brusque teen

i lost my crayons.
it was when i was playing pretend in the backyard
or on the first day of school in 3rd grade.
i only cried once when god didn't help me find them.

soon, my mom bought me a new set of colored pencils
i knew she just wanted me to draw her more pictures.
she cherished my work.
but the new ones didn't look quite right.
the people were skinnier
and my lines were too short.
the long sticks of wood felt strange in my hand.
i kept dropping them.
they started to crack and i got splinters.
i was sick of the stupid pencils.

i looked back at my coloring book.
and the pages filled with colorful wax.
it smelled familiar and i wanted my crayons back more than anything.
but once you lose that box there's no going back.
with small splintered hands laced together and wet eyes staring up at the stars,
i wished for my crayons back.
but the stars only twinkled in response.
and the rocks i threw never reached them.
and i yelled at them for not hearing my little wish.

now,
so many years later,
i miss my colored pencils.
i never thought i would but i do.
i was always taking them for granted.
never realizing what i had when i had them.
now all i have is a black pen.
i only use it to trace the outlines of words already said.
right now i know i don't like this pen but i have a feeling in a couple months i'm gunna miss it.
i'll regret never using it as a brush.
cuz soon i'll only have the keys on this computer.
so i need to stop missing my colored pencils and my crayons and start loving this pen of mine.

hopes of writing something decent long gone

lights on

clothes on

mind off.

i miss being a kid.
i feel old and desperate.
i'm dying.
but aren't we all?
dying a little bit every day.
each night draws us closer to our last.

doomed to end as ashes falling pathetically off the edge of a cliff.
into the wind that blows us apart,
never to be put back together again.
or buried in the ground in some creepy cemetery with a granite name tag on top of our chests.
tears feeding the roots that wrap around our oak wood coffins.
either way,
there's no escaping our binding fates.
from the dust of the earth we are put together,
to the dust we inevitably return.

down in a valley i wandered into a forest.
i lost my shoes up a tree.
i walked barefoot
wet moss and bits of dirt hugged my feet,
little pebbles found a home between my toes.

i stumbled upon a pile of bricks,
messily stacked in rows of three.
i hopped over and it was fun.
i looked down,
i had scraped my heal.
angrily i grabbed the top brick and chucked it at a bush.
it disappeared inside.

soon all the bricks were gone but one.
i lifted it up and found a worm.
it squirmed in my finger tips.
i named him steve.
i put steve in my shirt pocket.
the pocket closest to my heart.

i decided he was my best friend.
i told the trees,
and that night i told the moon.
the stars always eavesdrop so i guess they heard too.
but steve missed his home under the bricks,
so i let him go and watched him wriggle into the ground.

brick after brick i rebuilt his house.
a little sky scraper that only scrapes my heals.
but i kept one brick and carried it along with me.
i named it larry.
larrys quite boring.

it's a hazy day.
i'm 4 years old,
sister by my side.
we make silly faces and laugh in the mirror,
our small fingers smudge the glass,
dirty from trying to reach china in the backyard,
or that treasure buried in between.
i fall on the floor,
dizzy with a head full of dreams.

it's a busy day.
i'm 9 years old,
it's the first day of school in a new town,
i pass the bathroom mirror on my way out the door.
it's freshly cleaned and i see a small me.
i'm wearing new clothes and i'm nervous,
but excited.
i walk with my sister to the bus stop.

it's a cold winter day.
i'm 14 years old.
i see my reflection.
i wish i was older.
and taller.
i don't like my freckles.
or my haircut.
and i'm sick of my old shoes.
i start to think that maybe the kids at school are right,
that i don't have any friends for a reason.
but i forget about it and start on my homework,
bored and ready for summer to come once again.

it's been a long day.
i'm 17 years old.
the mirror in my basement shows me a stranger.
he looks pathetic.
and empty.
i'm afraid to look into his hallowed eyes,
instead i watch his cracked lips as they form the words
"i hate you" over and over.
i look away and pass out on the bed.

it's today.
i'm 18 years old.
i can finally breathe in deep.
the air smells like my past.
i feel like my bones have finally settled in the right places.
i finish getting dressed and i catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
i see my shoulders and the weight they carry.
i see my hands,
rough and callused,
but they don't hide in my pockets anymore.
i see my face,
and the creases that meet my eyes.
i see me.
but i still dream of a day that i don't see my inner faults.

it was ink.
black and smeared across the pages of  love letters i sent to you.
written and wasted.
left in the shoe box under your bed.
and i never got a letter back.

i started writing a new letter
but nothing came out.
i scribbled in the margins
desperately hoping to smear a little bit more,
somewhere,
anywhere,
but ink runs out,
and so did my love for you.
all that's left is pain.

 love.
i can't feel it anymore cuz my heart's not working.
i think it broke when you dropped it,
or maybe that time you threw it at the wall.

it definitely doesn't beat the same anymore.
especially when your around.
maybe it's afraid you'll rip it out again,
and keep it locked in your vault.
my heart has told me terrible things about that vault of yours.
that it's dusty,
and that the air is full of whimpers and howls from the dead souls that you refuse to release.
and that they've been trapped since the day they set eyes on you.

i'm lucky i got out alive,
maybe alive is too generous of a word.
not dead is better.

but did i get out?
cuz i still feel like i'm drowning when i see you.
and i see you everywhere.
i see you in the hall,
in the store,
in the pictures on my wall,
in the lines on my ceiling.

your a disease.
and i'm a survivor. 

our love is car drives in the backseat.
it's fingers laced with mine,
small hands,
and gift baskets.
tissues for cold noses,
and kissing in the rain.
it's all i think about.

it's animal crackers and orange spoons,
and its you and me falling over sea shells and getting our toes wet.
it's making mistakes and saying sorry,
and its saying i forgive you and then forgetting.

our love is sitting in my car at 2 am,
not wanting to leave.
our love was everything to me.

and then our love left my lips cold.

once in a while i miss you.
like those nights when i hear our song and i see your blue eyes.
or those days i drive past that place i held those small hands.

i thought i was over you but thoughts are imaginary.
i don't miss you.
i've moved on.
i'm glad your gone.
good riddance
those are just a few of the things i tell myself.

hats are just hats.
i could go into the symbolism of what a hat is.
or talk about how they hide my mistake of a haircut,
or how they hide my face,
but i wont.
cuz hats are just hats.

like how i'm just human
and how humans are just beating hearts.
and hearts are just metronomes,
but my heart is broken,
and that's why this post is off beat.

and that's why you wont understand it.
just like how i don't understand math,
or science,
or girls,
or why i try so hard,
or the purpose of life.

i don't understand a lot of things.
and i don't want to continue writing cuz nobody cares what i'm saying,
just like how nobody is going to listen to my playlist.
or how nobody understands me... including myself.
or how nobody see's me
cuz i actually have a superpower.
invisibility.

hats.
that's what i'm supposed to be writing about...
i nearly forgot.
yeah
hats are cool i guess.