When I was of a young age
I’d often sneak into bed with my mother to watch television.
When I could hear my father’s footsteps approaching
I’d cuddle up to my mom,
Hoping that I was tiny enough
To not be seen.
I wished to hide
And not have to leave.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Sick Pt. 2
Slowly, I’d drag myself out of my small, warm bed,
Attempting to make my way down the hall without passing out or puking.
My new place of rest would still be warm
With the heat my mother’s body left behind.
Comfortable there, I would waste my time
Sleeping and watching cartoons
While waiting for my bowl of soup to arrive at noon.
Attempting to make my way down the hall without passing out or puking.
My new place of rest would still be warm
With the heat my mother’s body left behind.
Comfortable there, I would waste my time
Sleeping and watching cartoons
While waiting for my bowl of soup to arrive at noon.
Sick
I’d cry out for my mom while running to the bathroom
And she’d meet me there with a wet cloth in her hand.
Gently she’d pull my hair back
While I stayed put with my head above the toilet.
I’d puke until I could puke no more,
And the whole time she’d slowly be rubbing my back.
Afterwards she’d hand me the cloth
That she so patiently had been holding
So I could wipe my face before preparing myself for bed
Once again.
I took her for granted,
Always expecting her to be there,
But now I am alone
With no one to comfort me
Through my sickness,
And I wish for those days of my childhood
When she would stand by my side
In the middle of the night.
And she’d meet me there with a wet cloth in her hand.
Gently she’d pull my hair back
While I stayed put with my head above the toilet.
I’d puke until I could puke no more,
And the whole time she’d slowly be rubbing my back.
Afterwards she’d hand me the cloth
That she so patiently had been holding
So I could wipe my face before preparing myself for bed
Once again.
I took her for granted,
Always expecting her to be there,
But now I am alone
With no one to comfort me
Through my sickness,
And I wish for those days of my childhood
When she would stand by my side
In the middle of the night.
Your Name
I like the way your name sounds coming from my mouth. Often times when I lay alone in my bed, staring expressionlessly at the ceiling, I find myself slowly mouthing your name as it repeats itself over and over inside my head. Then I begin to whisper it, memorizing the way my lips move when I say your name, and enjoying simply hearing your name spoken aloud. The sound disappears so fast, though, while your name continues to echo inside my head.
Lost
Alone I stand in the middle of a field
Covered in a blanket of fresh, white snow,
Some still sprinkling gently down from the cold grey sky.
My vision is distorted,
Blurred greatly by the cloud that quietly sits only feet from the ground.
How I got here, I wonder,
As I begin to trudge in any direction I can, struggling to find my way.
So long it seems I have been walking, getting no closer to civilization,
And the fog shows no signs of lifting.
With my head slightly spinning and my body so tired,
I collapse into a bed of snow
And wake up immediately in my warm, dark room, alone.
Covered in a blanket of fresh, white snow,
Some still sprinkling gently down from the cold grey sky.
My vision is distorted,
Blurred greatly by the cloud that quietly sits only feet from the ground.
How I got here, I wonder,
As I begin to trudge in any direction I can, struggling to find my way.
So long it seems I have been walking, getting no closer to civilization,
And the fog shows no signs of lifting.
With my head slightly spinning and my body so tired,
I collapse into a bed of snow
And wake up immediately in my warm, dark room, alone.
A Snippet of Something
The weight loss is visible mainly on my fingers and thighs. A plain, silver circle sits loosely on my thin ring finger like a woman’s dress would hang on a young girl playing dress up.
Forgotten Memories
The sun had set hours ago, yet the image of brilliant oranges, light reds, golden yellows, peachy pinks, cotton candy purples, and numerous shades of blues still burned in my memory as the sun once burned my eyes. Tall, slightly swaying trees surrounded the unfamiliar neighborhood in which I found myself, making the unlit rocky road scarily dark, for the moon had not yet crawled high enough to peek through millions of full, thick tree branches.
Bringing my attention back to the group of teenagers that I stood in an imperfect circle with, I noticed that many were staring at me. This wasn’t unusual, though, when I chose this area of town to spend my time; my ghostly white skin was not often welcomed among these people who seemingly blended in with the blackness of the night. Although I could not see the details of faces without glasses, a quick glance at a familiar face five feet away from mine confirmed the plans. The second a deep voice began slowly, but loudly counting, the small group broke apart, silencing all whispers and quietly sprinting in different directions towards personal, pre-planned destinations. Released from the circle of bodies, I finally felt the somewhat chilly breeze gently blowing through my thin, blue hoodie as I jogged close behind the familiar face I had earlier locked eyes with; summer was nearly over.
We broke through ruffling leaves in a flurry, causing sound to escape into the air. Invisible from any eyes wandering along the road, we began to take slower, lighter steps across the first leaves of autumn and the easily breakable twigs that covered the ground. The two of us weaved endlessly through thinner trees, me nearly latching onto him, as I could not see where he was leading me. He came to an abrupt stop, causing me to trip over him, straight into a pile of dirt. A laugh burst through his lips, but was muffled by slender hands that I imagined to be soft so to not attract our hunters. Suddenly, the distinct sound of a large twig cracking echoed towards us; we were not alone. Without hesitation, he instantly accompanied me behind the pile of hard dirt. Our ears stayed alert, expecting to hear footsteps coming in our direction, but the only audible sound was the chattering of my teeth.
Arms slinked around me, pulling me into a sideways hug for warmth. I tilted my head up so that I could see the familiar face better than I could from a number of feet away earlier; it was nearly the same shade of pale as my face was. When he focused his eyes on mine, though, I didn’t look away with embarrassment; instead, I continued to stare at him. The longer our eyes were locked in the blurry darkness, the more we knew — about each other, and about our feelings. No words needed to be spoken. It was as if we could see into each other’s minds and souls by simply looking each other in the eye; it was as if our eyes were the windows to our soul, begging to be looked through. There was no doubt about it: we felt the exact same. Butterflies filled our stomachs, fluttering about and tickling our insides, leaving us both speechless — as if words needed to be spoken. A connection had been made between us.
Unfortunately, our meaningful gaze was rudely interrupted by something — a person — crashing through the bushes and wildly screaming “I found you!” A grin plastered itself across my face as I slowly rose and brushed the dirt off of my now-brown hoodie. With the young teenage boy bounding ahead of us through the woods, we tread side by side back to the official meeting place while our hearts calmed down and the butterflies floated away, left behind with the memories.
Bringing my attention back to the group of teenagers that I stood in an imperfect circle with, I noticed that many were staring at me. This wasn’t unusual, though, when I chose this area of town to spend my time; my ghostly white skin was not often welcomed among these people who seemingly blended in with the blackness of the night. Although I could not see the details of faces without glasses, a quick glance at a familiar face five feet away from mine confirmed the plans. The second a deep voice began slowly, but loudly counting, the small group broke apart, silencing all whispers and quietly sprinting in different directions towards personal, pre-planned destinations. Released from the circle of bodies, I finally felt the somewhat chilly breeze gently blowing through my thin, blue hoodie as I jogged close behind the familiar face I had earlier locked eyes with; summer was nearly over.
We broke through ruffling leaves in a flurry, causing sound to escape into the air. Invisible from any eyes wandering along the road, we began to take slower, lighter steps across the first leaves of autumn and the easily breakable twigs that covered the ground. The two of us weaved endlessly through thinner trees, me nearly latching onto him, as I could not see where he was leading me. He came to an abrupt stop, causing me to trip over him, straight into a pile of dirt. A laugh burst through his lips, but was muffled by slender hands that I imagined to be soft so to not attract our hunters. Suddenly, the distinct sound of a large twig cracking echoed towards us; we were not alone. Without hesitation, he instantly accompanied me behind the pile of hard dirt. Our ears stayed alert, expecting to hear footsteps coming in our direction, but the only audible sound was the chattering of my teeth.
Arms slinked around me, pulling me into a sideways hug for warmth. I tilted my head up so that I could see the familiar face better than I could from a number of feet away earlier; it was nearly the same shade of pale as my face was. When he focused his eyes on mine, though, I didn’t look away with embarrassment; instead, I continued to stare at him. The longer our eyes were locked in the blurry darkness, the more we knew — about each other, and about our feelings. No words needed to be spoken. It was as if we could see into each other’s minds and souls by simply looking each other in the eye; it was as if our eyes were the windows to our soul, begging to be looked through. There was no doubt about it: we felt the exact same. Butterflies filled our stomachs, fluttering about and tickling our insides, leaving us both speechless — as if words needed to be spoken. A connection had been made between us.
Unfortunately, our meaningful gaze was rudely interrupted by something — a person — crashing through the bushes and wildly screaming “I found you!” A grin plastered itself across my face as I slowly rose and brushed the dirt off of my now-brown hoodie. With the young teenage boy bounding ahead of us through the woods, we tread side by side back to the official meeting place while our hearts calmed down and the butterflies floated away, left behind with the memories.
The Power of the Ocean
What would it feel like to have the whole ocean against you,
To struggle against the strength its waves throw at you
And constantly crawl through salty water
For sips of the air us humans must breathe in order to live?
What would it feel like
To fight against such outrageous power
And lose,
Sinking slowly into its dark beauty, away from the sunlight
That reaches through the blue for you?
After the burning [oh, the burning!]
A peaceful dream may wash over you,
Just as the ocean once did
When it first welcomed you into its flowing arms.
To struggle against the strength its waves throw at you
And constantly crawl through salty water
For sips of the air us humans must breathe in order to live?
What would it feel like
To fight against such outrageous power
And lose,
Sinking slowly into its dark beauty, away from the sunlight
That reaches through the blue for you?
After the burning [oh, the burning!]
A peaceful dream may wash over you,
Just as the ocean once did
When it first welcomed you into its flowing arms.
Years From Now
Years from now, I’ll be remembered
As the girl who never spoke,
The girl who was emotionless,
Expressionless.
Years from now, people will talk about me,
Wondering
What I was really like.
Will they still think that I’m
A stuck-up bitch,
Better than everyone,
Just ‘cause I was able to hold my head
Higher than they ever could?
Years from now, will they still consider me a freak
Because of my lack of words, lack of actions,
Lack of reactions?
Years from now, they’ll have forgotten why they never liked me,
But I’ll never forget why I hated them.
I’ll laugh at them all for being so stupid,
Years from now.
As the girl who never spoke,
The girl who was emotionless,
Expressionless.
Years from now, people will talk about me,
Wondering
What I was really like.
Will they still think that I’m
A stuck-up bitch,
Better than everyone,
Just ‘cause I was able to hold my head
Higher than they ever could?
Years from now, will they still consider me a freak
Because of my lack of words, lack of actions,
Lack of reactions?
Years from now, they’ll have forgotten why they never liked me,
But I’ll never forget why I hated them.
I’ll laugh at them all for being so stupid,
Years from now.
Finally Gone
And I waved a final goodbye as my dreams
Dripped down the drain
With tears splattering after them.
High-pitched echoes of the drops
Called back to me, begging for me to keep them,
Hold them tightly to my heart
Where they belong,
But I instead pulled my outstretched arm close to my body,
Took a slow, uneven breath,
And spun around to face reality.
Fantasies did nothing for me
But shatter all that I had,
All that I could see
Like mirrors.
My eyes viewed the world
In pieces.
Sometimes I saw two of the same,
Sometimes I found an empty spot,
But altogether it created
A distorted picture
Full of cracks
Of what I thought reality to be,
Of what I thought life to be.
Dripped down the drain
With tears splattering after them.
High-pitched echoes of the drops
Called back to me, begging for me to keep them,
Hold them tightly to my heart
Where they belong,
But I instead pulled my outstretched arm close to my body,
Took a slow, uneven breath,
And spun around to face reality.
Fantasies did nothing for me
But shatter all that I had,
All that I could see
Like mirrors.
My eyes viewed the world
In pieces.
Sometimes I saw two of the same,
Sometimes I found an empty spot,
But altogether it created
A distorted picture
Full of cracks
Of what I thought reality to be,
Of what I thought life to be.
Escaping My Nightmares [descriptive version]
Without the need of a
Short, powerful sprint
To give me strength
And steal my air and leave my body shaking,
My knees begin to bend.
Slowly, I let my eyelids close,
Focusing
On envisioning a close-up view
Of the back of my knees.
I see the power surging through my legs,
Collecting in this one area,
Preparing
For
Take off as I bend, then snap my legs straight,
Launching up, up, up,
And everything is a blur
As I speed through the icy air
And stop,
Lightly floating
Above the streetlights,
Above the powerlines,
Peeking over the peaks of trees,
Resisting their pull.
My body creates heat, recovering from the chill of the wind as I
Lift my arms up
And touch the stars with my fingertips,
Laughter bubbling out of me,
The volume much louder away from
The musical noise of a city,
Knowing I have escaped my troubles,
Even if only for one night.
Drifting south with slight fear tingling through my body,
I soar like a bird,
Feeling the air
Splitting to let me through
And hugging my sides as it
Longs to connect once again.
I don’t know where I’m going,
But no matter how far I fly,
I can’t seem to fly away from what causes
My heart to ache and my eyes to leak tears.
I cannot simply
Escape from my nightmares,
Leaving my unsolved problems behind.
Short, powerful sprint
To give me strength
And steal my air and leave my body shaking,
My knees begin to bend.
Slowly, I let my eyelids close,
Focusing
On envisioning a close-up view
Of the back of my knees.
I see the power surging through my legs,
Collecting in this one area,
Preparing
For
Take off as I bend, then snap my legs straight,
Launching up, up, up,
And everything is a blur
As I speed through the icy air
And stop,
Lightly floating
Above the streetlights,
Above the powerlines,
Peeking over the peaks of trees,
Resisting their pull.
My body creates heat, recovering from the chill of the wind as I
Lift my arms up
And touch the stars with my fingertips,
Laughter bubbling out of me,
The volume much louder away from
The musical noise of a city,
Knowing I have escaped my troubles,
Even if only for one night.
Drifting south with slight fear tingling through my body,
I soar like a bird,
Feeling the air
Splitting to let me through
And hugging my sides as it
Longs to connect once again.
I don’t know where I’m going,
But no matter how far I fly,
I can’t seem to fly away from what causes
My heart to ache and my eyes to leak tears.
I cannot simply
Escape from my nightmares,
Leaving my unsolved problems behind.
Escaping My Nightmares
Without the need of a running start I
Bend at the knees, collecting strength
Into my legs for
Take off, shooting
Up, up…
Up into
The haunted night sky.
I fly
Away,
Hiding.
The more problems I face
With my feet tied to the ground,
The higher at night I fly,
But no higher than
Just above
The reaches of trees,
For the air is cold…
Colder the higher I go.
Each night that I fly,
And fly,
And fly,
I never reach my destination;
I don’t know what it is.
My troubles are holding me down,
Tying me down,
Dragging me
Back into their suffocating grasps.
I cannot escape my nightmares.
Bend at the knees, collecting strength
Into my legs for
Take off, shooting
Up, up…
Up into
The haunted night sky.
I fly
Away,
Hiding.
The more problems I face
With my feet tied to the ground,
The higher at night I fly,
But no higher than
Just above
The reaches of trees,
For the air is cold…
Colder the higher I go.
Each night that I fly,
And fly,
And fly,
I never reach my destination;
I don’t know what it is.
My troubles are holding me down,
Tying me down,
Dragging me
Back into their suffocating grasps.
I cannot escape my nightmares.
Racing Raindrops
I cannot imagine how many hours of my life I have spent sitting alone in a car. What a waste of time, right? When I think about it, though, it has never once been a waste of my time. Many other things I do are a complete waste of time, but not this. This is like a shower to me. In a way, I do clean myself while here. I clean my mind by clearing it of stress… of my life and its problems. I get quality thinking done, as I do in the shower. While the raindrops race down the window I find myself filling my head with deeper thoughts… thoughts that matter… thoughts that are important. Sitting alone in cars, in any weather, is what gives me much inspiration for what I love: writing. There’s just something great and inspiring about staring out a window and watching the world without you.
I wouldn’t call it a fear, for I do not often fear when in this circumstance. It’s more like a prediction, I’d say. All I am is waiting; all I do is wait. I know it will happen one day. I simply do not know when. I think what scares me, though, is… I think I’m afraid that it will happen when I don’t expect it. When I’m in that situation and I catch myself not expecting it, I get scared. So I try to expect it at all times. However, that is not possible. There will always be times when I’m not expecting it, and that’s when it’ll strike.
Photographers...
They are strange, crazy people.
Their eyes view the world differently than yours. Everyone’s eyes see things in a different light, in a different color, but these people choose to make an effort to show the world how they see life. Cameras are their tools. Angles, lights, and focus, or lack of, are their keys. The rest is pure skills and talent. Lucky ones blessed with a knack for photography don’t just enjoy life’s pictures, though. They go a little crazy in order to capture such beautiful shots. Climbing, crawling, and getting uncomfortable and dirty in public or in the middle of the woods are part of their daily lives. Perhaps even going on adventures through the forest are daily happenings for some photographers. And getting lost brings on excitement; excitement towards discovering a whole new place to photograph endlessly. Traveling from one end of earth to the other is the dream of most photographers. A city can give one a number of unique photos, but other, new, different cities and towns can give many more. There will never be nothing to take a picture of for a photographer.
Their eyes view the world differently than yours. Everyone’s eyes see things in a different light, in a different color, but these people choose to make an effort to show the world how they see life. Cameras are their tools. Angles, lights, and focus, or lack of, are their keys. The rest is pure skills and talent. Lucky ones blessed with a knack for photography don’t just enjoy life’s pictures, though. They go a little crazy in order to capture such beautiful shots. Climbing, crawling, and getting uncomfortable and dirty in public or in the middle of the woods are part of their daily lives. Perhaps even going on adventures through the forest are daily happenings for some photographers. And getting lost brings on excitement; excitement towards discovering a whole new place to photograph endlessly. Traveling from one end of earth to the other is the dream of most photographers. A city can give one a number of unique photos, but other, new, different cities and towns can give many more. There will never be nothing to take a picture of for a photographer.
I am here, but no.
I am here, but now I am gone.
Never the one to walk forward
into the crash,
always watching
scenery fly by my eyes.
You can’t touch me you can’t touch me
Nothing can touch me
No one can touch me
anymore.
Walk right through me,
I’m invisible.
Like a ghost.
A ghost of who I once was
Who I could be,
But not who I am.
My mouth moves,
forming words,
but there is nobody to hear me
Listen to me.
What will it matter,
For I am nothing to you
I can see.
Time goes by, I go by.
Who am I? Who was I?
Memories fade.
No worries, though.
No need to worry.
Really.
I’m okay.
I’ll be okay
once I arrive
in the one place
in which I belong.
I just need to dream
For a while,
without interruptions.
Bring me to the place
I have always feared the most,
for it will at last
bring me the peace I desire.
Cold metal can be
what I last feel.
Pools of red can be
what I last see.
Death can be
what I achieve.
So my body may lay in the ground,
Rotting away,
empty,
while my soul is left to wander
and to dream.
Never the one to walk forward
into the crash,
always watching
scenery fly by my eyes.
You can’t touch me you can’t touch me
Nothing can touch me
No one can touch me
anymore.
Walk right through me,
I’m invisible.
Like a ghost.
A ghost of who I once was
Who I could be,
But not who I am.
My mouth moves,
forming words,
but there is nobody to hear me
Listen to me.
What will it matter,
For I am nothing to you
I can see.
Time goes by, I go by.
Who am I? Who was I?
Memories fade.
No worries, though.
No need to worry.
Really.
I’m okay.
I’ll be okay
once I arrive
in the one place
in which I belong.
I just need to dream
For a while,
without interruptions.
Bring me to the place
I have always feared the most,
for it will at last
bring me the peace I desire.
Cold metal can be
what I last feel.
Pools of red can be
what I last see.
Death can be
what I achieve.
So my body may lay in the ground,
Rotting away,
empty,
while my soul is left to wander
and to dream.
I honestly cannot see my life ending in any other way
than suicide.
And that makes me sad.
I’m so afraid of death… in a way.
In a way I’m not at all.
I hate life too damn much to live that long.
There really is no point.
I’m just another person
who is much, much
too sad and
too angry
to live life
properly…
or at all.
And that makes me sad.
I’m so afraid of death… in a way.
In a way I’m not at all.
I hate life too damn much to live that long.
There really is no point.
I’m just another person
who is much, much
too sad and
too angry
to live life
properly…
or at all.
Life Through a Window
I’m staring at life through a window,
Waiting for it all to crash.
The window is here to help protect me,
Shield me
From the horrors that lie on the other side of this glass.
As I sit here in my cozy glass box, thinking I’m safe
When really I have “Fragile” written all over me,
Life rushes past.
I only am ever able to catch glimpses of what it looks like.
The trees,
The friendly faces,
The muted laughs,
The rapidly-changing weather…
I want to be a part of it,
Whirling around with it,
But I am trapped
Behind this unbreakable window.
I know
My window only wishes to save me from becoming hurt,
But I need to experience for myself
How terrible life truly is
Before I come crawling back
To hide behind this window
And look at life from afar.
Waiting for it all to crash.
The window is here to help protect me,
Shield me
From the horrors that lie on the other side of this glass.
As I sit here in my cozy glass box, thinking I’m safe
When really I have “Fragile” written all over me,
Life rushes past.
I only am ever able to catch glimpses of what it looks like.
The trees,
The friendly faces,
The muted laughs,
The rapidly-changing weather…
I want to be a part of it,
Whirling around with it,
But I am trapped
Behind this unbreakable window.
I know
My window only wishes to save me from becoming hurt,
But I need to experience for myself
How terrible life truly is
Before I come crawling back
To hide behind this window
And look at life from afar.
Where Am I?
The sun, it blinds me.
My path is no longer visible.
My legs, they move, my feet, they walk,
But I feel so frozen in place.
Where am I going?
Cars whiz by.
My ears sting
From the noise and the cold,
But silence sits inside my head.
My body pulls me,
And I face the headlights of a gray car.
It doesn’t slow, and I don’t move.
In the distance I hear sirens coming towards me.
Where am I?
My path is no longer visible.
My legs, they move, my feet, they walk,
But I feel so frozen in place.
Where am I going?
Cars whiz by.
My ears sting
From the noise and the cold,
But silence sits inside my head.
My body pulls me,
And I face the headlights of a gray car.
It doesn’t slow, and I don’t move.
In the distance I hear sirens coming towards me.
Where am I?
I was blind, but now I can see
How ugly I truly can be
When I hold the power of insecurity.
I hide.
With makeup many shades darker than
My true skin tone
Caked onto my skin
To hide
The red, the grease, the bumps.
Wearing sweaters and jeans everyday
To hide
The masterpiece
Of cuts
Across my arms and legs.
Big, baggy shirts
To take away
Any shape I may have.
So I manipulate,
To make up for my ugliness.
And it works.
How ugly I truly can be
When I hold the power of insecurity.
I hide.
With makeup many shades darker than
My true skin tone
Caked onto my skin
To hide
The red, the grease, the bumps.
Wearing sweaters and jeans everyday
To hide
The masterpiece
Of cuts
Across my arms and legs.
Big, baggy shirts
To take away
Any shape I may have.
So I manipulate,
To make up for my ugliness.
And it works.
Like a Feather
Chaos swirls around me,
Shouting.
But in my invisible bubble
There is silence
As I fall
Slowly, calmly, gently,
Like a feather,
With my eyes
Peacefully shut.
Shouting.
But in my invisible bubble
There is silence
As I fall
Slowly, calmly, gently,
Like a feather,
With my eyes
Peacefully shut.
I Want to See the World
I want to hike through the Rocky Mountains
Rather than admiring them from afar.
I want to return to San Francisco and Hawaii
In better weather
With friends,
Or on my own,
So I can explore however I please.
I want to visit Vancouver and LA
And see what life’s like in such big cities
Full of stars.
I want to travel all around Europe:
England, Germany, Italy,
France, Greece, Spain,
Finland, Sweden, Switzerland.
I’d love to see Japan,
And Korea and China.
Asia would be a lovely place for me to be.
I want to find myself in places
That I never heard of before.
I want to see the world,
And take photos for memories.
Rather than admiring them from afar.
I want to return to San Francisco and Hawaii
In better weather
With friends,
Or on my own,
So I can explore however I please.
I want to visit Vancouver and LA
And see what life’s like in such big cities
Full of stars.
I want to travel all around Europe:
England, Germany, Italy,
France, Greece, Spain,
Finland, Sweden, Switzerland.
I’d love to see Japan,
And Korea and China.
Asia would be a lovely place for me to be.
I want to find myself in places
That I never heard of before.
I want to see the world,
And take photos for memories.
Shaking
Shaking with the cold that’s in the air and in my bones,
Shaking with fear, shaking with sorrow.
Shaking uncontrollably.
Shaking.
Shaking with fear, shaking with sorrow.
Shaking uncontrollably.
Shaking.
The Horror of Fairy Tales
Taught since a young age
To believe in princes and princesses,
Angels and fairies,
Knights in shining armor,
Told that one day we will be
Swept off our feet by a handsome man,
Saved from an unfortunate situation
By a hero we’ll forever be thankful for,
We grow up in a world of lies.
How long does it take us to realize the truth,
That
The only princes and princesses are snobby little bitches,
And the angels are the dead.
The fairies don’t exist;
They’re forever a part of our imagination.
The only knight I’ve come across
Is too fucked up inside his head
To do his job.
The only time we will be
Swept off our feet
We’ll soon after be thrown,
Flipped upside down
Into a puddle of mud.
And the only person who can save you
Is yourself.
So I suggest you save yourself from
This horror
We call
A fairy tale.
To believe in princes and princesses,
Angels and fairies,
Knights in shining armor,
Told that one day we will be
Swept off our feet by a handsome man,
Saved from an unfortunate situation
By a hero we’ll forever be thankful for,
We grow up in a world of lies.
How long does it take us to realize the truth,
That
The only princes and princesses are snobby little bitches,
And the angels are the dead.
The fairies don’t exist;
They’re forever a part of our imagination.
The only knight I’ve come across
Is too fucked up inside his head
To do his job.
The only time we will be
Swept off our feet
We’ll soon after be thrown,
Flipped upside down
Into a puddle of mud.
And the only person who can save you
Is yourself.
So I suggest you save yourself from
This horror
We call
A fairy tale.
Back Off
You think you’re
Leading me away from the cliff
With your well-practiced words,
But really you’re just pushing me closer and closer to the edge.
Soon I may lose balance
And fall
Through the icy air in which I cannot breathe
And find myself
Dead before I hit the ground.
Leading me away from the cliff
With your well-practiced words,
But really you’re just pushing me closer and closer to the edge.
Soon I may lose balance
And fall
Through the icy air in which I cannot breathe
And find myself
Dead before I hit the ground.
Cold-Hearted
My body shakes uncontrollably with this cold,
But it’s not just this icy weather I wish to shake off.
I can feel deep within me,
In my heart, in my bones,
In my mind
That my past is coming back to haunt me.
And I wish so for it to go away.
I wish to be able to simply
Shiver it away with the cold.
But it’s not just this icy weather I wish to shake off.
I can feel deep within me,
In my heart, in my bones,
In my mind
That my past is coming back to haunt me.
And I wish so for it to go away.
I wish to be able to simply
Shiver it away with the cold.
These Nights
These are the nights that are the worst.
My naked body lays, unable to hide
The scars left from my past
That I stare so intently at,
noticing every detail I hadn’t noticed before,
Like how that one is paler and sticks out
And there’s a barely-noticeable indent where that one is.
And I ask myself:
Do I really want more?
The blade is held tightly in my hand,
Prepared to slice,
But also willing to be shoved aside.
I eye the area in which I imagine
The skin being forced open by the silver sharp and blood seeping out.
Gently, I trace the lines I would make?
With my naturally inch-long nails.
Then I push harder—
Hard enough to leave a slight mark that only I can see.
That seems to please me for the time being,
So I put away my weapon,
Hoping the urge doesn’t surface again,
But knowing it will.
My naked body lays, unable to hide
The scars left from my past
That I stare so intently at,
noticing every detail I hadn’t noticed before,
Like how that one is paler and sticks out
And there’s a barely-noticeable indent where that one is.
And I ask myself:
Do I really want more?
The blade is held tightly in my hand,
Prepared to slice,
But also willing to be shoved aside.
I eye the area in which I imagine
The skin being forced open by the silver sharp and blood seeping out.
Gently, I trace the lines I would make?
With my naturally inch-long nails.
Then I push harder—
Hard enough to leave a slight mark that only I can see.
That seems to please me for the time being,
So I put away my weapon,
Hoping the urge doesn’t surface again,
But knowing it will.
A Trapped Soul
In front of the movie theatre, I stood alone, checking myself over. My brown hair fell in short, soft waves that I could see in the reflection of myself on the tinted car window of a red mustang parked sideways in front of me. Tucked into my casual, blue jeans was a white shirt I had just bought the other day, and a simple, black blazer hugged me tightly. At the sight of how I looked in that lighting, a smile grew onto my lips. Behind me, dull light bulbs blinked around the list of movies playing. Constantly, I would look up at the pitch black, cloudy sky or the empty street to check if the angry clouds stopped sprinkling rain upon our city yet. I snuck a peek at my silver pocket watch. She was late. The movie had supposedly started ten minutes ago… But everybody knows that there are ten minutes of previews before the movie actually starts, so I decided to wait a little while longer. My body tensed and my back straightened as I expected to see her arriving soon; nervousness spread throughout me. Half an hour later I allowed disappointment to arrive and relax me with the realization that my girlfriend wasn’t joining me tonight.
Mother Nature showed empathy and halted the cold rain for my long, lonely walk home. After only trudging five blocks, it was time to smoke a cigarette for release. Temporarily ceasing my steps on the wet sidewalk, I let my body fall with a sigh until my shoulder blades and lower back both touched the dry brick wall near a tall, orange street light. I faced away from the light and stared into the distance, which was partly cloudy from the smoke seeping out of my mouth.
A sudden flash of light I spotted out of the corner of my eye broke me out of my trance. My entire body froze. Only thoughts moved. Fear spread. Once panic drifted away enough, my head snapped in the direction the flash had come from. There I saw the only other human in the area. In his hands, a Polaroid camera spat out an image—of me, of course. The photographer carefully slid his newest masterpiece from the camera’s grip, beaming a smile full of crooked yellow teeth towards me. I knew he meant well, but that didn’t stop me from viewing him and his smile as evil. Well aware of the myth, I tried to avoid having it come true my entire life; I was afraid of what would happen to me next, since I had clearly failed at avoiding this man’s camera.
I stared at the man like a deer in headlights. I don’t think he could see it, but I could feel my young soul being torn from my stunned body. A single tear made its way down my pale face as a tingling sensation crawled across my every limb, my torso, and my head. My body was fading away, weakly following my soul into an unknown world.
When I dared myself to open my eyes, nothing seemed different; I was in the same spot on the empty street I was before. Shrugging the photo incident off, I began the rest of my walk home. It took ten minutes of walking before I realized that I wasn’t going anywhere. I was walking straight, but it was like I was walking in circles. Confused by this, I went back to my earlier position against the brick, closed my eyes, and replayed what had happened. I replayed it and replayed it and replayed it, but it made no sense.
Eventually, I found the spot on the sidewalk which I was never able to walk past; when I tried I simply found myself walking towards it again. Once I found this spot, it didn’t take long to realize that my soul and body had been transferred away from reality and into the man’s photograph. That was exactly what the myth had said would happen if my picture ever got taken, but I never thought it would happen to me. There was no way out of this dreary place, it seemed. To pass the time, I visualized the reaction my girlfriend had when the information was passed on to her that I had gone missing the night we were supposed to watch a movie.
***
The moment Karlee placed the plate of pancakes in front of her five-year-old daughter, Lylia, who she received as a result from her last relationship, the phone sang for her attention from the living room. She quickly shuffled out of the kitchen with her tiny, vein-y feet to answer it, wondering who would be calling at this time. “Hello?” she shot at the caller, annoyed.
“Hello? Ms. Smith? Ms. Karlee Smith? It’s Cody’s father, Joseph. You’re the girl he has been dating lately, are you not? The brunette with the child, right? When was the last time you saw Cody? Do you recall where you two last went and what you did?” he questioned Karlee as if she were a teenager again, not the 25-year-old woman she was.
“Uhm, yes, Cody and I are dating. I was supposed to go to a movie with him last night, but I was late, and he was no longer there when I arrived. If you’re just calling me to give me a lecture about how to be a better girlfriend or something, then I don’t want to he—”
“That’s not the problem, Ms. Smith. You see… well… according to Cody’s roommate, he never arrived back at his apartment last night, there has been no answer on his cell phone, and none of his friends know where he is, so we reported him as missing this morning. I was just wondering if you would join us in a search we’ve scheduled for the weekend.” Joseph rambled on.
Karlee had stopped listening when she heard the word “missing.” The phone dropped out of her delicate hands and crashed to the ground, leaving a slightly noticeable dent in her brand new parquet flooring. She stood there, shocked, with her bruised knees threatening to give out on her and with Joseph constantly shouting “hello?” into the phone.
Lylia bounded into the living room at that moment, her blonde ringlets bouncing all over the place. She stopped instantly when she saw the grief on her mother’s face, and then took the last few steps to embrace her thin body with a hug. Karlee burst out crying.
***
Cody found himself crying as well, imagining this event taking place. He couldn’t stand being trapped any longer. There were no guns around; only a road, sidewalk, streetlight, and brick wall. Taking the only choice he felt he had, he stood up, faced the wall, took a final, deep breath and begun smashing his head into the brick with full force until he no longer could. Finally, after many blows to the head, he fell to the ground. He situated his mouth over the growing puddle of dark red blood and gave up.
Mother Nature showed empathy and halted the cold rain for my long, lonely walk home. After only trudging five blocks, it was time to smoke a cigarette for release. Temporarily ceasing my steps on the wet sidewalk, I let my body fall with a sigh until my shoulder blades and lower back both touched the dry brick wall near a tall, orange street light. I faced away from the light and stared into the distance, which was partly cloudy from the smoke seeping out of my mouth.
A sudden flash of light I spotted out of the corner of my eye broke me out of my trance. My entire body froze. Only thoughts moved. Fear spread. Once panic drifted away enough, my head snapped in the direction the flash had come from. There I saw the only other human in the area. In his hands, a Polaroid camera spat out an image—of me, of course. The photographer carefully slid his newest masterpiece from the camera’s grip, beaming a smile full of crooked yellow teeth towards me. I knew he meant well, but that didn’t stop me from viewing him and his smile as evil. Well aware of the myth, I tried to avoid having it come true my entire life; I was afraid of what would happen to me next, since I had clearly failed at avoiding this man’s camera.
I stared at the man like a deer in headlights. I don’t think he could see it, but I could feel my young soul being torn from my stunned body. A single tear made its way down my pale face as a tingling sensation crawled across my every limb, my torso, and my head. My body was fading away, weakly following my soul into an unknown world.
When I dared myself to open my eyes, nothing seemed different; I was in the same spot on the empty street I was before. Shrugging the photo incident off, I began the rest of my walk home. It took ten minutes of walking before I realized that I wasn’t going anywhere. I was walking straight, but it was like I was walking in circles. Confused by this, I went back to my earlier position against the brick, closed my eyes, and replayed what had happened. I replayed it and replayed it and replayed it, but it made no sense.
Eventually, I found the spot on the sidewalk which I was never able to walk past; when I tried I simply found myself walking towards it again. Once I found this spot, it didn’t take long to realize that my soul and body had been transferred away from reality and into the man’s photograph. That was exactly what the myth had said would happen if my picture ever got taken, but I never thought it would happen to me. There was no way out of this dreary place, it seemed. To pass the time, I visualized the reaction my girlfriend had when the information was passed on to her that I had gone missing the night we were supposed to watch a movie.
***
The moment Karlee placed the plate of pancakes in front of her five-year-old daughter, Lylia, who she received as a result from her last relationship, the phone sang for her attention from the living room. She quickly shuffled out of the kitchen with her tiny, vein-y feet to answer it, wondering who would be calling at this time. “Hello?” she shot at the caller, annoyed.
“Hello? Ms. Smith? Ms. Karlee Smith? It’s Cody’s father, Joseph. You’re the girl he has been dating lately, are you not? The brunette with the child, right? When was the last time you saw Cody? Do you recall where you two last went and what you did?” he questioned Karlee as if she were a teenager again, not the 25-year-old woman she was.
“Uhm, yes, Cody and I are dating. I was supposed to go to a movie with him last night, but I was late, and he was no longer there when I arrived. If you’re just calling me to give me a lecture about how to be a better girlfriend or something, then I don’t want to he—”
“That’s not the problem, Ms. Smith. You see… well… according to Cody’s roommate, he never arrived back at his apartment last night, there has been no answer on his cell phone, and none of his friends know where he is, so we reported him as missing this morning. I was just wondering if you would join us in a search we’ve scheduled for the weekend.” Joseph rambled on.
Karlee had stopped listening when she heard the word “missing.” The phone dropped out of her delicate hands and crashed to the ground, leaving a slightly noticeable dent in her brand new parquet flooring. She stood there, shocked, with her bruised knees threatening to give out on her and with Joseph constantly shouting “hello?” into the phone.
Lylia bounded into the living room at that moment, her blonde ringlets bouncing all over the place. She stopped instantly when she saw the grief on her mother’s face, and then took the last few steps to embrace her thin body with a hug. Karlee burst out crying.
***
Cody found himself crying as well, imagining this event taking place. He couldn’t stand being trapped any longer. There were no guns around; only a road, sidewalk, streetlight, and brick wall. Taking the only choice he felt he had, he stood up, faced the wall, took a final, deep breath and begun smashing his head into the brick with full force until he no longer could. Finally, after many blows to the head, he fell to the ground. He situated his mouth over the growing puddle of dark red blood and gave up.
Memories of You
i. When you cross my mind I don’t focus on the last few weeks of our friendship. Instead, my mind only remembers our sweet, sweet memories together
Memories of You
ii. When I pass by your house in a car, the bus, or even when I’m simply walking by, I cannot fight the urge to quickly steal a glance at your house. Sometimes I even imagine where you may be and what you may be doing. Usually I picture you in your bedroom, telling the girl that lies comfortably on your bed that it’s “death metal time.”
Memories of You
iii. You used to drag me out to the garage to accompany you while you smoked. I would sit, bored, on the steps, and you sat with your legs crossed on the chair, smoking. Sometimes you would wander over to your drum set and show off a little for me, and I would always smile.
Memories of You
iv. Oh, your hugs—there was something very different about them that I liked. To be honest here, you’re not the skinniest guy around, and normally I’d hate that. Hugging you, though, was always comforting, and I believe your weight played a part in making it that way. I could hug you forever.
Memories of You
v. It wasn’t the first snowfall, but it was our first snowfall together. We were excited. The moment it changed from fall to winter, we had begun planning to make an igloo with couches inside and hotbox it on the first snowy day. Bounding across the empty street and into the park, we started smoking our weed before creating our couches and igloo. When we finished the bowl, we had a quick snowball fight. But we forgot gloves, so we headed back to your house to grab some. We didn’t make it back outside to build couches and an igloo; I fell asleep. And by the time I woke up, all the snow was washed away by the rain.
Memories of You
vi. I have a bad habit of napping at people’s houses. Yours was no exception. Your bed was the most comfortable bed I ever sat on. Whenever I would wake up from a short or long nap in your bed, I would wake up to you laying beside me and us holding hands. It was comforting, knowing that even in my sleep you were there, refusing to let me go.
Memories of You
vii. I only live a 5-10 minute walk from the school we both went to, but I’m lazy. You convinced me to accompany you on the walk to school every morning. I waited for you at the corner by the stop sign everyday, watching you walk towards me, smiling at your strange style. We would hold hands up until we got to the hills. I never have liked holding hands with someone while walking uphill. I wish I held your hand when walking up those hills, though.
Memories of You
viii. You knew how much I loved your blue plaid shirt more than anything else you owned, but you still insisted on wearing your red plaid jacket all the time. I didn’t mind that one much, though. Sometimes we would both wear our red plaid shirts on the same day by accident. It was cute. Every time I wear that shirt, I still think of how much you loved it on me.
Memories of You
ix. Kittens were your weak spot. You melted the moment you saw one, as did I. A calendar filled with them hung on your wall, and I would always write cute messages for you on a random day when you weren’t looking. I remember when we went to a New Years party and you paid more attention to the host’s kitten than anything else. I did the same at Tasha’s party recently.
Memories of You
x. I could never get over how damn cute you were with your constant blushing. The smallest comment of mine would cause your face to turn red. And then you’d turn your face slightly away from me, attempting to hide your blushing.
Memories of You
xi. Family has never meant much to me, but you were such a momma’s boy. I would always stand around the kitchen with you while you made her sandwiches and coffee and deliver it to her when she arrived home from work. And you would make me my usual blue Kool-Aid at the same time. At one point you even started to buy me strawberry syrup so I could have my favorite, strawberry milk, instead.
Memories of You
xii. I think of you more often than I’d like to admit; I swear I do at least once a day.
Fashion, Here I Come
Multiple dresses will hang their lonely selves in my closet, showing off their uniqueness and variety. Black tutus will cling to some. Ruffles and lace will decorate the bottoms, the chest area, the back, the shoulders, the sides. There will be dresses that tickle my knees, short party dresses that flaunt my body, and maxi dresses that end at my ankles. Flowery patterns will be scattered across the torso, the skirt. Plain reds and blues and greens will cover my body. Perhaps even yellows and pinks will have appearances. Skin-tight dresses will mix with poofy dresses. Dresses that resemble night gowns will gently drape over my slender figure. I’ll have shirts that are long enough to be considered dresses. Fancy dresses I rarely will be able to wear appropriately will have a reserved place. Blouses will be placed with the easily-wrinkled skirts, with the dresses. Rompers will scatter themselves amongst the dresses as well.
Shirts. I’ll have plaid shirts, black shirts, colored shirts, striped shirts. Logos of bands, some that I don’t even listen to, will be splattered onto my shirts, along with unfamiliar and familiar cartoons. I’ll wear v-necks and crew-necks. Button-up shirts and shirts with zippers. Tank tops, t-shirts, long sleeved shirts, cropped shirts. Knit and wool and cotton. Even beneath my clothes, there will be variety.
Plain bras will compete with lacy bras. Polka dots and stripes will transform into flowers. For plain days will be plain colors. Corsets and brassieres. I’ll strut around in sexy thongs. I’ll put on a show for whoever happens to be lucky.
My hair, my makeup, my jewelery, and my nail color will constantly be changing to compliment my outfits. Curly or straight, short or long, up or down. Accessories are key. Sparkles or bold colors. Silver or gold. Bows, in my hair and around my neck. Tuques, berets, and fedoras will keep my head warm.
Blue jeans, red jeans, purple jeans, pink jeans. Black jeans, grey jeans, white jeans. Skinny jeans, boot-cut, flare. Ripped jeans. The pockets will peek through the bottoms of my shorts. Shorts and skirts will take turns being pulled up to my waist; maybe even jeans will have a shot at hugging my waist as well. Tights will hide themselves under skirts and shorts; plain, fishnet, lacy. Leg warmers will provide warmth for my lower legs and be matched with heels or flats.
Boots and booties. Heels and flats. Runners and skate shoes. Sandals and flip-flops. I’ll take a walk in your shoes.
Every style will have a chance. I’ll wear a different outfit everyday.
Shirts. I’ll have plaid shirts, black shirts, colored shirts, striped shirts. Logos of bands, some that I don’t even listen to, will be splattered onto my shirts, along with unfamiliar and familiar cartoons. I’ll wear v-necks and crew-necks. Button-up shirts and shirts with zippers. Tank tops, t-shirts, long sleeved shirts, cropped shirts. Knit and wool and cotton. Even beneath my clothes, there will be variety.
Plain bras will compete with lacy bras. Polka dots and stripes will transform into flowers. For plain days will be plain colors. Corsets and brassieres. I’ll strut around in sexy thongs. I’ll put on a show for whoever happens to be lucky.
My hair, my makeup, my jewelery, and my nail color will constantly be changing to compliment my outfits. Curly or straight, short or long, up or down. Accessories are key. Sparkles or bold colors. Silver or gold. Bows, in my hair and around my neck. Tuques, berets, and fedoras will keep my head warm.
Blue jeans, red jeans, purple jeans, pink jeans. Black jeans, grey jeans, white jeans. Skinny jeans, boot-cut, flare. Ripped jeans. The pockets will peek through the bottoms of my shorts. Shorts and skirts will take turns being pulled up to my waist; maybe even jeans will have a shot at hugging my waist as well. Tights will hide themselves under skirts and shorts; plain, fishnet, lacy. Leg warmers will provide warmth for my lower legs and be matched with heels or flats.
Boots and booties. Heels and flats. Runners and skate shoes. Sandals and flip-flops. I’ll take a walk in your shoes.
Every style will have a chance. I’ll wear a different outfit everyday.
Rip
I silently gazed out the tinted window of an unfamiliar red van in thought. Interrupting my thinking, I felt a finger poke my cheek. “You had an eyelash on your cheek. See?” she excitedly said while shoving the finger that my eyelash sat upon towards my mouth. Once she noticed the confused expression occupying my face, she explained that I was supposed to close my eyes, blow the eyelash away, and make a wish. I glanced down at the eyelash that grew out of my eyelid only moments ago and squeezed my eyes shut, then sent a small gust of air out of my lungs and towards the eyelash as my friend had requested.
“Why make a wish on only a small hair?” I asked, interested to hear her response.
“It’s the same as blowing the seeds off of dandelions and wishing on them as they float through the air,” she spoke, with a tone implying that I should have already known that.
With the explanation behind wishing on an eyelash, I wished to wish more. I wanted to make a thousand or more of the same wishes; I would wish that same wish until it came true. My imagination ran away at that moment, picturing how my life would change for the better if I could fly like I wished. It would surely be sensational, feeling the wind whip through my hair as I stare down at hundreds of vehicles slugging their way through paved streets.
That night, as I sat on my uncomfortable bed with my knees up in the air, leaning my back against the pillow I’d owned since I was a baby, with my face looking up to the plain ceiling in my room, I thought about what my friend had told me that day. I wondered if the wish would come true or not. It was only one small wish on an unrealistic idea, though, so the chances were slim. But what if I had an infinite number of wishes? Then maybe my wish would come true. I would have to wish for more than just to fly, though, because I’d have no wings. ‘Angels have wings,’ I thought, and I had always adored angels; to be one would be pleasant.
I slowly raised my hand to my eye and swiped my finger across the tips of my eyelashes. Carefully, I gripped a patch in between my fingers, and took a quick and shallow breath in. With a sudden movement of my wrist and arm, I ripped out the patch of eyelashes. My other hand instantly flew to cover my sore eye and put some slight pressure on it to lessen the pain. I maneuvered my body to face the window that the moon brightly shone through, brought the eyelash clump close to my face, and closed my eyes. ‘I wish I was an angel, I wish I was an angel, I wish I was an angel,’ I repeated several times in my head as I released the breath of air I had sucked in earlier. My eyes began to inch open, and I looked up to the sky, searching for the stars. I believed that if my eyelashes reached the stars, then my wish would come true. So over and over again, I plucked my eyelashes out, until there were none left and I was immune to the pain; I was determined to have my ridiculous wish come true.
My eyes felt naked come the next day at school; I felt before that my eyelashes had always protected me from the stares of others into my unique, French green eyes. “What happened to your eyes? They have no eyelashes,” a young girl that must have been around nine years old pointed out.
“I, uh, ripped them out,” I managed to stutter out in a whispered voice.
“Why would you do that? Wouldn’t that hurt?” she pressed on with more questions that I was unwilling to answer.
“No,” was all that I replied with before I rushed off. Thankfully, the bell had rung and I escaped back to class, hoping that nobody else would question me on my lack of tiny, curled hairs sprouting from my eyelids. Nobody did. I was relieved to know that there were no more questions; I hated lying.
Picture day came, months later, and as my mother carefully curled my hair for me she finally noticed my lack of eyelashes and asked what happened to them. “I don’t know,” I lied. “My eyes are itchy all the time and I rub them a lot, so they probably all fell out,” I continued. She believed me. ‘Damn my ability to lie so well,’ I thought. Soon after spilling those lies, I realized that I shouldn’t have said that; my mother instantly thought I must have had something wrong with my eyes. Many times I would try to convince her that I didn’t need to see a doctor, and that I didn’t need eye drops. How long would it take her to just get used to it?
Over time, my wishes changed completely. I moved through multiple wishes: for five consecutive days I wished to be an angel, imagining what it would be like to protect somebody while wearing a halo above my head and have white, fluffy wings protruding out of my elegant dress, and for three months I wished only to be pretty. I wished so damn hard. My wishes had become more realistic, obviously, but were still a far off fantasy.
Years later, in middle school, my eyes were too busy staring at the whiteboard to notice the stranger sitting diagonally to me staring intensely, studying my looks. It caught me completely by surprise when she blurted out the usual question “why don’t you have any eyelashes?!”
“Uh, -” she cut me off before I could say anything more.
“Did you accidentally rip the out with your eyelash curler?” she spoke in a gentler tone, to me directly. “I did that when I first used one. It hurts, doesn’t it? Once you learn to use it better, you won’t have that problem anymore,” she continued to ramble on. I just gave a small nod, tuning out her annoying voice, and feeling relief for the fact that I didn’t need to explain the truth.
I no longer wished for anything when I blew away my eyelashes at that age. I only pulled them out as a habit; a bad habit. I ripped them out when I was angry, frustrated, stressed, upset, or nervous because it felt good. I wanted my long eyelashes back again, though; I longed to feel them against my pillow when I blinked and to swipe my finger across them once again. Two months had been the longest I could ever resist the temptation. Each time they grew to a certain length, I gave in to relieve myself from the urge I could never ignore.
Only recently did I come to the realization that ripping out my eyelashes is not just a bad habit. What I do has a name. It’s a type of obsessive compulsive disorder, called trichotillomania. I’m lucky that I only suffer with my eyelashes; many others rip out their eyebrows and the hair on their scalp. One day, though, I won’t need to hide behind loads of black eyeliner, because I’ll have long eyelashes again, I swear.
“Why make a wish on only a small hair?” I asked, interested to hear her response.
“It’s the same as blowing the seeds off of dandelions and wishing on them as they float through the air,” she spoke, with a tone implying that I should have already known that.
With the explanation behind wishing on an eyelash, I wished to wish more. I wanted to make a thousand or more of the same wishes; I would wish that same wish until it came true. My imagination ran away at that moment, picturing how my life would change for the better if I could fly like I wished. It would surely be sensational, feeling the wind whip through my hair as I stare down at hundreds of vehicles slugging their way through paved streets.
That night, as I sat on my uncomfortable bed with my knees up in the air, leaning my back against the pillow I’d owned since I was a baby, with my face looking up to the plain ceiling in my room, I thought about what my friend had told me that day. I wondered if the wish would come true or not. It was only one small wish on an unrealistic idea, though, so the chances were slim. But what if I had an infinite number of wishes? Then maybe my wish would come true. I would have to wish for more than just to fly, though, because I’d have no wings. ‘Angels have wings,’ I thought, and I had always adored angels; to be one would be pleasant.
I slowly raised my hand to my eye and swiped my finger across the tips of my eyelashes. Carefully, I gripped a patch in between my fingers, and took a quick and shallow breath in. With a sudden movement of my wrist and arm, I ripped out the patch of eyelashes. My other hand instantly flew to cover my sore eye and put some slight pressure on it to lessen the pain. I maneuvered my body to face the window that the moon brightly shone through, brought the eyelash clump close to my face, and closed my eyes. ‘I wish I was an angel, I wish I was an angel, I wish I was an angel,’ I repeated several times in my head as I released the breath of air I had sucked in earlier. My eyes began to inch open, and I looked up to the sky, searching for the stars. I believed that if my eyelashes reached the stars, then my wish would come true. So over and over again, I plucked my eyelashes out, until there were none left and I was immune to the pain; I was determined to have my ridiculous wish come true.
My eyes felt naked come the next day at school; I felt before that my eyelashes had always protected me from the stares of others into my unique, French green eyes. “What happened to your eyes? They have no eyelashes,” a young girl that must have been around nine years old pointed out.
“I, uh, ripped them out,” I managed to stutter out in a whispered voice.
“Why would you do that? Wouldn’t that hurt?” she pressed on with more questions that I was unwilling to answer.
“No,” was all that I replied with before I rushed off. Thankfully, the bell had rung and I escaped back to class, hoping that nobody else would question me on my lack of tiny, curled hairs sprouting from my eyelids. Nobody did. I was relieved to know that there were no more questions; I hated lying.
Picture day came, months later, and as my mother carefully curled my hair for me she finally noticed my lack of eyelashes and asked what happened to them. “I don’t know,” I lied. “My eyes are itchy all the time and I rub them a lot, so they probably all fell out,” I continued. She believed me. ‘Damn my ability to lie so well,’ I thought. Soon after spilling those lies, I realized that I shouldn’t have said that; my mother instantly thought I must have had something wrong with my eyes. Many times I would try to convince her that I didn’t need to see a doctor, and that I didn’t need eye drops. How long would it take her to just get used to it?
Over time, my wishes changed completely. I moved through multiple wishes: for five consecutive days I wished to be an angel, imagining what it would be like to protect somebody while wearing a halo above my head and have white, fluffy wings protruding out of my elegant dress, and for three months I wished only to be pretty. I wished so damn hard. My wishes had become more realistic, obviously, but were still a far off fantasy.
Years later, in middle school, my eyes were too busy staring at the whiteboard to notice the stranger sitting diagonally to me staring intensely, studying my looks. It caught me completely by surprise when she blurted out the usual question “why don’t you have any eyelashes?!”
“Uh, -” she cut me off before I could say anything more.
“Did you accidentally rip the out with your eyelash curler?” she spoke in a gentler tone, to me directly. “I did that when I first used one. It hurts, doesn’t it? Once you learn to use it better, you won’t have that problem anymore,” she continued to ramble on. I just gave a small nod, tuning out her annoying voice, and feeling relief for the fact that I didn’t need to explain the truth.
I no longer wished for anything when I blew away my eyelashes at that age. I only pulled them out as a habit; a bad habit. I ripped them out when I was angry, frustrated, stressed, upset, or nervous because it felt good. I wanted my long eyelashes back again, though; I longed to feel them against my pillow when I blinked and to swipe my finger across them once again. Two months had been the longest I could ever resist the temptation. Each time they grew to a certain length, I gave in to relieve myself from the urge I could never ignore.
Only recently did I come to the realization that ripping out my eyelashes is not just a bad habit. What I do has a name. It’s a type of obsessive compulsive disorder, called trichotillomania. I’m lucky that I only suffer with my eyelashes; many others rip out their eyebrows and the hair on their scalp. One day, though, I won’t need to hide behind loads of black eyeliner, because I’ll have long eyelashes again, I swear.
A New Beginning
I don’t know why I did it. I think it was just curiosity. Through friends I only conversed with through electronics, I had been exposed to a destructive lifestyle and a disgusting habit that I was unable to break away from. Willingly, I fled from the simple life I knew; the oblivious girl I once was truly was gone, even though I pretended that she still resided in my untouchable body. While continuing to act the same, nobody noticed I changed; nobody was there to tell me that I was blindly stumbling in the wrong direction. A life of deceit, of manipulation, and of lies was the new life I chose to enter. I didn’t realize until it was too late that it was myself I caused the most harm to rather than my pathetic puppets. For years I was convinced that I was shredding and shattering others’ simple lives and leaving them with permanent emotional scarring. Harshly hurting them seemed to be the only way to make sure I wasn’t forgotten or left behind; I used their fear of me to pressure them into staying with me. Basically, I had them all helplessly dangling on their own unbreakable strings; only I held the strength to cut them loose. It didn’t bother me, though, to know what I was doing to such young, innocent people. At least I didn’t think it did. Unconsciously, though, I was slowly falling deep into a hole that I would be unable to claw and climb my way out of; I was losing my precious sanity and turning into a malicious monster.
Over the years that I paraded about carrying the power to destroy, anger filtered into my veins through invisible holes on the edges of my heart that I constantly tried to patch up. I held a grudge against all who had hurt me and planned for a deviant revenge.
After many hours upon hours of brainstorming ideas, I stood silently in front of my body-length mirror. Through the darkness of my spacious room I could still see my hollow green eyes blankly staring back at me. I felt no anger, no sadness… I felt nothing. Swiftly, I flicked on my energy-saving light bulb; usually that light made my bedroom bright like daylight, but that night the entire world was dull to me. With cold, shaky hands I swiped black eyeliner across the area where my eyelashes should have sprouted out and caked on my powder foundation which always was multiple shades darker than my skin tone; they didn’t make strong enough foundation for skin as pale as mine. I took a small, fragile step back to examine my petite body for a last time. I compared what I saw then to what I saw summers ago, back when happiness existed in me. My hair, which used to be brilliant shades of brown and blonde had lost its shine and melted into one, plain color. Eyes that used to sparkle with a bright, French green resembled the empty eyes of a patient with Parkinson’s disease and had faded into a shade of grey. No smile, smirk, or frown inched onto my lips, much to my dismay; I had hoped for a sign of emotion to change my mind. No tan lines existed on my body, for I had never burned or tanned my precious pale skin. My recent lack of appetite was obvious when I glanced down at my slim stomach. When my eyes looked up and down my arms and legs, they always stopped at the patches of red, fading scars. The memories of how they were carved into my limbs speedily flashed through my mind: the brilliant metallic shine catching my eye, the reflection of my wondrous face, the movement of my arm as I roughly swipe the sharp metal across my skin, the glistening blood leaking out of my body and slowly dripping down, and the panicked swabbing.
Suddenly, I turned around and snatched my favourite outfit off of my furry black rug and hurriedly dressed myself. I tiptoed silently on the hardwood floor down the hallway and into my mother’s bathroom. With the door closed, I turned on the tap to cover the sound of my rummaging through the medicine cabinet. Once I found what I was searching for, I hid the bottle in my pocket, washed my hands, hunted in the fridge for yogurt, and then fled for the computer room.
As the computer blinked between different pictures, starting up, I stuffed a number of pills into every spoonful of yogurt I digested. Relaxed, I signed onto Skype and sent a request to have a video conversation with a new friend of mine. We talked and laughed, as we always did, for an hour before he ended the chat with his promise that if anything was ever wrong I could call him and he would make me happy again, and I said my final goodbye.
I wasn’t surprised to find myself in the emergency room at the hospital that night. Being forced to drink a cup of charcoal is extremely unpleasant, though, I must say, as is vomiting multiple times afterwards. Carrying new hope, I expected to stay at the hospital for as short a time as possible. Sitting in a cold, cramped ambulance on the highway to a psych ward in Courtenay, I realized the stupidity of my actions, though. With half my belongings that I brought along with me being taken away, I didn’t know what to do with myself until morning, so I began to look for anything to keep me entertained and separate me from all the other maniacs in the ward. Spotted, the phone sat, unused, by the office. Memorized before my phone was stolen from my bruised hands, I dialled the number of my friend. Three times I had to hear the annoying ring of a phone before his answering machine cheerily spoke to me. I didn’t leave a message, and he never talked to me after that day.
I’ll never forget his promise, though, that that if anything was ever wrong, to call him right away, and he would make me happy.
Over the years that I paraded about carrying the power to destroy, anger filtered into my veins through invisible holes on the edges of my heart that I constantly tried to patch up. I held a grudge against all who had hurt me and planned for a deviant revenge.
After many hours upon hours of brainstorming ideas, I stood silently in front of my body-length mirror. Through the darkness of my spacious room I could still see my hollow green eyes blankly staring back at me. I felt no anger, no sadness… I felt nothing. Swiftly, I flicked on my energy-saving light bulb; usually that light made my bedroom bright like daylight, but that night the entire world was dull to me. With cold, shaky hands I swiped black eyeliner across the area where my eyelashes should have sprouted out and caked on my powder foundation which always was multiple shades darker than my skin tone; they didn’t make strong enough foundation for skin as pale as mine. I took a small, fragile step back to examine my petite body for a last time. I compared what I saw then to what I saw summers ago, back when happiness existed in me. My hair, which used to be brilliant shades of brown and blonde had lost its shine and melted into one, plain color. Eyes that used to sparkle with a bright, French green resembled the empty eyes of a patient with Parkinson’s disease and had faded into a shade of grey. No smile, smirk, or frown inched onto my lips, much to my dismay; I had hoped for a sign of emotion to change my mind. No tan lines existed on my body, for I had never burned or tanned my precious pale skin. My recent lack of appetite was obvious when I glanced down at my slim stomach. When my eyes looked up and down my arms and legs, they always stopped at the patches of red, fading scars. The memories of how they were carved into my limbs speedily flashed through my mind: the brilliant metallic shine catching my eye, the reflection of my wondrous face, the movement of my arm as I roughly swipe the sharp metal across my skin, the glistening blood leaking out of my body and slowly dripping down, and the panicked swabbing.
Suddenly, I turned around and snatched my favourite outfit off of my furry black rug and hurriedly dressed myself. I tiptoed silently on the hardwood floor down the hallway and into my mother’s bathroom. With the door closed, I turned on the tap to cover the sound of my rummaging through the medicine cabinet. Once I found what I was searching for, I hid the bottle in my pocket, washed my hands, hunted in the fridge for yogurt, and then fled for the computer room.
As the computer blinked between different pictures, starting up, I stuffed a number of pills into every spoonful of yogurt I digested. Relaxed, I signed onto Skype and sent a request to have a video conversation with a new friend of mine. We talked and laughed, as we always did, for an hour before he ended the chat with his promise that if anything was ever wrong I could call him and he would make me happy again, and I said my final goodbye.
I wasn’t surprised to find myself in the emergency room at the hospital that night. Being forced to drink a cup of charcoal is extremely unpleasant, though, I must say, as is vomiting multiple times afterwards. Carrying new hope, I expected to stay at the hospital for as short a time as possible. Sitting in a cold, cramped ambulance on the highway to a psych ward in Courtenay, I realized the stupidity of my actions, though. With half my belongings that I brought along with me being taken away, I didn’t know what to do with myself until morning, so I began to look for anything to keep me entertained and separate me from all the other maniacs in the ward. Spotted, the phone sat, unused, by the office. Memorized before my phone was stolen from my bruised hands, I dialled the number of my friend. Three times I had to hear the annoying ring of a phone before his answering machine cheerily spoke to me. I didn’t leave a message, and he never talked to me after that day.
I’ll never forget his promise, though, that that if anything was ever wrong, to call him right away, and he would make me happy.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Lost Dreams.
I stand
In the middle of this empty field
As my shoes become soaked by the grass.
On the sidewalk in the distance
I watch you take your final steps
Away from me,
And away from our memories.
Before you step out of sight,
You take one glance back at me
At the same time a shooting star crosses the sky.
That falling star
Carries millions of wishes
From hopeful, desperate people
That will never come true.
And as I watch that
Falling star above you,
I watch my dreams fall with it.
In the middle of this empty field
As my shoes become soaked by the grass.
On the sidewalk in the distance
I watch you take your final steps
Away from me,
And away from our memories.
Before you step out of sight,
You take one glance back at me
At the same time a shooting star crosses the sky.
That falling star
Carries millions of wishes
From hopeful, desperate people
That will never come true.
And as I watch that
Falling star above you,
I watch my dreams fall with it.
The First Time He Saw My Face.
The first time I presented
myself to him
while lacking makeup
I expected the worst.
He asked me
to lay down and close my eyes.
Afraid of what he might do,
and feeling self conscious,
I did anyway.
I was slightly startled when I felt
the warmth of his hand
caressing my face.
His fingers
touched each curve,
each bump,
and each imperfection
of my naked face.
He brushed and pet my eyebrows,
noticing their true color.
His fingers tickled my eyelashes
as I imagined a frown
forming upon his face
in disappointment.
He traced his fingers
along and around my lips,
memorizing their shape,
before softly kissing me.
With little pressure,
he massaged my cheeks…
and my temples,
causing me to relax.
He swiped my bangs
to the side of my face
to uncover my forehead:
a place he had never seen before,
even when buried beneath makeup.
After minutes,
he moved down to my arms,
my torso,
my legs,
my feet,
and my back,
rubbing and massaging
every inch of my body.
His fingers danced
on my body;
he used the fingernails of his
that were barely existent
to lightly run across
my beckoning skin.
And after he was done,
all I could do
was stare and smile at him,
and hope
he could read the words in my eyes:
I love you.
myself to him
while lacking makeup
I expected the worst.
He asked me
to lay down and close my eyes.
Afraid of what he might do,
and feeling self conscious,
I did anyway.
I was slightly startled when I felt
the warmth of his hand
caressing my face.
His fingers
touched each curve,
each bump,
and each imperfection
of my naked face.
He brushed and pet my eyebrows,
noticing their true color.
His fingers tickled my eyelashes
as I imagined a frown
forming upon his face
in disappointment.
He traced his fingers
along and around my lips,
memorizing their shape,
before softly kissing me.
With little pressure,
he massaged my cheeks…
and my temples,
causing me to relax.
He swiped my bangs
to the side of my face
to uncover my forehead:
a place he had never seen before,
even when buried beneath makeup.
After minutes,
he moved down to my arms,
my torso,
my legs,
my feet,
and my back,
rubbing and massaging
every inch of my body.
His fingers danced
on my body;
he used the fingernails of his
that were barely existent
to lightly run across
my beckoning skin.
And after he was done,
all I could do
was stare and smile at him,
and hope
he could read the words in my eyes:
I love you.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Come Back... Please
I must learn to move on.
When our
Supposedly romantic relationship
Dies,
I will always be the first to
Move onto another
Vulnerable person.
Yet, when it’s
Our precious friendship
That ends,
It is I
Who will forever dwell
On what was previously there.
It is I
Who freezes the day constantly
Just to reminisce
And wish so hard
For the people of the past to come back
That tears fall.
Am I the only one
Who longs
For life to rewind,
Even if only for a day,
So to say a proper goodbye?
When our
Supposedly romantic relationship
Dies,
I will always be the first to
Move onto another
Vulnerable person.
Yet, when it’s
Our precious friendship
That ends,
It is I
Who will forever dwell
On what was previously there.
It is I
Who freezes the day constantly
Just to reminisce
And wish so hard
For the people of the past to come back
That tears fall.
Am I the only one
Who longs
For life to rewind,
Even if only for a day,
So to say a proper goodbye?
Saturday, August 27, 2011
You Were Forgotten.
Your name crosses my vision
And I have to take a second look
In order to remember
That
I used to know you.
A recent picture
Of your pretty face
With that stunning smile
I used to see everyday
Stands out among
The blurry ones
With unfamiliar people.
As memories of
Our days together
Flood my head
A pang
Of slight aching
Slowly begins in my chest
While my entire face
Droops
In sadness.
And I have to take a second look
In order to remember
That
I used to know you.
A recent picture
Of your pretty face
With that stunning smile
I used to see everyday
Stands out among
The blurry ones
With unfamiliar people.
As memories of
Our days together
Flood my head
A pang
Of slight aching
Slowly begins in my chest
While my entire face
Droops
In sadness.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
A World Without Hate
A world
without hate
is a world many long for.
Hate has been drilled
into our minds
and hearts
ever since we were children.
It has caused
emotional damage
that is beyond repair,
scarring people
and changing
their views on the human race.
Hate is often taken further,
to a physical level,
targeting specific individuals,
random strangers,
groups of people,
and people who are just
in the wrong place
at the wrong time.
Hate itself
is hated.
With the lack of
such a strong, common emotion though,
where would we be?
Most would assume
that without hate
they would be able
to walk alone in the streets
without the fear
of being attacked
for who they are
or what they’ve done.
It would be assumed
that everyone
would be friendly to each other;
no harsh, judgmental words
would be thrown at innocent people
on a daily basis
for the sole purpose
of hurting them emotionally.
And without others sending
hate towards them,
they would have no reason
to hate themselves.
But can’t you all see
that none of that is true?
Without hate
we would be without love.
Every emotion must have an opposite
in order to exist.
If there was no hate
none of us would know what love is,
because there would be no
opposite emotion
to compare love to.
The range of emotions
a person is capable of
would be lessened,
and the emotion above hate
would likely be considered
to be hate;
it would still exist.
It will always exist.
We don’t need to change
the amount of hate
in this world.
More acceptance and forgiveness
is what’s needed in this world instead.
without hate
is a world many long for.
Hate has been drilled
into our minds
and hearts
ever since we were children.
It has caused
emotional damage
that is beyond repair,
scarring people
and changing
their views on the human race.
Hate is often taken further,
to a physical level,
targeting specific individuals,
random strangers,
groups of people,
and people who are just
in the wrong place
at the wrong time.
Hate itself
is hated.
With the lack of
such a strong, common emotion though,
where would we be?
Most would assume
that without hate
they would be able
to walk alone in the streets
without the fear
of being attacked
for who they are
or what they’ve done.
It would be assumed
that everyone
would be friendly to each other;
no harsh, judgmental words
would be thrown at innocent people
on a daily basis
for the sole purpose
of hurting them emotionally.
And without others sending
hate towards them,
they would have no reason
to hate themselves.
But can’t you all see
that none of that is true?
Without hate
we would be without love.
Every emotion must have an opposite
in order to exist.
If there was no hate
none of us would know what love is,
because there would be no
opposite emotion
to compare love to.
The range of emotions
a person is capable of
would be lessened,
and the emotion above hate
would likely be considered
to be hate;
it would still exist.
It will always exist.
We don’t need to change
the amount of hate
in this world.
More acceptance and forgiveness
is what’s needed in this world instead.
Monday, August 15, 2011
I had a dream…
I dreamed of the day
When my skin would be flawless,
And not an ounce of unwanted fat
Would sit uselessly on my body.
I dreamed of my future career
In front of a camera.
I could show off my photographic
Body and expressions
With unique poses.
I’d be captured perfectly,
If only I were my own photographer.
I dreamed of a birthday
Full of masks.
Women in beautiful ball gowns
Swaying around a room
With handsome men in tuxedos.
I would be another
Mysterious, unknown face amongst the crowd.
I dreamed of myself
Dressing up in a gorgeous prom dress
Like no other,
With my brown hair grown long and luscious
And my face glowing with happiness.
…and it was crushed.
I dreamed of the day
When my skin would be flawless,
And not an ounce of unwanted fat
Would sit uselessly on my body.
I dreamed of my future career
In front of a camera.
I could show off my photographic
Body and expressions
With unique poses.
I’d be captured perfectly,
If only I were my own photographer.
I dreamed of a birthday
Full of masks.
Women in beautiful ball gowns
Swaying around a room
With handsome men in tuxedos.
I would be another
Mysterious, unknown face amongst the crowd.
I dreamed of myself
Dressing up in a gorgeous prom dress
Like no other,
With my brown hair grown long and luscious
And my face glowing with happiness.
…and it was crushed.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Moving Shadows.
Through the window
The sun’s rays shine.
Across my feet
The light hits.
To my bare eyes
The light and heat
Is unmoving,
Yet every time I look down
More shadows
Crawl over me,
Pushing the rays away
And replacing them with
The cold that comes with
A lack of sun.
Times goes by so fast,
Dragging the warmth of the summer sun
With it,
Unnoticed.
The sun’s rays shine.
Across my feet
The light hits.
To my bare eyes
The light and heat
Is unmoving,
Yet every time I look down
More shadows
Crawl over me,
Pushing the rays away
And replacing them with
The cold that comes with
A lack of sun.
Times goes by so fast,
Dragging the warmth of the summer sun
With it,
Unnoticed.
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