Dec 10

Mechanical Heart

She was young, and her heart was soft.
She loved them, and they smiled.
And with a backward smirk and glittering eyes, they told her to hold tight to her innocent little heart.
They told her they didn’t want her to lose it.

Time passed, and the little girl and her little heart grew.
And like they had told her to, she held onto it.
And so it was still soft when their knife pierced it, and because of that softness, their knife sank deep.
She gripped it tighter, and asked them why they would do it.
With a deadly smile, they looked down on her and promised her it was an accident, that it wouldn’t happen again.
And she was unprepared for them to break that promise.

As her days grew long and her nights grew short, they spoke again.
They told her to preserve her soft heart, that it was a gift.
Sep 10

script for my life

I live in bursts.

In between bursts,
That is not life.
It’s just . . .
Grey
Cold
Tasteless
Empty
Soulsucking
Repetition.

And it lasts for forever.

And then,
Sometimes without warning,
It ends.

For a breath.

And I jerk my head up,
And let go of the pencil for a second
And dry the tears so they don’t see
But all a second too late,
And the monotony and mediocrity return.
And I turn my face towards the ground
So none of you will think
I don’t like the color grey.

In those bursts,
There is color
And noise
And it’s . . .
Unpredictable.

And so,
If there
Happened to be a script
For my wannabe life,
It might go something
Just like this;

Greycoldempty.

BURST!

Deadmeaninglessnothing

Dullicevoid
Sep 09

sleep.

I can’t sleep.

What a simple complaint.
It’s what a child says in the depth of a restless night,
What one friend texts another at one a.m., when it’s pitch black.

I haven’t said it in a while, but it’s true for me.

And I feel the tiniest bit foolish writing this,
Because, as aforementioned,
It’s a simple complaint.

For some people.

For me, the phrase captures a not-so-nice place usually described as dark and fiery.
Quite perfectly, really,
Because every night,
I lay for hours
With my mind doing its best impersonation of a race car for me
And I try to fall asleep,
But it won’t let me.

And so I stay trapped.

And the next morning, I feel it,
And I move through my days a rather irritable zombie,
Until that night,
When my mind begins to race again.

It tells me things.
Sep 09

for a while now

Why are you never here over break?  
Her eyebrows are low, but her eyes are curious.
That’s when I go and see the rest of my family.  They don’t live with me.
Oh.  

She walks away.


I don’t understand.  Why now? I thought I was used to it.
The doctor tries to give me an answer, her last words still swirling through my head.
Many changes . . .
Acute stress . . .
Unhealthy coping mechanisms . . .
Depression . . .


Now, I understand some of you may live across two houses,
My health teacher walks across the classroom to stand closer to me.
Maybe your parents are separated, or you’re children of divorce . . .

Do you get confused?  Like, mix up rules between your houses?
Jun 24

Home?

Bright orange clay along the roadside.
Heat that rolls in waves,
and air think and humid enough,
it feels as if we're in a swamp

We pass the hospital where I was born,
then several minutes later a sprawling tobacco plantation 
that looks like the stock photo
at the beginning of that article I read
about the teens who got nicotine poisoning 
from working on these farms.

We drive into town 
with the car windows rolled down low
and through them march scents of deep fried food;
hush puppies
and fried chicken
fried okra
and thick-cut french fries
and my favorite,
fried green tomatoes.

I can hear thick southern accents,
Populated with ain'ts and y'alls
far more abundantly than mine
that the northerners on my family make fun of--
but that may only be because they can't fish out
any words
from what they describe as a 'drawl'.
Jun 14

summer vacation

I fill my bag
just like I do every afternoon--
just with a lot more stuff this time.

I stay after
for a few moments longer,
saying goodbye to sort-of friends,
and teachers who have had to put up
with my class
for far too long.

I walk out
extra slowly,
unlike everyone else,
who was gone in seconds
caught up in their mad dash.

I breathe in
several last times
before throwing open the double doors
that lead outside.
Unfortunately,
the presence of a pole
keeps me from walking right in the center
of the two.

I choke
on my first few swallows
of summer,
and although mine
does not particularly
reek of freedom,
and is too busy
to be truly relaxing,
I drink it in anyways.

I’m done
with this year,
with these clases,
with these people I don’t actually like,
May 27

social ladder

She clings
helpless
to her rung, 
never looking at
those below her,
always gazing up
to where they all want to be;
the rungs that hold
the rich
perfect
thin things.
The popular ones.

Her rung is crowded
with all her "friends" clinging to it
to her.

All they want is to move
up.
They tell themselves they will
be happy there,
at the top.
If they looked, they could see that isn't true.

And she spends 
all her energy
trying to climb,
but as soon as she takes a hand off
to reach the next rung,
the whole
ladder 
shakes
and she puts it back on.

don't climb, they whisper to her, you won't make it, you could fall.
But you can't stay here, 
they whisper to her, you'll never be happy, you can only be happy at the top.
you 
need to be at the top.

And she tries;
May 27

how?

HOW
can you pretend to know so much while being so stupid?
HOW
can you be so overly confident when every move you make is wrong?
HOW
can you judge others so much, while being so unaware of yourself?
HOW
can you act like everyone cares; like we exist to fall at your feet in prayer, when really you are only a 
self-absorbed
idiotic
weak
talentless
almost-tenager
who will most likley nver amount to anything?
HOW 
May 27

hurt

So that's how you live? You cry after her, Hurt the person who hurt you?
Do I hurt them who hurt me?  She turns back to you, a new spark in her eyes.
Yes.
But I
destroy them who hurt what I love
 
May 27

bad (is it?)

Is it bad
that I'm done caring about your stupid opinion
Is it bad
that I harbor such darkness in my heart
Is it bad
I'm through with saying sorry
Is it bad
that I hate so much and love so little
Is it bad
I don't care about their feelings
Is it bad 
I'm never satisfied
Is it bad
I don't ever choose to stop
Is it bad
I finally found myself, and I don't give one of anything about what they tell me I need to do
Is it bad
I have a new spark inside, this one fueled by anger
Is it bad
I feel like a have a life now
Is it bad 
That I am going to do something with it,
and I'm never going to let you or them stop me?
 

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