miss_literal's blog

My friend Hannah wrote this for me. When I asked her if I could post it, she told me to give a brief description of her "finest physical attributes, and basically just say how awesome" she is. So I figured the only way to do her justice is through one word. WOW.

Amelia, lying next to me in silence.
Two in the morning and we lie here wide awake.
Then the words come, and the tears come, the questions flow from our lips.
I don't have the answers, but I guess you didn't need them.
I hugged you and cried with you, I hope it was enough.
Something changed there - you found Him didn't you?
Yes, you did.
I saw it as you shook on the floor. I saw Him in your eyes, filling you.
Maybe one day we'll be whole again.
Maybe one day He will explain.
But for tonight, I'll just lie next to you in silence and hope that it will be enough.

1. Shoes, charcoal, red rocks.
2. Pop tart, broken pen, hamster cage, chalk, candy corn.
3. Khakis, clock, fleece, black hair, yellow note.
4. Amoeba, warm seat, brick, laces, eyelashes.

And in an explosion of light and sound,
the music soaring through her,
lifting her off her feet,
off the ground,
she flew above the world,
saw it all from the sky,
and it all looked so small and unimportant,
but she longed to be with her own kind,
so when she finally tilted her face
up
instead of down,
she was surprised to see that
she was not alone.
He had been with her always.

Music is everything. I don't know how I would live without it. I have a love-hate relationship with my piano, but there's way more love than hate. Music is what brought me back to God. I have at least four different songs stuck in my head every day. And although my singing is terrible, I sing anyway. Because I have to. I really think I would explode if I didn't vent music every few hours. Or minutes. Maybe when I was conceived there was music so somehow it got inside me. It sure feels like it.

So I'm standing there, in a crowd of dancing Vermonters, contemplating how out-of-place I feel. There's a guy next to me in a faded red Ben and Jerry's tank top, he's pretty drunk, and he smells like his mom never taught him to bathe, but he's swaying to the music with the rest of us. Then there are two girls holding hands, the one with the shaven head kissing the back of the other girl's neck. A biker eating an ice-cream is staring at a girl in a yellow dress who's making up her own dance moves to Matt Costa's Sunshine. And me, with my pink polo and jeans, the only one here wearing shoes...I think I'm a little too clean-cut for this crowd. But I like it. In some way, with my wierd, patchwork-quilt life, I fit in. It's all good.

"Amelia, I read your writing online. It's really good."
"Umm, what writing?"
"On the Young Writers Project website."
Oh. My. God.
"Amelia?"
"Yeah. I'm still here. Uh, so how'd you find it?"
"I Googled you and that was the first thing that came up. 'Young Writers Project. Amelia Seman, Essex High School, Grade 9.'"
Oh shit! Goddamn submissions!
"So, you read all of it?"
"Yeah, I really liked it. How come you didn't tell me you wrote?"
"Uh, it's kinda embarassing, ya know? It's nice online cause people don't know it's you."
"But it's on the internet. Anyone can read it. So it's not really anonymous."
True that. Damnit.

OK, Amelia, calm down.
You DO have a life.
You exsist outside of the flat-screen moniter sitting on the old desk in the basement.
You have friends, most of which can only be reached by cell phone during the summer, and all of whom have turned off their phones.
You have a cool little brother who spends most of his time playing baseball in St. Albans.
Well, there's always Mom, who currently is in bed with a kidney infection.
And little sister Sophia, who won't take her nose out of her Harry Potter book.
Go swim in the cold neighborhood pool, Amelia, where you can hang out with screaming toddlers and rude preteens.
Go watch a stupid daytime TV show on one of your four working channels.
Go for a run, even though you hate running.
Go make a batch of brownies, eat them all, and feel guilty about it later.
Go write poetry, remember how all your poems are gone, and start bawling on the floor.
Go listen to Jack Johnson on your broken iPod.

It happened there,
on that cement floor,
I knelt shaking,
the energy around me
filling me up to the brim
as I
pressed me hands to my face to
keep from screaming with this
newfound joy that I
shared with everyone around me,
everyone who mattered,
I wanted to
dance in the streets and
kiss the ground,
so I did,
and on either side of me
I felt my friends watch
in amazement
because of this transformation
that they couldn't see but could
feel just as I could feel
the music vibrating through
every fiber of my being
till it got in my heart,
the blood pumping through
me with new life,
new love,
this was what I
had been searching for,
and I found it,
I found Him,
I came home.

When Little Girl
got a paper-cut
at school, her
mother gave her a
Band-Aid
and it healed the
little cut.

When Little Boy
fell off his bicycle
on the sidewalk, his
mother gave him a
Band-Aid
and it healed the
little cut.

When Little Girl
stepped on broken
glass, her
mother gave her a
Band-Aid
and it healed the
little cut.

When Little Boy
slipped on the ice and
his hand bled, his
mother gave him a
Band-Aid
and it healed the
little cut.

When Little Girl
and Little Boy
lost their Daddy, their
mother couldn't find the
Band-Aids,
but it didn't matter
anyway because
their cuts were
too deep to heal.

You are so pretty,
Butterfly,
with your spotted wings
so colorful against the
clear blue sky.

Let me catch you,
Butterfly,
in my long white net,
so you can sit on my nose
and be my friend.

You are so graceful,
Butterfly,
flitting from flower to flower,
always escaping
before I can touch you.

Why are you so still,
Butterfly?
Now that I have caught you,
you lay beautifully on my palm
as my tears drop onto your pretty wings.

Fall...
I wanted to tell you
at the football game
when the hot chocolate
warmed my hands and
your laugh warmed my
heart.
I wanted to tell you
when you walked me home
from practice, and the
golden leaves beneath our feet
harmonized the beating of my
heart.

Winter...
I wanted to tell you
when we were flying
down the trial, the
snow stinging my cheeks and
the wind stealing your
laugh.
I wanted to tell you
on Christmas Eve when
we sat in the heat of the
fire and inhaled the sweet
fresh scent of
pine and cookies.

Spring...
I wanted to tell you
on the bus ride home, talking
baseball, when I was sure you
were staring more at
my eyes than at my
legs.
I wanted to tell you
when we climbed the tree,
sat on the low branch
side by side,
swinging our
legs.

Summer...
I wanted to tell you
when we lay together
on the hammock,
the moon casting
rippling pools of light
through the branches
of the tree
as the fireworks
cracked and sizzled

It started slowly,
so I barely noticed.
I didn't respond
to every statement made
by those around me.
Then I began to laugh less,
and soon I had completely stopped
voicing my opinion.
I never raised my hand in class,
never spoke up
when I felt something was wrong.
So one seemed
to notice,
they just took it as a sign
that they could fill the empty space
with their idle chatter.
I began to hate the sound of talking,
wishing I could escape to somewhere
cool and dark and quiet.
My mother asked me if I was feeling
sick,
but I didn't know how to answer.
At night I begged God
to give me back my voice,
this inner silence was making me
sick.
Finally one day
I couldn't hold it in
any longer.
One comment from the
insulting boy
in my history class and I snapped.
"FUCK YOU!"
came hurtling out of my lungs,
past my vocal chords,
and into the stillness of the room.
Everyone looked around,
surprised,
until one girl whispered,
"I didn't know she could speak..."

His subtle insult hits me
like an electric current.
The laughter in the classroom
echoes in my head,
so I only faintly hear
the two tiny voices
rise in my defense.
I am paralyzed;
the words I wish I were strong enough
to voice
are locked deep inside my chest,
I cannot force them up my throat
and out my mouth
to give him a
SLAP
on his pride.
Don't insult my name
like that.
I got it from my father.
He died last year.
Do you have any idea
what it's like to lose a parent?
Do you have any idea
what it's like to have someone
insult
the person that you loved
so
much
that you would have
died
to have them be with you just
one
more
second?
But the words
will never come.
The tears start
and blur my vision.
I cry silently all day
and all night,
even while I dream.

Short, soft, pudgy fingers
pat the lined, sagging face.
Fat cheeks grin
at a patient, gentle smile.
Baby chortles mix with
worn grandma laughs to sing the
harmony of
unconditional
love.

I wonder if we will ever feel
like our lives have started
and we're not just in
the warm-up lap.
Today I heard someone say,
"The future hasn't started yet."
When will it?

She stands
barefoot in the new grass,
mud oozing up
between her toes.
The big fat water droplets
soak her all the way through
her skin.
Her t-shirt plastered to her chest
and her hair clinging to her cheeks,
she lifts her face to the heavens.
She opens her eyes,
watching the rain rush down to meet her.
Raising her arms to the sky,
she whispers,
I love you, world.

Soon I will be free of
Silas Marner
and World War One.
Soon I will
sprawl out on my
hammock beneath the Maple tree
instead of hunching over
my desk.
Soon I will eat on my back porch,
not a crowded,
screaming lunch room.
Soon I will sleep in my cool basement
with my little brother and sister,
talking till three in the morning about
nothing.
Soon...
but not yet.

"This swing is dangerous."
"Why?"
"'Cause it's wooden!"
"That doesn't mean it's dangerous. My dad made it really strong so no one would get hurt."
"Where's your dad?"
"He's in Heaven."
"I don't see him."
"That's because he's up there, in the sky."
"Oh. Is he coming back?"
"No."
"Do you miss him a lot?"
"Yes."
"Can he see?"
"Us? Yeah, he can see us all the time, even though we can't see him."
"Oh."

Career Investigation – Architect
Ever since I was little, houses fascinated me. I did not like playing house, I liked looking at them. I would check out books from the library with colorful pictures of the insides of houses, with their staircases and rooms and doorways. I loved to find floor plans of houses from all over the world: adobe homes of the Hopi people in the southwestern United States; houseboats on rivers in China; ancient Greek homes centered around courtyards; and medieval European castles. I would draw plans for underwater houses, homes in trees, houses dug into the side of a cliff, and elaborate igloos in Alaska. However, as my imagination ran wild, I began to realize that people could design regular houses as their job, and this peaked my interest. I discovered that perhaps there were other factors contributing to my interest in architecture and learned more about just what it is that architects really do.

I don't know what's going on and
I'm confused 'cause I've been gone and
It just seems like something's wrong and
I want this life to still go on and
I just don't know,
I just don't know why
Things got bad.

She sits alone
on her bed,
the one she was given
as a wedding present.
She plays solitaire
and eats a single square
of dark chocolate,
bitter,
just the way she
likes it.
Her dark hair
falls down her back
in tangles.
She glances at the clock.
9:01
blinks back at her,
the 1
tormenting her,
laughing at her misery.
Her solitaire game ends as
the cards beat her.
She hates when this happens.
Picking up the deck
and setting it on her
dresser, she
reachers for the book
on the floor next to her bed.
After reading a few lines,
she tosses it aside.
It cannot hold her
attention.
She thinks back on the day.
It was Mother's Day,
and her children had forgotten
for the first time
ever.
She didn't remind them.

This non-stop
frenzy of motion
is so dizzying
and tiring,
but if I stop
for just a moment,
I'll never
move again.

My tears will never dry,
but that's ok.
Crying's healthy.

I've hated my journey
here,
cursed every inch of the road,
but I wouldn't have it
any other way.

I wonder what
my mother dreams of.
Probably my dad.
I hope she has
happy dreams,
but I think they're
mostly sad,
because she usually
wakes up
crying.
I wonder if she
dreams at all.

Baby boy,
Baby boy,
I loved you since the first
Moment you were mine.
I knew the tiny life inside me
Was precious.
Just wish my mama understood.

Baby boy,
Baby boy,
Your grandma's kind green eyes
Hardened
When I introduced you to her.
She told me I couldn't keep you,
'Cause I was just fifteen
And didn't know a thing about
Babies.

Baby boy,
Baby boy,
I begged and I pleaded,
But she said she'd turn me out,
And Baby,
I got no place to go.
What am I
'Sposed to do?

Baby boy,
Baby boy,
I cried so long and hard.
Mama said one day
I'd have a real family,
And that I didn't need
You.

Baby boy,
Baby boy,
I'm going to
The clinic today.
I sure will miss you.
I'm sorry, Baby,
And I love you.

If I cried,
would you cry with me,
or would you
not know what to do?

If I asked you
to help me,
could you put me
before all else?

If I fell,
could you pull me
to my feet
once again?

If I told you
that I loved you,
could you ever
love me back?

In the beginning
I said,
Daddy,
Please,
Hold on.
In the end
I said,
Daddy,
It's ok,
Let go.

I'm sorry
I don't understand.
I'm trying.

Every time I see
a girl with her father,
every single time,
it makes me wish
my dad was
still with me.
I would do anything
to have him back.
Every time I see
a girl take her father
for granted,
every single time,
I think,
You don't know
how lucky
you are.