Katy's blog

I'm sitting on my roof in a purple sweatshirt, alone and tired, and if that's what it takes for a wake-up call, then so be it. I don't want to be a role model, and I don't want anyone following in my footsteps. Make your own goddamn decisions. Stop relying on hope, it's uneven and feeble and can't truly hold you up when you're falling. Just stand up, catch yourself. This city's tired; I'm not so well-rested either. But stop hiding in the alleys, stop shielding the sun with brick walls and street signs. They can't tell you where you want to go. Neither can I, neither can anyone. So stop listening, stop praying someone will be there to pick you back up. It's your turn. This ground is firm and you can stand tall; you should stand tall. Start walking.

I probably have insomnia.
I have writer's block during the day,
and then at night
I'm overcome by an urge to
write or
draw or
sing or
think or
run...
ET CETERA;
never sleep.

Quiet, quiet,
too quiet. Always too quiet.
I need my music,
Jack's Mannequin is tonight's choice,
as with many nights. My TV?
I can't find the remote.
Screaming, loudly,
progressively louder and louder, and then it's broken.
I imagine my mom's shrill voice, saying
stop, stop, stop;
she's louder.
Though she's not because I'm screaming in my head
to drown out the silence.
She wouldn't hear.
But my throat is sore so I stop the noise,
and then the quiet's back.
Too quiet.

I stand up.
Sit down? Lay down?
Too many options, so much time, time.
Didn't I tell you I threw out my watches?
I can count the ten minutes of sleep I'll get on my fingers,
I don't need help. Rather, I suppose I do.
You say deep breath,
deep breath. Will the air ever run out?

He’s just tired, not
scared or lonely or
anything like that, no, just
tired. Not because of
you (it never was).

He’s from Munich. Says he doesn’t
miss it, but he does,
misses you too, misses the
trains and the city’s buzz. He’s
strong, you know that. Of course you do,
since he hasn’t showed up
at your doorstep.

Though did you know
he plans to? Plans to come with
daises, your favourite. Plans to
sing to you, badly at that.
He even wrote you a song,
it doesn’t rhyme and
the melody is
way off, but he tried. It’s the thought that
counts, you know.
And you’re all he thinks about.

Maybe everyone won’t be
against you, this time
at least. You’re stubborn, and he’s
tired, just tired. Maybe it’ll rain,
days on end with
nothing but rain that will fall
and mix with your tears, because
maybe he’ll cry,
too. You can cry together.
Please don’t ask for more than that.

I'm supposed to be reading The Iliad. But let's be honest, procrastination is my strongest attribute. I've thrived on it my entire life. My teachers take pride in my assignments. If only they knew that my greatest work is done at two in the morning, when my eyes ache from reading in the dark and my only comfort is the buzz of my iPod in my ears.

I once wrote an essay with a paragraph that consisted mainly of old All Time Low lyrics. Surprisingly enough they seemed to fit in perfectly with the rest of the meaningless quotes and analyses that I threw in there just to be finished. But being the good person that I am, I told my teacher that my cat ripped up the only printed copy I had and I needed to hand it in the next day.

The tick-tick of the clock,
combined with that
"wow-factor" makes it
all the more worse. I could have
said something,
should have said something. But you
know me and I know me
(or at least I did)
and sometimes words
never seem right to say
when it's easier to just
smile and walk away. But I wanted to
be the one that left.

Cut me open,
open please. Instead of
knives, words.
"You're no doctor" never even
crossed my mind. You
beg, I cry. A stupid circle
that couldn't be finished.
You should read
more books.

It’s not that I hate my town. Or my state. I actually don’t. But I’ve been halfway across the world and back, seen places and things that I’m still trying to take in, and guess what? I’m restless. It’s true. I want a city, more than anything really. But it’s so easy to want something.

There's this boy who changed my life, who was in my head and on my mind. Eyes staring, arms reaching, fingers crossed, heart racing, legs pumping to get to nothing but him. He tricked me with his blue, blue gaze and I gave in with my pathetic ways. So much for being "infinite."

Future Me lives in a loft in downtown Manhattan that overlooks the city skyline, modern paintings collaged on the walls and articles from The New York Times on my desk. Future Me has my beloved pop punk music blaring from speakers, filling me and my loft and bringing tears to my eyes. Quotes from books I've read over and over hanging from my ceiling, along with lyrics from songs I can recognize without even listening to.

I wrote your name
in the sand but the
waves washed it away, little
mini tsunamis, and
you cried, oh,
how you cried. She had
velvet pencils, each stroke
caressing the page as
she wrote, and the words
fell off your tongue and
you would swallow to
take them back. Nobody
ever wants to share
something so precious, something
you can't just
reach out and grab, pull back
and hold tight.
It's not always that easy.
I thought I saw
your shadow out of the corner
of my eye; would look and
cry and see nothing but
nothing. It can't always
be something.

The earthquake shook the
house and it shook her thoughts to
the point where
what does it matter engulfed
her and something as
slight as the tip-tap of
woodpeckers would put her
over the edge. She spoke carefully,
caressing her words with
a voice too young and too
naive to know or
care. But she was caught
up in primavera and
with a boy who
broke her heart.
We all make mistakes.

her eyes are weapons, deep and
sharp and blue. and not
just blue like the sky, but
like those turquoise waters in
the keys, the
ones that leave you
forever seeing in a
tinted shade. or "dark blue,
dark blue," with andrew mcmahon pictures
on her walls and
11:11 am in her thoughts. don't
understand? not important.
she understands you.
half-thinking en español,
ella necesita un bolígrafo, she has
to write it down or
she'll forget it and
you will too. her mother
told her to
clean her room and
her mind or
it won't get
any better.
ella desee para nada, porque
nadie comprende.

When asked to write where I'm from.

I'm from nowhere. Little towns with no people that I care for except those who want to get out just as much as me. Where Winter is the longest season and all people do is complain about it.

You should've asked me where I'm going. I would have told you that every major city in this world will someday have my footprints carved gently into their streets and hearts. And that people will read my articles in The New York Times and think, Hey, that's the girl from Vermont! And I'll tell them I don't need my past to tell me who I'm going to be.

I'll turn everything into perfection. I'll prove everyone's perfect and that flawless is the complete opposite of that. Everyone will argue with me. But that's okay; I'm very convincing and even though I contradict myself with every word, I know I make sense. But things don't need to make sense to be true.

Because it was just
weird, you know? He told
me that it would
always be
the same. He said
our faces may change but
our hearts won't
and that's all that
matters in the end. And I
believed him.
And I'm sitting here now
with Mayday Parade
pouring through my
ears and unfinished
Spanish homework on my
desk. Too bad
he was wrong. Too bad
people change more
than faces and
too bad I remember his face
just as much as
the way the corners of his
mouth stretched up
when he smiled and I
let mine do
the same.

you ever cry so long
your tears turn on you and
that's that? 'cause i think,
no, i know people
build life up
to be something it's not. ever
lost your father? it's
not so bad
if you don't mind having
half of you
ripped away, your soul
torn out and the doctors
laughing, saying,
hey, i just
removed your
heart and your
lungs, hope you can
still live. that's what it's
like, needles and cold
hands and pain,
yeah, lots of
pain. and then everything's just
fake and sharp and
shallow, you trip on
cobblestone streets and
scrape your knee but you look
up and say,
oh well, it's just
flesh and that's not
who i am anyway. melted gold
will pay for your
meal but you're
gonna die someday so
save your money.
but if you
look past all that, it's not
so bad.

I hate him, hate
how he can twist my
life to make
it all about him.
Hate how he
draws me in, locks
his eyes on mine and I
can never find
a way out. And all
those times I swore I was
strong, well, newsflash; I'm
not. He laughed and
that's it. I melted into
a puddle of
nonsense and feelings I
couldn't explain even
if I wanted to
understand them. I'm
over it,
over, over...
stop making me
think twice,
look twice. I've worked
so hard and you're
not helping. Actually,
you're making it really
difficult for me
to lay down every night and
not see your face
smiling, grinning ear to
ear in that stupid way
you do. I never
threw out your letters.