the writings and ramblings of a confused teenager living in stifled suburbia.
i am so happy that i do not have
to see your face in the morning and
of course, i still have to see
you—quite unfortunate—but now i don’t have to
acknowledge your existence
and for some strange, vindictive reason
i take pleasure in thinking that you
wonder what you did to piss me
off this time.
well, you can read it right here: you
took me for granted, and my patience
(and my pride) sn-
-apped right in half
don’t bother trying to pick up the pieces; i
can do all of that sort of thing
i should be memorizing important battles
of the civil war, or analyzing the importance
of enzymes in the transcription of DNA, but
instead i find myself memorizing the first
burst of butterflies i felt around you, analyzing
exactly when it was that i realized that it
was you; you, not him.
i guess i have a lot more to learn
and for now i’ve got a hell of a lot more
to study than textbooks and protein structure.
I know that
soon you will
exist without me.
I will join the
you will forget me
in the soil.
i wore my heart on my sleeve, believing that
if i showed the world the way i felt, you would
see it and break out of your daze.
i wore my heart on my sleeve, thinking that
you really meant what you said in your words,
ignoring that you took it all for granted.
yesterday i passed you for the millionth time
and realized that all along that i’d been wearing
my heart on my sleeve for the wrong person.
i suppose you never cared; i suppose that when
i gave you space, you gave up entirely, and now
everything [that could’ve been] is beyond repair.
i wore my heart on my sleeve, and it tore me to
shreds. don’t flatter yourself thinking that i’m still
broken over you; i’ve picked up the pieces.
so i’ve tucked my heart somewhere safe;
it isn’t [nor will it ever be] yours to take anymore.
(i’m through with picking up the pieces)
drifting through this madness
without any idea of when I’ll stop
spinning, scrambling to find my
but I’m not too far off, not
close enough yet;
I’m not too far off
you reminded me of snow, in the most
frigid sense of the word
and sometimes I question the validity of memories because I
don’t quite know why you were ever worth
I don’t quite know why I thought of you
and maybe it was because the flame inside me is so damn
bright that it just gets so hard to breathe and
the heat is suffocating and maybe
maybe I just needed to freeze
before I learned how to deal with
we are way over our capacity
for love, for life itself, it seems; so much so
that every heart is fit to burst with the
need to live someone else’s story.
oh, and the saddest thing—
is that it all very well could be words.
just words, strewn across the blank canvases
that we want so badly to be our lives
but in reality we’ve been written on, a
thousand times over, skin rubbed raw from
all of the times we tried to erase what other
people painted us as, what we wrote on our
hands in an effort to remember the things we
wanted. (yet we neglected to write down why)
and now these words are bubbling within
blood vessels, knocking against the roofs of
mouths in an effort to escape and it’s becoming
harder to say only what you need to get by.
every word is an outburst, every phrase is an
outpouring of something someone else wrote on
you and now we all just spit out the things that
someone else once said, because we’ve thrown
around so many words so carelessly that we can’t
even tell the difference.
i’m wandering somewhere vague, and i don’t know
if i’m lost in delusion or luck. there’s a fine line drawn
between those two fatally beautiful things, and both
can plunge a knife squarely between your shoulders.
but i intend to live past sixteen, i think, so i’ll
try not to intoxicate myself with too many visions;
i don’t want to pay the price now, i want
to pay for it later, and so i wait, and i wander
and i think that i’m doing alright even when i know
that i’m lost, somehow, somewhere; even when i know
that either i’m completely out of my head, or the
saints have really decided to throw me a party.
(i wouldn’t count on the latter.)
i’m rolling with the seasons and
trying my best
to make a mess;
i can pretend it’s all a test.
i’ve run out of reasons to be tired, and yet
that’s all i am: tired and
it’s alright, i suppose. i hear the kids in africa
are taking their last breath while their food
supply shrinks into nothing; meanwhile i’ll
sink to the messy floor in despair because
i am tired, and that’s the simple truth of it
it’s hard to be sympathetic when
you’re tired, i suppose.
and oddly i feel selfish when i know
that humans were born into this world to
take, and to take, and to take
and that’s what i’ve been doing all along,
just making a mess