on a #stolen page and
Madison Square Garden never would compare.

I remember being too scared to say hi to  Barney Stinson at the grocery store. Or in public wherever we were. I thought he wouldn't know who I was. My mother said that's the best way to make sure he does.
I remember hating witch of the north. He reminded me too much of a boy I'd spent 5 years making bad memories on. Too many lucky pennies and birthday candles lying about their intentions.
I remember a rainy Provo street with Brandon Robbins. I never wanted a roof and he never wanted to rebreak my hoping heart. You should feel lucky, Kinley, he wanted you to come out with so many less scars.

I remember starting a petition against the janitors in the 4th grade.
I remember taking a picture with the janitors on my last day of 4th grade because I wanted to remember them.
I remember when Virginia moved in and told me I had 'nice legs.'
I remember hitting volleyballs onto the boy's side of the gym on 'accident.' Timberline treated me well.

I remember when Scarlet White wrote a letter I'm sure was about her boyfriend and me and the awkwardness of it all. The only thing that broke my heart and the only line I still remember, 'There was a time when I considered us friends."
I remember guessing Ruby McCall's blog on the very first day, but never asking if I was right.
I remember Geez Louise surprising me by being human. Her dad was a mighty man and I thought she was a quiet obedient.
I remember feeling bad for talking over the instructions to the AP Calc test while Jennifer Clark tried to listen. It was my second time around the block and I figured I had mastered bubble filling and sticker placing, so everyone else must have too.
I remember when i killed jfk tried to kiss me. More than once I've wondered why I didn't just let him.
I remember hiking suncrest with him and Juke Box Hero and a girl I wish I didn't remember the name of. We made a seat out of branches and laid down with the lights of the city so the stars would have something to gaze at with their lovers.

I remember when bubbles were electricity and compound wishes floating through the air.
I remember health class being split in two because 8th grade maturity levels are consistent across the board.
I remember learning that expectations and disappointments are positively correlated.
I remember the 'Birthday Booth' tickets. Yellow and unused.

I remember Lily Ann Rose as a blonde. I remember her as tan. I remember her tweet that reached 1,000 favorites.
I remember finding out Bruce Lee knew my name. We'd gone to school together forever, but we'd never had a class or spoken a word.
I remember worshiping Sasha Fierce, the blog and the person, and then finding out they were the same. She makes me laugh through a computer screen, over a desk top, across a school hallway.
I remember favoriting all her tweets while she sat two seats away and waiting for her to be notified.
I remember when Luigi Vampa told me he remembered the first time we met, that I was his first friend. It made me wish I was nicer. It made me wish I had gone out of my way in high school and tried to help somebody instead of trying to be somebody.
I remember conversations about amethyest wine in my floral design class last year. There was a certain ginger we loved to tease and her name was a string we loved to pull.

I remember English with Devestated Daisy. I've never heard funnier things said about Felix. I remember blue hair and how it was the first time I wasnt bugged about girls trying to get attention with an art class explosion. Hers wasn't that, kt was simply her. I remember worshipping every one of her blog posts and stalking every one of her insta posts with her paper bag. I was trying to figure out the bag. I went to the website.

I remember when it was cool to go the football games just to hang out on the practice fields.
I remember ripping my pants in the 6th grade snow.
I remember when Taylor Paskett offered me his jacket and I'll never forgive myself for saying no.

I remember when Simba told me Harold Miner would teach me more about life than writing and I was upset because I wanted to learn how to write.I remember the day I realized I wouldn't give up the lessons he taught for any amount of golden poetry.

I remember DYW and the heels that made me feel like crawling into a cave.
I remember my first rated R movie and how guilty I felt.
I remember my second and my third and how easily the aftershock went away with humanitarian efforts.

I remember seeing Little Fox in the commons early in the morning too many times. I never said hello but I always thought I should.

I remember lotus sutra's hypnotism party, she txted everyone to say thank you. I remember her blonde streak and loving it.
I remember obsessing over pleasefindmehere. I remember the girl with long hair who I always though deserved more than the boy she was dating. I remember a tennis player and the cutest patterned skinny jeans. I remember finding out what happened and wishing I had told her all those times that she was better than everything she was strangled by.
I remember swooning at Sampon's poem about his not-prom-date and worshiping the swerve line a little too hard. I remember the caps lock conversation and the smiles he doesn't know about.
I remember chocolate covered pretzels with The Wolf Boy. It was after seminary and it was a decent weather. We didn't have much to talk about but we had plenty to say.
I remember Miles Halter coming late to practice on his bike. It was all he could talk about. He had fire in his eyes that I wish more people could find.

I remember the bright blue carpet in the basement of my last house. It's the room that kept all the board games.
I remember when Build-A-Bear sold Livestrong bracelets.
I remember the first time I wore a bikini. They were from Brazil and had a playhouse to put the Hannemann's to shame.
I remember the second time I wore a bikini. My mom thought she was a bad influence but I took friendship in any translation I could get it.
I remember The Fairly Odd Parents.

I remember when I used to hold Rothko in the air on nothing more than a set of hands. I have a hard time trusting myself so props to her.
I remember Insolence Is Bliss coming over on my birthday. He brought cookie dough and happiness. I remember he was the first person I was willing to read my poetry to.
I remember the slam in Nelson's room. Charles Darnell spoke brilliance time after time and I would let her pass the time with words for the rest of my life if I could.
I remember when Scarlet Carol wished me happy birthday in the commons. I was on my way out the door to sob in the car until I threw up on the side of the street. It meant a lot to me that even with the awkwardness of the ex and the best friend and the old news, someone was still willing to tell me happy birthday.

I remember trying to trick people on St. Patrick's Day.
I remember when they put a crown on the head of a girl in a yellow dress and she felt like maybe, just maybe, there were people in this school who saw her as something special.
I remember not being allowed to walk to the gas station without and adult.

I remember when Julianna Jane posted the video on instagram and I watched it a hundred times. I was so excited to ask her to come with me but so worried it wouldn't work out.
I remember when Hazel Grace couldn't get the key out of her car in front of Landon Hannemann's house. The car wasn't in park and that was the only night I'll ever be in his house. You taught me a very important gratitude lesson Hazel.
I remember when pumpkinspicelatte told me I was too white to wear skirts. He said I looked tan when I got home from Jamaica. He also apologized when he found out that's my strongest memory of him. Sophomore year. Good times. I remember when he didn't come to seminary and my eyes waited by the door day after day after day.

I remember the 6th grade Valentine's Dance and how I thought my dress was better than everyone else's.
I remember rice krispey treats after soccer games.
I remember salting snails on the sidewalk.
I remember getting a DDD bra for my birthday three years running. My friends signed them with our inside jokes but all I saw written was things we were supposed to remember.

I remember when Cebrina Ator txted me in the 9th grade, "So what are we doing today? :)" I'd never felt so cool in my entire life.
I remember when Shae did my hair for preference and I felt like a movie star. I remember hyperventilating before I went to pick up Cole Johnson and almost passing out.
I remember running for student council and thinking I would win because I was on Dallin Farrel's team.
I remember when Janelle called me over to Daniel's before he left on his mission. We mowed the lawn with our hands and told stories of a tomorrow we didn't want to believe was real.

I remember the juice box's at grandma's house. Unlimited. Next to the fridge. So many sugar highs.
I remember finding out grandma's garden was really an 8 foot swimming pool filled with dirt. What were they thinking?
I remember Push Pops.
I remember the first time I put on a uniform.
I remember playing with polly pockets and getting pissed when their clothes ripped.

I remember when Emma Kay included me at Prom. Even though I was terrible at including her for the last 6 years.
I remember begging Charlie Rose for her blog name around the island at the first mission call opening I didn't show up to alone. There were donuts there. They were good.
I remember Malcom Carter's gray suit (cat call, whistle, swoon.) I remember being worried too many times that I had joined in the jokes about his health and pushed it too far. I just wanted to be in. I just wanted to be funny.
I remember how delicious everything Suzie Zurflu bakes is. If Cole only knew.
I remember when Charles Carmichael didn't wear shoes and we had a conversation in Lyons room. I can't remember what it was about but I left liking him a lot more than I thought I would.

I remember making 'space ships' out of lego's that just looked like boxes.
I remember not turning out the lamp to go to sleep.
I remember seeing Monsters Inc. All my cousins were there.
I remember when the car was broken into and all I wanted was my stuffed pig.

I remember being jealous of how Dimitri Snow looked at insert name here. and then being jealous of how well they danced together on stage. I voted him biggest reveal because I never would have guessed. I remember the first day of class with him. I was freaking out because I kissed his cousin and never called again. I was sure he knew.
I remember Corrine Bailey Ray and Rosie M. Rush being the sweetest. Quiet as a mouse but as fun as a bounce house.
I remember the first time I saw Sky Trillion break. It was a sophomore history class. It was a forrest fire of tears.
I remember the class I had with Peyton Sawyer for two days at the start of my senior year. I always wished I had gotten to know you better.

I remember playing house and always wanting to be 17.
I remember being 17.
I remember wanting my mom to buy me a $60 dollar tiara in the castle in London.
I remember the $10 one she bought at Claire's. I never wore it out of the house but it's falling apart from overuse.

I remember making homemade French fries. Thin potatoes and buckets of salt.

I remember Jern Hayes before I realized how cool he was. Calculus and physics and seminary showed me a side of him living down the street from Erik never could. She's lucky: meg. You're the kinda guy people want to keep around.

I remember no u turn reading at SFYS and changing my life. I remember her in Les Mis and how perfect she was and how I wanted to give Gold Stars to the casting director.
I remember thinking about Shania Edwards. She's straight up and won't tell you something she doesn't mean. She looks like a barbie but she's as real as they come.
I remember when Erik hit Sandra Reid in the face with a volleyball. That was funny. (He felt really bad, though.) I remember when Sandra Reid was the most intimidating person on the planet.
I remember when Maurice Gibb said yes to a dance, so I told everyone. I remember he canceled through Brandon Robbins and how disappointed and dumb I felt.


I remember a lot of things that won't ever matter to you. But I'm going to keep holding on to all these rough draft adventures because someone has to.

Hi

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Why is swimsuit season a thing and why is there so much pressure to look good?

Why can't you like me even when I don't wear skirts as much as she does?

If I wore a skirt everyday would you hold my hand once in awhile?
If I can promise to curl my hair more often would it be worth it to keep me around?


I hate every last thing about my legs. Pastey and bruised, Not toned or thin or strong. They never did quite win you over and they make me a terrible height for slow dancing.

I'd like for you to tell me I'm beautiful without the tanning bed and eloquent without the 30 dollar clinique foundation.

         but you won't.

                                     because you've forgotten that hearts beat behind the picture frame you picked out and that feelings happen in teenage girls and confidence is that group of kids who will never follow you back on twitter because they simply

                       don't need you.


  You don't know that emotions are swirling my brain behind our passing conversations and that I'm SCREAMING at you to come home before you catch a cold but I think you like the cold, because she wears skirts every day and I hate everything about my legs.

and if that's the view you're willing to sell your soul for than I hope you have a nice vacation, because the devil has his dues and the resort will bleed you dry and then check you out of your room because they're on to the next guest who will always be more important than you.

Sorry about it.

Cause he's all I know how to write about.

The amount of times I gave you my heart on the end of a string and told you I'd be back by 11 at the latest is never ending.
 The days I laid out my clothes before bed hoping to impress anyone were too often. I still haven't enjoyed a rolo cookie since the time I came home crying from dance because I gave mine up because they told us not to eat caramel with our braces. I was the loser who had braces in the 4th grade. Nobody else got them until 8th.
Your eyes were always windows but I never learned how to adjust the blinds. I saw colors and magic but I never saw tears or tragic. My shoulders give me away every time, and if they didn't I'm sure my breathing would do the trick. You always changed me like a light switch.
I haven't been able to go to orange leaf since the day you decided looking at me wasn't worth the energy. I crave my favorite treat, but it's hard being alone in an ocean of happy memories. I crave my favorite treat, but you should never be seen as an object.

This is for all the times I didn't tell you I felt awkward holding your hand in the car. Or the first night you had me close and TigerLilly got pulled over. I miss laughing about our memories.

This is to you. and although I'll always love you, the grass is so much greener on the other side.

You said you'd love a picture, but I never got around to bringing one by. I guess the snapshots you took at the back of your mind will have to last as your reminder, if you want them to that is. I never liked the color green but you made it sound inviting. and even though you told me to pick I was never going to let your opinion slide. i took so many lefts I just wanted you to have one right.
To the summer days that we never actually spent together and all the mixed drinks we should have never touched. To lies about the canyon and lies about our hearts. To the CD in the car that you had almost learned the words to and the song on the piano you never really had to play.
Storybooks are for little girls. My mother told me flowers are for women. You brought me a book of pretty pictures but you never came near me with bouquets.

I thought a lot about you today.

How to.

Everybody's falling in love for the end of senior year, but I'd like to tell you how to be single.

STOP CARING. Boys suck. Girls suck.
Sleep in every morning so you don't have time to get ready (no one wants to date the hobo)
Take three AP classes and have three extra curriculars that take up all your time.
Be really annoying.
Be afraid to ask that kid for his number.
Only flirt with boys already in relationships.
KISS ANYONE AND EVERYONE - really though, it's fun sometimes.
Go home for lunch everyday.
Worry too much about social media and play 2048 at all possible opportunities.
Set your standards too high.
Don't be afraid to be smart in front of boys.
Eat. All the time.
YOU DON'T HAVE THE TIME FOR A RELATIONSHIP.
Smell weird. Every single day.
Talk about gossip girl in every conversation.
Bring a pet hamster to school in your hood. but don't tell anyone.
Don't have a group of friends that you can invite boys to come hang out with.
Wear only the color brown.
Be a sloppy kisser (no wait, don't.)
Spend all your time blogging.
Delete your skype account.
Always be stressed out.

Always be negative. 

Always make boys late for curfew. 

Ask for stupid favors. A lot. 

Have super bipolar opinions. 

Get mad when he changes his opinions based on who he hangs out with. 

Try to make him like his parents. 

Wear a marker mustache to school every other day. 

Hate pie. 

Realize that there's nothing wrong with being single.

The first image on Google.

thinking about Thai food.

High school is no longer a place for your brain to be to be filled
its king of the hill it's highs and thrills its plotting and kills.

They told us to come here with a happy attitude and smiles streaked across our insecurities but when they let the monkeys go free in the zoo no one actually gets to see what they paid for.

Netflix is cool to brag about if that's what you did all weekend but nothing feels worse than nonexistent missed calls and empty ice cream and broken lungs.

high school is supposed to train us to learn and to study and plan, but how many common sense tests have you taken and did you study for this final today? I don't know how to learn anymore than when i stepped through the door because if your mind is empty you let things go in and that concept is how Satan's favorite for sin and you can still make the shot if you bounce off the rim so why limit the minutes you learn in a dim,   low light setting?
we had to learn to use the dark for photography and lights were just accents and maybe that's why electives aren't where you learn the stuff you'll need later on in life.
but maybe they disguise those lessons as fun for reverse psychology. those bastards. the school system knew what they were doing all along, but did you?

 How many AP classes are you taking and also how often are you buying under the counter "medications?" There's a seed that's planted in our cracked clay soil and it's not a weed but the flower ain't that pretty and it's a hell of a lot of work and the fruit is bitter and only grows once and we let it stay to fill the empty so we can pretend we filled our brain with the quadratic theorem and the anti-derivative of a natural log.
 not things like how many shots it really takes to lose beer pong and how often does Walmart change out it's potato salad and did you sleep last night because i sure as heelll didn't.

My mom gives me pills but that's all our generation is anymore:
Pills and problems and people who vote for Obama because his poster was cool and black guys are good at basketball.

and I wish we could all leave happy valley for a year because Provo isn't going to fill our empty brains with street smarts and fighting tactics nor will Logan give us a leg up in the job market against someone who works Sunday's. 

and I'd like to go somewhere with my life and maybe that's not possible anymore.

Top 5 (or 13)

Peyton Sawyer - You, Me and the Rain

Percival T. Honeybee - Grand Theft Poetry (Blog Edition)

June Carter - Match Maker / Dear You 

Suzy Bishop - Secrets are for the lost soul.

Charlie L. Rose - Sincerely

i killed jfk - Letters to Arizona. / Letters to Arizona pt. 2

Things Unsaid - I Lost My Fear Last Night

Hey Miss Carter - Dedication Page Made Out To You. / All I ever wanted was the world.

Patrick Stump - The Moon

Jennifer Clark - My Moon

Little Fox - To whom it may concern

Feathers On a Fish - Words

Don't Cut Them, I pleaded.

The Act
William Carlos Williams

 " There were red roses in the rain

'Don't cut them,'
I pleaded.

'They won't last,'
she said.

'But they are so beautiful where they are,'
I said.

'Ahh, we were all beautiful once...' " 

but erosion is for more than the rocks.
and the wind you let breeze through your hair is taking the life out of your cheeks so it can continue to squirm. It's a sneaky bastard and it's going to make you feel alive because there is nothing better than a gasp of oxygen after 60 seconds under water.

We were all happy once.

Every last one of us decorated turkey's feathers with things we were thankful for, even if it always was mom, dad, food, clothes, house. We smiled when the 6th graders had field trips because that meant open swings at recess. We held hands playing red rover and giggled from blocking, not from boys. Chocolate chip cookies and milk were the magicians best kept secret.

We were all happy once.

Before Adventure Books and Birthday Cakes. Before yellow teeth and knobby knees. Before AP tests and acne scars. Before poetry and coffee. Before dusty windows and try-out teams. Before inside tweets and un-replyed to attention screams.

We were all happy once.

And I guess there's always a melody behind the music if the harmony isn't your style. And I guess William Carlos Williams knew what he was talking about when he said the roses can't last where they are. As if they could outlive winters famous erosion. As if happiness can be held in a stand still, bottled and worn and used for self medication.

We were all happy once.

SJY

A friend, always a friend when I needed one.
Sweet words and kind eyes and thoughtful conversation.
Someone who appreciated poetry and appreciated the travel.

A birthday present and the first open conversation I'd had in months.
You were always a hand to hold while I walked in darkness.
Doors have a way of continually swinging and my revolving doorways were losing their oxygen the longer I ran them, but you broke the window. You broke the window and then you broke the mirror and you told them to stop lying. And though you never said it in words you said it in your eyes and in your actions and in the way you treated me more than human.

You tried to take me to my first high school dance. I wasn't old enough, but I still cried because I felt wanted. I felt worth it. 

We haven't talked much lately, but we ran across each others typewriters recently and I've been thinking about the memories. The poems and the cookie dough and your sisters farewell. I've been thinking how my brother always liked you when he never liked my ex and I've been thinking how you make the sun shine on everyone, even when the sun feels like taking the afternoon off.

I don't know if this is thank you or if it's just a reminder that heaven has a place paved out for you to hang all the trophies your kindness is winning, but it's been on my mind all day and I don't think it's doing anyone any good boxed up as a memory.

So I write long posts, cry about it or something.

This is for all the families who think throwing money at problems solves more than attention ever could.
For the people who come out of rainstorms with dry hair and tight hoods.
The people who don't know how loud the stairs creak at night or what the bleachers look like full.
The boys who won't go to senior prom because 'there's no one to ask.'
The girls who don't get asked and won't admit it's killing them.

This is for you, my dear.

For all the kids who let machines eat their quarters to they could eat gumballs.
For the worker and the wife and the wastebasket sister.
This is for the shooting stars that never got wished on, because even in their dying breath,   their plea to be appreciated,   no one saw their beauty for useful.
For the student body officers and the lacrosse kids and the girls who fix their make-up in between classes.
The people who watch para-gliders in awe but never look up the phone number to the dream they promised to take out on a lunch date.

For the wounded and the winners and the wanting.
The people who think talking about the moon makes them deep.
This is for the page of the textbook that's never been seen and the world in the dictionary that's never been said.
The cap and gown gathering dust in the closet.
The restless, the relentless, the receiving.
This is for the blockbusters of the social world.
The scouts who put flags up too early in the morning
The grandmothers and the tea parties and the silly hats.
The PTSD and the cheaters caught cheating.
This is for the Saturday morning cartoon watchers and the Sunday evening comic readers, whichever you are, you're valid.

This is for the voices that were drowned out with the applause and the cashier who meets a thousand new people everyday but still goes home alone.

The world is spinning miracles. Seconds are falling like raindrops in Oregon and you have to catch them on your tongue for full effect. Windy days lead to warmer weather and whether or not you drive just to feel the caring safety of your seat belt is up to you. It's only trying to save your from the villains your mother once read to you about.

Because the Big Bad Wolf takes a detour every once in awhile but if you take the long way to grandma's house too many times, eventually he'll find you. and he's not as easy on the mind as he is on the eyes.

Questions with complex answers should not scare you out of living,  just scare you into existence.

God knows we need more people existing in this world.

Dance because it's beautiful.

I can see poetry in the way your body is moving and I hope you never stop brushing the keys to the harmony you're making.

I hope you don't give up your childish dreams because your technique wasn't taught by Martha herself and you'll never reach the skyline if you don't learn to pay for a ticket to get you out of Kansas.

I used to feel the symphonies echo inside my heart when the floor was asking for my creativity to fill it's lungs but that dream died when the best won the awards and the emotion didn't matter if you couldn't point your toes.


They didn't understand the melody never wanted pointed toes.

Do people use glove compartments?

This is for all the times you said you'd be right back with no real intention:

When you buy sushi in a box it looks like a glass top coffin, but that doesn't stop you from enjoying every bite. Isn't that sick and twisted? Isn't that wrong? We cry over a bunch of spilled milk when we're the ones pouring it on the counters.

Complaints fly around about the crappy service in this rickety old high school hangout but you haven't worked a day in your life. So I don't want to hear it. There's french fries and there's ketchup but there's also napkins: so stop complaining about the mess the football team made of your life and start cleaning up after your own dirty habits.

You claim you're headed down a road goin nowhere real fast and you've missed too many stops to make it right. But I don't believe you, cause sin city and the Mormon Mecca are in the same direction if you're coming from Salt Lake and there's an exit every 10 feet to remind you that Hell was never worth the gas money.

So stop messing with the radio and steering with your knees. You're never going to find the perfect song to jam to or that sweet spot to aim the air conditioner. You're killing time so you can claim the road ended before you did, like that's some real excuse. 

Post-Death (it's kinda a pun)

I ran a 5k for a dying mother.
I read a post about death holding a classmates hand.
I watched the dog die and the car sell.

I'm beginning to think death touches the horizon more often than does the sunset.

It's in every breath we take and every word we yell. It's hiding behind olly-olly-oxen-free and protecting the fragile from the dangerous. We wrap it with bows and flowers and double sided paper. We've given it countless metaphors and imaginary readings. It's motivation, inspiration it's activation.

Death is an extra hair tie on someone else's wrist. Death is losing your wallet in a New York City cab and still looking for it. When death stops by for dinner you vacuum the floors and make your finest meal. You'll buy a new dress for your date with death because you're hoping to get lucky. It's the way extra buttons are attached to the sweater, but you throw them away because you don't think it will hurt you.

It's in every breath we take, but it's in every breath we put out.

Fitzgerald made millions with his lies.

She's beautiful and she's tan and she's thin and she's a cheerleader.
and I wonder why I always wanted to be her because yesterday she told me her life has always been a mess and that God often chuckles when he throws her a bone because it's filled with more poison than she's ever known and it's supposed to be like an injection,
where they fill you with disease so you learn to fight off infection,
but you're still going to bruise at the seams with a scar that has no recollection    of the aches it put you through in your fragile state.

and when her heart opened up, mine closed. I can feel bad for myself for days but when I see tears un-cried in someone else's eyes I remember that breathing is beautiful,  

and I do it every day. 

I remember that walking on blistered feet means a pair of new shoes and I remember that the cherry tree in the back yard has been growing for years and still has nothing to show for it.


The earth has spun too many times for even the Einsteins of our generation to count and we're all still standing here with grounded heads instead of dizzy hearts. We pay for amusement parks to thrill us and haunted houses to chill us and fifty dollar steaks to fill us but do we realize we're living the American Dream just by the adventure we let our hands run away with in the sand box?



The beach is home to a million grains of sand and seashells to hold those grains together, but we often go to look out at the water we will never touch and the sun that runs away from us time and time again. We roll out our green towels and our classic Fitzgerald's and pretend we are enjoying the best the world can place at our fingertips but what about the snow in the caves where unseen echoes are spilling poetry from their fingertips and I remember, white waters and swimming fish but I can't forget the thrills and chills and fills that imagination and the skyline of reality painted on my heart when I used glasses with a prescription against the negatives.



I remember empty soda bottles that broke the night into a thousand firework shreds and the newspapers that claimed to teach living by a prescription and animation by addictions. 

and I can't tell you how to spell half the words I've written here but I know Google can do that for me and I'm sure I'll keep letting him because there are much better ways to waste this burning lifetime than a dictionary and a red pen. I remember learning that words weren't as important as the pictures they captured and I remember not understanding how you hung a conversation on the wall. But I tried desperately to find the right type of nail at Home Depot.


Thin and tan and beautiful and pom poms. That was the answer to all of life's hardest questions once upon a story book. And I guess it ended up being the cure if you had the right condition, but I never did listen and someone might have once told me about convictions and decisions and explained how a hospital bed and a cherry tree both gulp down remission but    all     I     remember     is death leading me on with a superstition about the beach,

and the meaning behind the words of a dogeared page in my over read Fitzgerald.

NELSON READ THIS CAUSE.

You're dancing and she's giggling and my heart.
                                                                                   is.
                                                                         breaking.

I hope you cherish those videos. I hope you never delete them. I hope you show them at her wedding so she knows she was loved and you were there and you were real.

It reminds me of the video we have of my father tickling me into giggle fits and I live to be reminded how happy we had the world in our former lives. 

I'm scared I'm not really over it like I thought I was.

I've never had my heart break quite like it does watching you interact with her. An maybe that's because you once told me you were in your thirties. An he was in his thirties. And ever since that day I've been counting down your days.

She only gets you for a few more years.

An she's laughing on the couch with no idea that there won't always be another goodnight kiss. She's letting you film with no idea that she'll watch an re-watch and she'll do everything desperately trying to remember the laugh her mother will only tell her about and the inspiration colleagues will tell her about and the moment you smiled only because she was smiling.

I'm scared she won't remember.

I'm scared she'll say she does when she doesn't. I'm scared she'll feel like she has to tell a memory every time they go around the table even though the only thing she remembers is feeling loved, and feeling paid attention to and maybe when she gets older she'll wish she paid better attention to you. and she'll wish she hadn't naively misunderstood and she'll wish little kids weren't so selfish and that they knew to tell you to STOP.

 and she'll wish you were here.

I'm scared her memories will be contorted. That they'll be manufactured by the stories others tell and often times, she'll need pictures to remind her exactly what you look like.

I'm scared she won't remember, or even know, the scar under your nose that you hate enough to cover with facial hair.

I'm scared she won't ever plan her dream wedding because the daddy daughter dance is just too difficult.

I'm scared she'll get into trouble in high school because all those studies are true
  and she needs a dad to show her how boys should treat her right.
         And to kick the ass of anyone who doesn't.
                   And to wipe away the tears when she still hangs out with the asshole and He

Breaks.     Her.      Heart.

I'm scared she'll know your favorite cake because her mother will always make it for your birthday, but she won't know if you like pepperoni on your pizza. And some days, that will be the breaking point.
I'm scared she'll forever root for the Lakers because that was your dream team and she'll take so much crap about it that she'll wonder if you still support them but she won't give in to all the people asking her if she can name 5 players because she can't.

She just knows what you liked. And she wants you to keep living.


I'm terrified that the only thing she will remember about your funeral is feeling like she was supposed to cry and all the pretty flowers she got to make bouquets out of after everything was done. That she'll only remember how hot of a day it was and how much she hated her mother for making her wear a long sleeve navy dress. That tears will stain the memory and she won't be able to make out what the words say when she goes back to remember.

I'm scared your time is ticking and she'll have to grow up wishing someone taught her how to jump start a car.

So take a video today. and take a video tomorrow too. And tell her that you love her over and over.

and then film it.

Because the clock is running dry and the handwriting in her journal will never convey the way you high fived her after she got her first strike bowling or the time you sat on the couch watching her try to cartwheel for an hour because "no daddy one more time, I know I can do it."

I'm scared she'll take a sucker punch to the gut, and I'm scared you won't leave enough evidence for her to remember.

A comment I never left.

I'm crying. And believing. I'm sympathetic on a large scale and empathetic on a small one. Every word you write is a gift from the Writing Gods and the passion Gods and the Gods who want everyone to know what it means to feel someone else's pain so strongly that you'd wipe away your happiness if it meant they could have theirs.

You ripped your heart from the curtains the world asked you to hold and the encasing broke. You let the blood run across our minds and fill our fears with hate. You made me sick for every pro-mia account I supported on tumblr because I thought that was the answer. You have broken glass and distored mirrors shining out of your eyes but they portray the perfect symphony. They scream the words we're all too scared to breathe but beg to hear. You make me a fraction stronger and an atmosphere tighter every time I let my self pity remember the real problems and the real hero's this world is offering me.

You are real and you are better than a barbie doll.

Enough Already.

Say goodbye to the sound of your sisters footsteps when she's trying desperately not to wake you up at night.

Say goodbye to an extra 10 from mom because she wants you having fun with new friends because you haven't smiled for so long and maybe the drought can end with a flood.

Say goodbye to curfew and keeping out of the street light's trouble.

Say goodbye.

Say goodbye to the friendships that passed you when you were blinkering to change lanes.

Say goodbye to the autumn leaves because they won't last long and they should be treated like miracles in their terminal lives.

Say goodbye to the phone call that left you in a room where the door is too small and the key is on the table.

Say goodbye at the sunset because no one says much to him and eating lunch alone on a planet full of watching eyes has got to be hard.

Say something more than goodbye to your father as you leave for school, because he's trying so hard to convince you it's okay to unlock your window for him.

A conversation should consist of more than Mary Poppins has under her magical umbrella.

When was the last time you danced on the treetops and let a bird kiss your french fries on the beach?

Did you Live this morning or did you simply wake up and brush your teeth?

Before you can find the right apology letter to intertwine with your goodbye this world will be on the back car of a train that left 3 hours ago. and you don't even know where it's going anymore because your ticket is for the bus and busy streets and brand new freshman like you are all boarding, grabbing thin rails,
and this is concrete.

Say goodbye to the caved in walls and the chocolate muffins that were never that good and the *please excuse that bell* because the bricks are stacking up and you can't avoid the decision any longer.

Say goodbye to the crayons and the checking your email once a year and having a savings account.

College is coming. and you're about to lose your last goodbye.

A day at the fair.

The anxiety is eating me like a knife.
There's a sticker on my mirror and I don't know why I don't just take it down.

There's a subtle glow from this computer screen on my face and I wonder if you see it from the window.
Take a moment to count the cracks in your framework.

You offered me three different smoothies but I already had three different desserts tonight. 

Do you think owls are offended that Hooters disintegrates them so lowly?

I start the same book every summer, and although I always get a little farther, I never finish. 

Eventually, though.

Why aren't M&M's all one color?
Do dancers really need a thousand trophies that are taller than they'll ever be?
I haven't cried so much after throwing up in God knows how long.

I don't listen to music enough, and I think it's because I don't know what to listen to.


If the shade is such a good thing why do people spend so much money to visit the sun?
There's a brim on your hat to cover the brim on your eyes.
I buy things I'm not happy with and then I buy them again.
Being hipster is for the people who have enough money to follow their dreams with a debit card.
Glassy eyes are the scariest memory a child can have.

I like the Olympics because I can remember you there. 

Fairy Tales were written so Disney could make money and boys would dress nicer.
The color pink is a figment of your imagination and I'd like for you to keep it bottled up in your world so mine can be at peace.
My mom told me I need to use lotion if I want to stop hating everything about my legs.

There's a ticket stub of yours in my room that I don't want to move because you placed it there and how can you just rearrange a memory?
There's a Powerade on my bed to make me stop being sick but it's a disorder not a disease.

I'd like to think my thoughts amuse you, but they rarely amuse me.

Slowly Different.

Break a snow-globe because it's July and you want snow.
Count the eyelashes you own and then count them again.
Pop the hood of your car to hear what it sounds like to turnover the realest thing a robot has to offer.
Break a seashell because the sound of the ocean lulls you into it's terrible destruction. It's cruel, so why shouldn't you be?


I used to wonder why thunder and the sun came from the same place.
I used to ask God why other places had bombs and we had daffodils.
I thought long and hard about apples absorbing the color green but bouncing back the color red.
I put quotes on my wall, once upon a time.


Curiosity has been killed by the world we live in.


High school is a blender and we're all begging to be in the smoothie. We're taught from the day we enter 7th grade NOT to be too different. No one says it out loud but I think the walls whisper it behind silly conversations. Slowly the creativity and the "change the world" attitude fall into the back burner and become nothing but wisps.

Slowly we forget that we can have snow in July and inspiring words on the wall.

Quarters and Street Corners

My mother taught me to love everyone because everyone needs love.  

         I learned there are scarier things in this life than giving a piece of your time and not getting it back.                

Sirens cross the street everyday and most of us pay no mind to the broken bodies they could be racing to salvage. If you'd spend a day outside Happy Valley you'd feel the loveless lives stuck on street corners and chained to cardboard signs. Beggars reaching for any ounce of the nourishment they've never had. A little farther and you'll find desperates impersonating love with lust, hoping to make ends meet because real love no longer matters when your two year old can't scrape by on food stamps. Tired eyes are looking up to mommy because stomachs are growling and the last meal was taken from a trash can.

There are prisons filled with people who shut their everything to the affection that family and friends and strangers giving quarters tried to deliver. There are hospital beds that mourn for the decrepit trying to grasp a last drop of love from the IV that pumps everywhere but their heart. 

Flowers sell in the stores for above average prices so below average people can tell their special someones they look beautiful in that shirt that brings out their eyes. But do we know how to love with more than just flowers? and chocolates and cards? 

Do we remember what it felt like the first time we were held? How much devotion was brimming from the fingers that cooed with us. Do we care that right now, there is a child who didn't forget these feelings, because they were never his to remember?

Are you aware of the street corners and the prisons Lone Peak has to offer? Have you seen the cardboard signs in the hallway and the trade of lust for approval, for recognition?
There are crying eyes behind the spaces love forgot to seep and everyday our steps make more cracks  we forget to fill. 

My mother taught me to love everyone.

               There are scarier things than giving love to someone who doesn't know to give it back. 

"You've chapsticked a lot tonight"

If things were my way radio stations wouldn't be based on genre, they'd be based on emotions and experiences.

There would be a happily in love station, and a break-up station. No, two breakup stations: "I miss you take me back" and "SCREW YOU"

There'd be a dance party station and a 'pissed because you just fought with your dad' station. and probably still Radio Disney if we're being honest.

If this was my world you could illegally download clothes.

Pinterest would have more hits than Elvis Presley. The only downside is you can't pick what size the picture is taken of and well, you get the size shown. Stupid models and their 4 inch bodies.

If I were an engineer cars would run on carbon dioxide. So as long as you're still alive, you can still have places to be. They could give off oxygen too. Take that electric cars, I've one upped you in the environmental trend.

If I had a say we'd be paid to be healthy. No more Michelle Obama pushing packaged portion sizes down our throat. No casual obesity. You work out and you eat right cause it's gonna help you pay off your mortgage. 

If I ran the show chapstick could go through the wash, no problems. You can't imagine how many free aggie mint and raspberry lemonade blistex's I've gone through in the last 5 loads alone. Or at least there should be a warranty, so if it goes through the wash Wal-Mart will supply a new one. That would save me 5 bucks a month.

If I could pick I'd be the cheerleader,

and people would like me even when I said snotty things, and made you feel - p a t h e t i c - The starting line-up would line-up for a shot with me and I would toss my hair and act indifferent. 

If life were my way I'd have great ideas for posts.

Then maybe you'd come back and check me weekly.

but THIS IS MY BLOG and I don't care what you think. 

You can judge my top 5 post as a 'fluke' if you'd like but do it somewhere else. This is my world, and I get to run it.

Put the Picture in a Frame

Brooklyn curled up in your lap and my heart went through a beating and a paper shredder and a lawn mower wound it's way across repeatedly and then it was dragged across steamy summer asphalt.

I wish I had a father to curl up to.

It's early, too early. The birds haven't found the words for a song for but I think they've started to open their eyes. I'm alone in bed but grandma is pulling me to the kitchen. She's crying and I don't know why. In the kitchen grandpa's crying too and Simba looks scared.

"Your father is dead" (would have been much easier)

Why couldn't they just spell it out? They had to drag the tears from their eyes to their toes before we could pack our bags an finally go home. I get that they were grieving too, but I'm the one who slept alone with the truth.

I miss Disney Channel movie nights, falling asleep in your arms. I miss the karaoke battles, where you always knew more words. 11 years and you'd think I'd be strong, but it doesn't work like that cause

 Death lives on.

50 shades of

I redid my room because I felt like a baby. The walls were senseless and they didn't understand teenage angst. So I covered them with gray.

My mother thought she would be helpful and sew some curtains and a bedspread. Although I love the thought and the effort, it's matchey-matchey and it makes me feel like a baby.
So my room still doesn't understand what it means to be 17. But I'm not sure I do either.

I don't understand why people use hashtags for random sentences and jokes. Hashtags are meant to tag something generic like #TacoBell or #RomneyRyan2012

When passing a Calculus test is favored but doing well in Chemistry is unsuitable to the praised.

I just get confused.

If it's so annoying to deal with after school traffic, how come everyone does it?

If it's so much easier to study for tests little by little over time, how come no one does?

Driving a car to school is suitable, but getting a car to drive to school makes you spoiled.

J. Crew is actually expensive, but it's also where everyone chooses to shop when Van Heusen and The Loft make some pretty similar stuff.

Girls want teddy bears for Valentine's day but if I told you I asked for a giant teddy bear for Christmas, you'd laugh.

It's only worth it if you're getting money. Money that you're going to spend on the dollar menu because 'you worked hard for that money and you don't want to waste a lot of it.'

Maybe not understanding these things is why I feel inadequate at basketball games and why Instagram refuses me followers. But those probably stem from other personality flaws and I'm pushing the envelope pretending my bedroom curtains are to blame for my incompetence.

Either way I still feel like a baby and I'm running low on gray.

Screw being human.

Contacts and 20/20 and that stupid chart at the doctor's.

Addictions and cocaine and caffeine and sunglasses at work in the morning.

B minuses and scantrons and valedictorians.

Eating and bulimia and frosty's and working out.

Being pushed past in the hallways because 3rd period is really important.

Breathing and gasping and all the lives lost looking for oxygen.

Hair cuts and unhappiness and expensive "damage-fixing" products.

Chills and anxiety and seeing a shrink for your 'dark and twisted scheme of things'

Just SCREW IT.

Screw curiosity and while you're at it, screw the cat.

Screw driving your sister to yw's basketball because she didn't want to ask the neighbor for a ride.

Screw skin an bones and breaking a femur.

Screw emotions, because no one cares if a high school girl is crying behind a computer.

Screw cancer and disease and the broken hope of a hospital.

Screw Facebook and retweets and #swag
Screw pulses and glucose levels and blood pressure

Screw sex and HIV and the backseat of your car and

Screw the morning-after pill; because why would we want to keep anyone from having all this fun?

 Screw being human and everything that makes it.

Screw caring if anyone reads this post.
Screw you for reading this. What? Were you expecting a gold star?

Hiding Away

I want to go running. I want to get better. but what happens when the cross country team and I cross paths and I'm weak lungs and heavy breaths and they are giggles and airy conversation and we are less than a mile from my house? They'd know. They'd have to know; I'm out of shape. An embarrassment to Nike shoes everywhere. I could start with baby steps. I could be willing to go a little more, give a little more everyday. Take a new path or two just to avoid standing next to the marathon winners.  I'll be sore. I don't know how long I'll be sore either. But maybe after months of effort someone will notice that I'm a few pounds slimmer and just one comment will make the journey rewarding. Maybe. But maybe I'll come across too many cross country kids and my weight loss will halt watching their effortless techniques and falling into the trap of comparison.

This post isn't about running or cross country or losing weight. This post is about writing, and poetic bloggers and shedding heavy emotion. I'm not scared of sore muscles, I'm scared of sore vulnerability.


Who knows if I'll ever be a runner, but there's one way to find out.