, and I sit down and read it and I want to cry, because I am just so glad that he is there, and I can talk to him, and we have a story that I think is beautiful, and I say it a lot, but we met in a grade eleven English class while reading to kill a mockingbird, I turned to him and said, “I ripped my sock.” &this is how it all began. And, a beautiful girl once said I write about everything like it is a fucking fairytale, and maybe I do, and I can accept it, because this is how I feel. And it scares me. But, it’s in the crevices of his hands and how those same hands look dancing over guitar strings, and as I tuck myself into a sleeping bag leaning back in the passenger seat of a car surrounded by broken glass and smoke is dancing up to the roof after a much awaited return I realize this is it, and after waiting even longer for some alone time, we spend the whole night wide awake, drinking whiskey and smoking too many cigarettes and TALKING about EVERYTHING, and for the first time in a long time, I feel that everything is okay, and I
( ... )
I’ve grown up a lot. I met a boy when I was in 10th grade, who I thought could be trusted with my heart, so I served it to him right then and there and he returned it to me, incredibly broken after six months of heart ache, hyperventilating and horrible poetry. I thought having sex meant you were in love, so I would let him push my cold body against the backseat of his car, and it did not feel good (even a little bit.) but you have to believe me when I say that I pretended that it did, and I tried to tell everyone he was the best thing that ever happened to me, because I was so fucking alone. The thing about him though, was that he would lie to my face, and break up with me because I cried because he was hurting me and tell me that he was going to kill himself and have sex with other girls, and when I met this new boy that showed me how to grow, I was scared I was going to lose him over the same reasons, because small mistakes made the other boy break up with me, and I thought it would be the same. So, instead I had an extremely tear
( ... )
Maybe these are mistakes, and maybe I will regret this all later. But right now, I know that the sun will rise tomorrow, and if I want too, I can take off my shoes and walk in the bare grass and let dandelions get stuck between my toes, and I will even pick up a couple of dandelions and make wishes for everything. I wish for small things. When I was little and I blew candles out on my birthday, I would wish for small things, like a cute boy to have a crush on me, and I thought that maybe when I was older and had more control of my life, I would wish for greater more meaningful things, except I don’t. I still feel six years old I just use bigger words and listen to classier music, and take photos, and whisper in his ear
( ... )
I listen to sad music, and take Polaroid’s and drink root beer and smoke to many cigarettes, because I don’t know any better and I am just glad that I am living and able to indulge in these small delicacies. And maybe I quote too many things, or don’t read enough books or watch to many crappy horror movies to realize that the things I am doing don’t matter, because if I were apathetic, I wouldn’t write the way that I do, and ramble on and on and realize, how horrible it sounds. I am not censoring myself for the first time in a long time, and I don’t know why. I don’t know a lot of things. I believe in God. But I don’t talk loud enough about my beliefs for anybody to realize how I truly am; I can be an incredibly mean person.
I remember the meanest thing that I have ever done, I went to camp when I was 11 years old and there was this really annoying boy who I did not get along with very well because he ate his spaghetti sloppily and had a big mouth, and the pastor had us make things out of clay one day, and he left them in the sun all day to dry, and was going to put them on the fire the next day, I even remember what mine said, it was a round plaque that said, “be yourself at all times.” And I was going to give it to my mom, but that night it rained, and all the girls in my cabin snuck out and wouldn’t let me come, and I wrote a letter about how lonely I was, and I realize how insane it is to be lonely when you are 11, but I was. And I was incredibly homesick, but all our clay creations turned into piles of mush, and the next day when we were packing up to leave, the annoying boy who’s name was Kyle was wearing a bright yellow rain jacket, and we picked up some of our ruined creations and yelled his name and threw it at him, and I doubt he remembers me,
( ... )
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