(One of those times
where everything is only mildly inspiring and
you just want to strangle a bit of someting
out of a muse.)
Ever play Etch-a-Sketch with a razorblade
simply because the scars are oddly comforting
to run your fingers over?
Ever want to, but
stop
because, "What would other people think?"
Why.
They have adrenaline rush, caffeine rush, sugar rush!
...but we can't have
a bit of blood rush.
They can have a dozen piercings,
and multiple elaborate dermal pigmentations
but we can't have
a few simple lines
without being psycho-analyzed?
Let me have my fun --
I've had plenty of issues
without you making this another.

Etch-A-Sketch

...What happens when I read Simon Armitage...

I'm transparent, don't you see?
They said I should tan
like all the other girls,
but I'm in love with my shadows,
so now I make a better window
than a door.
But I swear not to shatter easily
and hurt you,
although I wish I could
stick with you.
You're like a master artist,
and although I like my black and white,
your colors fill me in without crossing lines.
People see me now,
because you spill a rainbow happiness
onto my face
and they can't help but notice
your light shining through my prism.

Prismatic

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.