"I have a good idea." she said.
"What?" she replied.
"Go to the bathroom. But first, bring that pair of scissors."
"Why? How is this going to help me?"
"Just trust me. It'll work. You'll get through this. But first, you have to do this."
She walked to the bathroom, scissors in hand.
"Okay, now what?" she said.
"This is going to be so awesome. Pull up your sleeve." she replied.
"Why? I don't understand."
"Just do it."
She pulled up her sleeve.
"You know what to do next..."
She did.
"I don't want to do this. Please, I don't want to do this to myself."
"You said you wanted to feel better. You said you wanted to wake from this hellish sleep. Baby, this is better than a pinch. It will work wonders on you. Just do it."
She closed her eyes. She opened the scissors. She squeezed so hard, her hand bled before she put the sharp edge to her arm.
Three cuts, close together. Thin and red.
She sat on the floor, crying silent tears.
"I told you it would feel better." she said.
"You were right, it does." she replied.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
That Night
These nights weren't uncommon to her. At least not that first year. But now, things were different and she couldn't pinpoint why or how.
To any outsider who knew about her past, this night was just like any other. As much as she tried not to be seduced by him, she always caved in. Was it that she loved him? She didn't think so. But she had never had such strong feelings for anyone. At least that was the way he made her feel. No, the feelings were not love, although they were strong. She was just susceptible, vulnerable. But that did not make her in love. In fact, what she suffered from was a different kind of feeling. She suffered from hatred, pure hatred and a desire to hate him who had stolen her, who had taken away her everything. So as much as he hurt her, she continued to go back. Not because of some sick puppy love as everyone had assumed, but because she enjoyed and loved to hate him.
That was all last year. Afterwards, a silent summer passed. Although she lived so far away, she was still devoted to hating him. She proved this to herself by sneaking hours away from home to see him, to pretend to have fun with him. To please him. This fed her desire to continue to hate him. And she believed she would because that was all she wanted to do.
But something changed in her that summer. And when she came back to live in that town where he resided, she no longer knew how to hate him. And so, he could no longer convince her to late night sleep overs or beer around the campfire because she had no desire to feed herself into that kind of misery anymore. Was it that she was happy? She wasn't sure. Everyone else would probably say so. But she could not. She could not name the feeling that was deep down in her heart. This feeling was not hatred, and so it scared her. She put on a font, pretending to be the way she normally was, and people bought it. Hell, she even began to believe it.
So what happened on the night where her common life, her past life crept back in? Well, you might assume that she caved. But she did not cave. She was too control of the moment for this to be a fall, a cave back onto her past habits. No, on this night she turned to her past for answers. She was tired of not understanding what she was feeling, what her true emotions were. So she went to the one thing that she knew would spark something in her.
To her disbelief, she found nothing. No answers came to her that night. No emotion was sparked while she played out the actions of her former self. But it didn't take her long to realize what it all meant.
She felt nothing. Her heart bore no emotions. Feeling was gone. And she would never feel anything again.
To any outsider who knew about her past, this night was just like any other. As much as she tried not to be seduced by him, she always caved in. Was it that she loved him? She didn't think so. But she had never had such strong feelings for anyone. At least that was the way he made her feel. No, the feelings were not love, although they were strong. She was just susceptible, vulnerable. But that did not make her in love. In fact, what she suffered from was a different kind of feeling. She suffered from hatred, pure hatred and a desire to hate him who had stolen her, who had taken away her everything. So as much as he hurt her, she continued to go back. Not because of some sick puppy love as everyone had assumed, but because she enjoyed and loved to hate him.
That was all last year. Afterwards, a silent summer passed. Although she lived so far away, she was still devoted to hating him. She proved this to herself by sneaking hours away from home to see him, to pretend to have fun with him. To please him. This fed her desire to continue to hate him. And she believed she would because that was all she wanted to do.
But something changed in her that summer. And when she came back to live in that town where he resided, she no longer knew how to hate him. And so, he could no longer convince her to late night sleep overs or beer around the campfire because she had no desire to feed herself into that kind of misery anymore. Was it that she was happy? She wasn't sure. Everyone else would probably say so. But she could not. She could not name the feeling that was deep down in her heart. This feeling was not hatred, and so it scared her. She put on a font, pretending to be the way she normally was, and people bought it. Hell, she even began to believe it.
So what happened on the night where her common life, her past life crept back in? Well, you might assume that she caved. But she did not cave. She was too control of the moment for this to be a fall, a cave back onto her past habits. No, on this night she turned to her past for answers. She was tired of not understanding what she was feeling, what her true emotions were. So she went to the one thing that she knew would spark something in her.
To her disbelief, she found nothing. No answers came to her that night. No emotion was sparked while she played out the actions of her former self. But it didn't take her long to realize what it all meant.
She felt nothing. Her heart bore no emotions. Feeling was gone. And she would never feel anything again.
THIS is True Love
It will never be the same between you and I
The moment you opened your mouth, you changed our lives
Why did you make that fatal mistake?
What made you decide to take it all away?
You made me fall for you right off the bat
I had no intention of loving, but you changed all of that
I was fine without you, no doubt that I was
In fact I was dandy, and you weren't even a plus
It started with that day out on the lawn
You said I looked lovely and told someone else you thought I'd be fun
To bed you took me as soon as you could
I never knew that was the only intention you had for good
At the moment I just wanted to play
Boys had never affected me much anyway
As strong as I was and as tough minded as I had been
No one could warn me of the trouble I was in
All I craved for months on end
Was to be with you, see you, and please you as more than a friend
I couldn't focus on school work at all
I didn't realize that my life had changed for good that fall
For now, I can never seem to love again
Not you or anyone, not nearly as much as I did back then
So thank you for all of that, you dirty scum
I think I hate you now, for all that you've done.
The moment you opened your mouth, you changed our lives
Why did you make that fatal mistake?
What made you decide to take it all away?
You made me fall for you right off the bat
I had no intention of loving, but you changed all of that
I was fine without you, no doubt that I was
In fact I was dandy, and you weren't even a plus
It started with that day out on the lawn
You said I looked lovely and told someone else you thought I'd be fun
To bed you took me as soon as you could
I never knew that was the only intention you had for good
At the moment I just wanted to play
Boys had never affected me much anyway
As strong as I was and as tough minded as I had been
No one could warn me of the trouble I was in
All I craved for months on end
Was to be with you, see you, and please you as more than a friend
I couldn't focus on school work at all
I didn't realize that my life had changed for good that fall
For now, I can never seem to love again
Not you or anyone, not nearly as much as I did back then
So thank you for all of that, you dirty scum
I think I hate you now, for all that you've done.
Monday, October 6, 2014
Sincerely, Broken and Repaired Me
Dear You, The Hopeless Who,
You've been through enough. You've been around the block. You've had far too many strike outs in life. When will you be done? When will life begin?
More than anything, when will you find someone who understands you?
I can't answer most of that. But I will tell you that I understand. I've been there. I've had enough, seen that block, striked out more than it takes to lose two games of life. I get it.
I understand pain and hurt, more than I ever wished I had to.
I understand the pain of an athlete that will never have what it takes to be good.
I understand the pain a student's brain goes through that just doesn't have what it takes.
I understand the pain of embarrassment for doing the wrong thing, saying the wrong thing.
I understand the pain of love, of love lost, of unconditional and unreturned love.
I understand what it's like to feel like no one understands at all.
I'm here to take your hand, to be your guiding force, to tell you that you're not alone.
You'll never be alone.
Sincerely,
Broken and Repaired Me
You've been through enough. You've been around the block. You've had far too many strike outs in life. When will you be done? When will life begin?
More than anything, when will you find someone who understands you?
I can't answer most of that. But I will tell you that I understand. I've been there. I've had enough, seen that block, striked out more than it takes to lose two games of life. I get it.
I understand pain and hurt, more than I ever wished I had to.
I understand the pain of an athlete that will never have what it takes to be good.
I understand the pain a student's brain goes through that just doesn't have what it takes.
I understand the pain of embarrassment for doing the wrong thing, saying the wrong thing.
I understand the pain of love, of love lost, of unconditional and unreturned love.
I understand what it's like to feel like no one understands at all.
I'm here to take your hand, to be your guiding force, to tell you that you're not alone.
You'll never be alone.
Sincerely,
Broken and Repaired Me
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Time at a Park
Go
to a park. Sit on a swing.
Take
a deep, relaxing breath.
Lean
back. Lean forward.
Build
momentum.
Feel
the breeze as it caresses your face.
Close
your eyes.
Tilt
your head back.
Memories
of your childhood rush through your head.
Suddenly,
you are ten again
Whether
you are twenty or sixty years old.
Remember
what it was like to fear, to stress, to worry, to ponder
Absolutely
nothing.
Stop
the swing. Leave the park.
Nothing
important matters anymore. You feel young, happy and alive.
Which
is exactly what you are.
Monday, September 29, 2014
At a Loss for Words
Staring at this blank page in front of me
My words try to escape onto the paper
But they are trapped in my head
Sitting in a crowd full of people chatting
My words try to escape into the loud noise
But they are trapped in my head
Caged, lonely soul
No way to unlock the chains that bind my words
Help me escape. Help me escape.
So much to say
But the puzzle can never be solved
Too far behind to ever connect with these fluent people
So many ideas spewing out of my brains
But where do they go?
They are lost forever
In this caged puzzle in my head
Friday, September 26, 2014
Bad Writing
She had prepared for hours, laboring in her room, stretching her mind to unimaginable places. And the only thing she had to show for it was this piece of paper. She didn't believe that such thought, such pains, could go into something so small. Is this really what her work amounted to? She had worked as if she was Ernest Hemingway or Charles Dickens. But the truth is, she was no Ernest Hemingway nor Charles Dickens. And as far as she was concerned she would never be anywhere near that level of fame, intelligence, or creativity. It's not that she didn't love this hobby. Why else would a high school student spend days on a stupid simple paper that her teacher had assigned her?
Her biggest problem was that she acted like she was good at it. It was hard not to when all she heard about was how excellent her writing was and how good at reading she was. What could they see that she could not? she always wondered. It was so plain and simple to her. Almost too plain and simple. She hated the way she wrote. She hated the way the words sounded together, hated the way that she couldn't say what she meant, never in speech nor in writing. And worse yet, her reading abilities were just as bad. Sure she would spend hours and hours with her nose stuffed into a book. But this reading endeavor was not so easy as it seemed on the outside. In her brain, she struggled over simple vocabulary words that everyone knew. No matter how many times she looked that word up in the dictionary, it never stuck. So much for learning through reading. She also zoned out in her reading all the time. Most people never noticed that she would spend three times as long on one page as normal kids would. But even if they did notice, they didn't seem to care. All they saw was her love, her love for words and stories and language, and they praised her too much for it.
Now they expected a page. A short, simple page. She was the best in class and as so was expected to write the best paper. But she knew she had failed. The order of the words did not make sense to her but she could not fix it, no matter how hard she tried. Each revision to the paper made an even more enormous mess. Did she have fun with this process? Of course. But one can only have so much fun failing constantly. How can a musician enjoy music when all they do is fail to produce good sound? But this was all she could do, all she could live with. Who would help correct an incompetent, unoriginal writer?
It was the day to turn in the paper. Her final document laid in her hand as a cold, unfeeling, unrewarding trophy. She laid it on her desk in front of her, wishing more than anything that the words there would shift around and morph into something they were not. She hated herself for what she had created.
When the teacher asked her to read her paper aloud as an example, her heart dropped. They were expecting better than what she was about to give. They were expecting Poe to fly out of her mouth, but all she could deliver was awkward sentences and stupid ideas.
When she was finished reading, the class stood still. She hadn't realized as she was talking that the whole room turned silent. All she had focused on was how much worse the words sounded when read aloud. She was embarrassed. She wanted to stop. She wanted to take back everything she had written and said. She wanted another day to work. When she put her paper down, the students started clapping, the teacher stared at her in awe, all this an effect of her grotesque work.
Were these people serious? she asked herself, refraining herself from tearing out her own hair. Will they ever understand how awful she is?
Her biggest problem was that she acted like she was good at it. It was hard not to when all she heard about was how excellent her writing was and how good at reading she was. What could they see that she could not? she always wondered. It was so plain and simple to her. Almost too plain and simple. She hated the way she wrote. She hated the way the words sounded together, hated the way that she couldn't say what she meant, never in speech nor in writing. And worse yet, her reading abilities were just as bad. Sure she would spend hours and hours with her nose stuffed into a book. But this reading endeavor was not so easy as it seemed on the outside. In her brain, she struggled over simple vocabulary words that everyone knew. No matter how many times she looked that word up in the dictionary, it never stuck. So much for learning through reading. She also zoned out in her reading all the time. Most people never noticed that she would spend three times as long on one page as normal kids would. But even if they did notice, they didn't seem to care. All they saw was her love, her love for words and stories and language, and they praised her too much for it.
Now they expected a page. A short, simple page. She was the best in class and as so was expected to write the best paper. But she knew she had failed. The order of the words did not make sense to her but she could not fix it, no matter how hard she tried. Each revision to the paper made an even more enormous mess. Did she have fun with this process? Of course. But one can only have so much fun failing constantly. How can a musician enjoy music when all they do is fail to produce good sound? But this was all she could do, all she could live with. Who would help correct an incompetent, unoriginal writer?
It was the day to turn in the paper. Her final document laid in her hand as a cold, unfeeling, unrewarding trophy. She laid it on her desk in front of her, wishing more than anything that the words there would shift around and morph into something they were not. She hated herself for what she had created.
When the teacher asked her to read her paper aloud as an example, her heart dropped. They were expecting better than what she was about to give. They were expecting Poe to fly out of her mouth, but all she could deliver was awkward sentences and stupid ideas.
When she was finished reading, the class stood still. She hadn't realized as she was talking that the whole room turned silent. All she had focused on was how much worse the words sounded when read aloud. She was embarrassed. She wanted to stop. She wanted to take back everything she had written and said. She wanted another day to work. When she put her paper down, the students started clapping, the teacher stared at her in awe, all this an effect of her grotesque work.
Were these people serious? she asked herself, refraining herself from tearing out her own hair. Will they ever understand how awful she is?
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