Sometimes, I cry
Because things aren't the way
They are in books.
There are no other worlds,
No talking trees,
No magic.
But that doesn't stop me
From believing anyway.

In a way, skin is like paper.
You write on it,
Pressing hard so the mark stays,
Keeping your memories alive
But not ever-present.

"Why do you do such stupid, crazy, pointless things?" she demands of us.

We answer, "Because you only get to be kids once. After that, everything must be smart and sane, with a point."

I see -- and am surrounded by -- the junk on a teenage girl's bedside table: an almost expired candle, a tissue box, an old, faded glass lamp, pads of paper, and incense burner with its incense; all coated by layers of dust in varying thicknesses. I see -- and am separate from -- a bed, littered with stuffed animals, blankets, pillows and...a girl. A girl with emotions on her face.

I am in a plastic cover, on the bedside table of a teenage girl with emotions on her face. There are three others of my kind with me. We know our duty...and we know what we are used for.

I am chosen from the plastic cover, picked up carefully to avoid any ironic damage to sensitive, raw fingers. I am pinched tightly between two fingers, my solid, flexible, thin frame bent slightly at the middle. I am not hurt: I hurt.

My age is irrelevant. I have come and gone in many forms, and, while this is not my 1st time in this one, it is indeed my saddest. Now I know what it means to be old, to be tired of the world, and I long for my simple days, when my use was not so ambiguous.

I am not saddened by what I am, but by what I am used for. It has aged me like nothing I have ever felt. I am abused to abuse, and it is not my own abuse that hurts me so much. When I am forced to rape delicate flesh, when the heady ambrosia of life is forced upon me, I see the memories and feel a pain other than the one I have caused. I am not saddened by what I am, but by what I am needed for.

She carefully licks the blood from her fingertips.
"My God, why can't you just be fucking normal?!" the voice asks her, voice full of sharp disgust.
Unconcernedly, she continues cleaning her fingertips and calmly replies, "Because that wouldn't be me."

Sometimes, I am emo: I do show emotion in exaggerated ways.
I am never goth: I don't see how a person can be an architectural style.
I hope to never be a prep: I don't want to attend a college preparatory school.
I doubt I'll ever be gangster: It's unlikely I'll ever be part of an organized group of criminals.
I'm not a slut: I'm not a sexually promiscuous woman.

Maybe it's this time of year
That always brings me back --
Back to Ocean Avenue.
You know, it's all grown over now,
Even the beach has changed.
They took away the goal
Where we used to sit and talk.
Yeah, they took everything away.

Maybe someone who looks like you
Is what it takes to bring me back --
Back to our photobooth.
You know, it's been gone for a while now,
Replaced with something high-tech.
I can still feel that adrenaline
From a first awkward kiss.
But I'm a world away from that.

Whenever you hear our song,
Turn it up and sing along.
Know that if I hear, I'll sing with it too,
Remembering the times it was just me and you.

Lay your head on my head;
I'll lay my head on your chest.
Wrap your arms around my shoulders;
I'll wrap my arms around your waist.
We fit together like a puzzle;
I guess that's just how we were made.

People of the healthy variety
Say it's good t talk,
To speak about your problems,
To let them out of the proverbial box.
I disagree, for most instances.
I tlaked once.
To two people in a room of many.
For three people out of that many.
But everyone heard.
And only 4 cared.
See, if I had been talking to more than two people,
That would really hurt.
As it is, I understand:
They're not old enough yet,
And sometimes, even adults don't know how to care.

I am naked.
Naked as Adam and Eve
And every bit as unashamed.
I dance, I cry, I smile --
Completely in the nude,
Except for my ink
And lines going on forever.

Us.
We three.
Each of us equal
To many more.
1. the posterchild (wants people to understand)
2. the angel (wants to keep it hidden)
3. the newb (wants to be loved)
For S.M.A.

"The world is shrinking."
A phrase that makes me
Sad, and maybe a little scared.
I want to see Arizona,
For its wide, flat, beautiful, empty bigness;
For the chance to imagine those before me,
Brown skinned, dark glossy hair, untamed eyes
And a strength held in check by private codes.
Freedom for the price of a horse.

Open the door
It’s like meeting an old friend
Not knowing how it’s gonna feel.
Will it work again,
Will it hurt?
Timewarp, jerk back;
A million memories in a millisecond
Then everything shrinks, disappears
And your left with a line
Dividing everything and nothing.
You feel nothing;
It’s like morphine for your emotions
And it comes with a stick-on smile,
Like a Band-Aid to cover the hole
Where cries, and screams, and raw whispers should come from.
It’s like camouflage so good,
You can’t even find yourself,
And you’re not so sure you want to.

I sleep.
I dream of
Cheshire smiles, and
monotonous wrestling, and
chapstick that tastes of Gingersnaps.
I dream of
Mum leaving, and
razorblade love nips, and
brown-haired boys with no face.
I dream of
his butterfly, and
lime, Coke, and rum, and
lightening flashes outside glass doors.
I dream
all of this;
past sashaying through present,
and future always threaded though it all.

She had made her choice. She was going to show him, and it was going to hurt, but she had to show him the things he said he loved. She walked toward him slowly, holding the four corners of cloth in trembling hands. Bending over, she tenderly placed it on the ground. Then she stood and turned away, knowing his reaction would hurt and not wanting him to see her tears.
“This is it.”
The contents spread from the center of the cloth; the jewels and rocks, the rusty scraps and beautiful metal-work. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and scrunched her eyes shut, determined not to cry until he was long gone.
She didn’t hear his inevitable noise of disgust or shock, nor did she hear the sound of shoes hitting the ground. The only thing she heard was the soft rustling and clinking of someone sorting carefully through rubbish. She turned, and she wanted to cry. She thought her mind had snapped and she was hallucinating – it couldn’t be happening. He was kneeling, going through her jewels and trash, touching each piece like a blind man would, seeing with his hands.
After a while, he gathered the cloth up, then stood and slowly walked toward her. Something inside was screaming for her to run away, before he could totally destroy her, but she couldn’t; she wanted to see what he would do. When he was close enough for his breath to ruffle her hair, he tipped up her chin with his empty hand and wiped the moisture from her cheeks with his thumb. That was when she realized that she had been crying.
Horrified, she wanted to break and run. She knew her tears gave her away, but some part of her didn’t care anymore, it was completely focused on him.
“Don’t cry darling. I love it. I love it all, because it’s you. And I love you.”
She blinked and stared at him, not knowing if she could trust his words, or her own ears. She gestured silently at the cloth, brushing her hand over the contents lightly. Then she looked at him, wanting him to affirm that he meant what he said, that he understood what he said.
In response, he reached his hand back to cradle her neck, thumb stroking her cheek, and leaned his forehead against hers. He whispered,
“Yes.”