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WishingFor the longest time, I yearned for someone to love. For someone to love me. I wanted to be held tightly, the warm breeze whispering secrets to us. Every night that summer, I wished that you would come to me.
I still remember that night I made that very first wish for you.
My family was fighting, so I took a walk, staring silently at the ground. When I finally looked up, I found myself at the local park, and I kicked the tanbark as I made my way over to the swings. I sat down on the sagging seat and clutched the cold metal chains, with their chipping paint and breaking plastic. The park was lit only by the moon seeping through the gaps in the ceiling of leaves overhead. It was sort of ominous here at night, with no one around, yet beautiful and peaceful at the same time. I began pumping my legs, going higher and higher, keeping my eyes on the bright full moon when I was going up, and on the tree concealing it when I sailed back down. After a while, I grew still, the swing seeping lower
Entry ThreeWhat I was trying to say yesterday before I got carried away was that I've decided I'm going to leave this place as soon as possible. Mr. Nolan is beginning to give me those looks when Mrs. Nolan leaves for the day. He hasn't tried anything yet, but you can never know. You've gotta be safe, keep your guard up. Of course my own version of keeping safe is finding a way to get out of here. I packed up the few belongings I own in the entire world; an old battered satchel bag containing a pen and this journal, a few changes of clothes, my biology textbook, and my most prized possession; an old tarnished locket I keep tucked away for safekeeping. If I dared to show anyone, it would be confiscated by the Nolans immediately. Those greedy bastards, they'd say I stole it from them. If they ever tried to take it from me, I'd chew their arms off to get it back.
The locket hangs on a plain silver chain, and it has a rose carved into the front. Inside, it's empty, but it hasn't always been. T
Entry TwoI still remember the Smiths as if I was there only yesterday. By now it's been four months since I left, but the memories are still fresh, branded deep into my soul. I don't think I could ever forget the way he looked at me as his wife was leaving to go to her hair appointment. Or the way he stood over me, so large and powerful. Or the way he pushed me into the corner.
I screamed and screamed and SCREAMED. I watched the door while I tried so hard to squirm away, waiting for my rescue to arrive. Nobody came.
Entry OneI don't know how much longer I can stand this. They tell me I'll get proper treatment if I be a 'good girl.' Real meals, three times a day, instead of this slop Mrs. Nolan gives me once a day, or twice, if she feels like being nice. She opens the door to the garage, just enough so she can slide it in, along with a couple hard insults. You'd think by now I'd be used to it, but as much as I pretend it doesn't affect me, it does. It really, really does. A real bed is all I want right now. They make me sleep in the garage, on this cot next to the washer and dyer with the broken springs that scream every time I move. They tell me I'll get the real room, the one they showed the social workers with their fake smiles, "so happy to help a young girl in need" when I treat them with respect. All they want is the money. All they ever want is the money.
Before, I might have fallen for that 'good girl' bribe. But not now. Mr. Smith said the same thing, and look how I e
SilentlyI remember the day it came. It was as a regular Tuesday as ever, and I came home tired and angry at what my life had trickled down into. Once I dreamed of doing great things in my future; becoming a doctor, saving the lives of many, maybe even finding a cure for cancer. Once. Once, so long ago. Those memories are almost shadows in my mind now, covered in ruined cobwebs.
Now, I work the 9-5 in an office building off of 10th. Every day it's the same, I come to work exhausted, fall down at my desk, strain my eyes from the bright computer monitor until it's time to leave. I feel trapped in this life I have created. Yes, I created this mess I'm in. I chose it, back when I had a choice, 17 years ago. It feels like I don't anymore.
That Tuesday, I parked my old faded Beetle in the driveway of my home, stumbled up the steps, frantically rubbing my eyes. I almost didn't see it- sitting there, silently- on the front step. For a moment I just stared, but as I picked it up and read the label, the
Fantasy I could feel the coldness seeping in through my clothing and into my skin, except for my hand which was grasped into his own. The snow was glistening brightly, capturing the light of the sun. We could hear it crunch under out feet as we walked, the only other sound besides our visible breath. It was so serene here, almost magical, this undiscovered trail that we walked along. The trees around us were so perfectly decorated with the soft snow, the air smelling clean and new. It was a welcome change from the heavy air in the city.
It was hard to believe how I lived without him in my life for 15 years. Of course I had liked him from afar for the past three, but until six months ago we had never really spoken. All this now made up for the 15 years spent laying alone, wishing someone would hold me.
I still remember that first night we spent
Path of lifeLife is a dangerous path
Full of twists and traps
A path we're forced to walk
Without turning back
We may regret the past
We may regret the mistakes
But we must learn from them
And keep moving on
We may predict the future
And even fear it
But we never know
What happens next
The only thing we have
Is the present, here and now
So let's live it
And forget about the rest
The mistakes of the past
The mysteries of the future
All part of life
This path we all walk
We Have No TimeAll we have
Is a sliver
Everything we will
Do in life
We all die before we know it
Its a fact of life
And I am already dying
A slow painful death
One year at a time
One month at a time
One week at a time
One day at a time
Then we flatline
On a metal sheet
Buried in the dirt
To think we were born yesterday
Only to die tomorrow
wordless they succumbAnd they fell -
just like that.
Just like the act of breathing;
soundless and inevitable.
Like an eager girl slipping
straps from her shoulders,
the soft crush of silk at her feet.
Winter's GirlI was winter's girl,
frozen under a thick layer of ice.
People tried to break it with their ice picks, but to no avail.
They eventually left me cold and in pieces in my frozen abyss.
You're thawing me out, slowly but surely.
"Summer girls aren't for me, "you say.
"Too full of sick strawberry sweetness."
That was just said to comfort me, but it oddly worked.
Maybe time with you will make me a summer girl,
no more need for thawing,skating with you above my ice.
WonderlandWhen I was little, I knew Wonderland.
Logic was faulty and rules were no more.
Up was down; down was up.
That was how it constantly was.
Fish swam in the air and drowned in water.
Worries were small and dreams were big.
One fell up until they reached the clouds,
Which were then used for soft beds and pillows.
Gender was an unnoticed trait.
Everyone was blind.
Everyone could see.
There were no expectations to uphold.
I was happy.
Then I woke up-or fell asleep-
Into a world with war and prejudice and plague.
I wondered then, and I do now…
Was Wonderland not the real world?
The Answer is Noneplease excuse the crushing
of this conversation
and i'll forgive the wheeze
as my mind's
pinch your windpipe
all but shut
watch my fading blur
as i step like god
and your heels drag
now you're the one
whose able is unned
dissed and nonned
your ghostlungs, my balloon
floating and bumping
and the whether
of pressure differentials
feels true, against
to the girl with the razors in her back pocket,stop. turn around. i understand you,
and i understand the sadness
entrenched in your bones. i understand
the late nights spent in anxious prayer
to the towels, to the creaky floorboard
just outside your parents' room, to the sink
that stains too easily. i understand
the catastrophic glances that people throw you
when you open your mouth and try
to belong. i understand the intense moments
spent in dressing rooms splicing together outfits
that will gracefully sweep past tally-marked wrists and ankles
and hopefully make sense in the dead of summer.
i understand the nights that you carve the emptiness
onto the razor and wonder if it wouldn't be better
to just die tonight instead. no one can be angry...
or disappointed...or judgmental...or sympathetic (because
sometimes forced empathy is the worst)...when you
no longer exist. it just stops. and anything
has to be better than this.
well, you're right about one thing. it does
get better. and not in that corny way
people tell you. you won't se
Starving for PerfectionDon't touch the food
if you want to be thin.
She starves for perfection,
Because thin is always in.
Her bones are so sore,
Her muscles ache,
But she'll do it,
If that's what it'll take.
The mirror's never wrong,
and the scale never lies,
She'll do what it takes,
To get that perfect size.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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