The other night I told him everything. How much it hurt, all my moments of realization, the feelings of futility, betrayal, anger, loneliness. I shared it all. I asked him the question I've wanted to since my mom and Cori sat me down and told me he was going to ask her to marry him. The conversation went something like this:
"Why her?"
"It's bullshit!"
"They said--"
"They lied!"
Then I shared all the evidence: when my mom and Cori had told me, and I had denied it and ran outside; the way I imagined him telling his parents that if she would still have him, he wanted to marry her; the two of them, together.
He said nothing more.
The whole time, his face had been sad, lost, hurt. Like he was feeling everything I felt. It made me a little sad, but that was what I wanted.
When I was done talking to him, I smiled and thought of how I would tell Denise that I'd talked to him.

And then I woke up.

I write names down on the beach,
Scratch meaningless doodles in the sand,
And what I don't know
Is that every scratch, every mark
Connects to you.
Subliminal messages to myself
So I won't forget about you.

"You can't save everybody," she says.

No. But I'll damn well save the ones that I can.

Why do I do this?
Is it like an emotional death wish?
Having everything so close
And so far away?
Leaving letters on the beach
Hoping maybe you'll see them
Before the tide comes up and washes them away,
And knowing that you'll never see
My little notes
Or all the tears I've cried.

Hehe.

When your life is full of
Ugliness,
Clashing cacophany,
Asymetrical lies
It's so nice to look,
So nice to live to look,
At people, at things, at music, at art
And appreciate their beauty.
Lik colors, different shades
Convey different emotions:
The sad, romantic blue-black beauty,
The comforting, soft brown beauty,
The spunky, individual green beauty,
The loyal, upright blue beauty,
The strange, mysterious purple beauty,
The pure, wise white beauty,
The innocent, kid-fun pink beauty,
The deep, powerful black beauty,
And on and on with it.
Every person has a beauty
Or two.
Mostly it's natural beauty --
Inside or out --
Because the beauty you put on
In the morning
All looks the same
And therefore,
Isn't as beautiful,
And you can never tell
How real it is
Or how deep it goes.

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.