Grab the Gardening Tools

I don't understand. Why do you think it's necessary to be thin? I can assure you, that it's not all it's cracked up to be. It won't make you happier, or smarter, or more confident. I don't understand why people think that if they loose a few pounds, they'll loose the voices in their heads. I have voices, they scream the ugliest things. Beauty is not in the inches between thighs, or the dips of collarbones, or the points of hipbones. I have all of it and I'm still mangled beyond repair. I'm telling you this because one day I told someone that I hated my life. She replied saying something like, "You have a thigh gap, your life seems fine." That hit me like a slap in the face. Who was she to have the nerve to judge my life based off a space between my thighs?!? And that's the sad part; people can't look past their conceptions of beauty fast enough to realize that the person behind the "beautiful" is really fucked up inside. And I'm just a skeleton, filled with enough fake compliments to last me a life time. If your body is a garden, then mine was left untended. Because there are weeds growing in my rib cage. Moss growing on my lips. Moths chewing at my feet. Flowers wilting in my eyes. Thorns roping around my heart. And daisies laid around my gravestone. Because they all thought I was beautiful, they just never thought to tell me. But maybe it's just a side effect of dying, because when the thoughts of hate swirled in my head they kept their lips sealed. Now they're all crying my name, while reading the note, claiming that they knew I was gorgeous all along, yet in their minds the only memory they share with me is a small tumble of words. But maybe not. Maybe they think of me as the stick-thin girl who always stayed quiet and was never brave enough or pretty enough to be remembered. Because that's how I would remember myself. And it's funny because all the girls who want to be skinny like me are the total opposite. They have sunflower eyes, carnation voices, roses for hearts, baby breath skin, tulip petal lips, and flowerbed souls. They have had people there tending their garden, making sure everything is okay. Other people can see all of these beautiful things about them, but they can't. But me, there is nothing beautiful to see.

Pyrotechnics

Oh god. Here we go again, throwing ourselves into that canyon of expired coupons and pretentious snobs. I have been dreading tomorrow for a whole season. A season filled with something's, someone's, and somewhere's that have genuinely helped me forget my worries. But only for a little while. Now anticipation is knocking at my door and leaving gifts at the doorstep. And anxiety is drumming her fingers close to my heart, causing my pulse to rise and my palms to sweat. And panic is rising in my throat, selfishly holding back my screams. This is my reality, my infinity. It's not beautifully tragic or tragically beautiful. It's not romantic or glorious. It's just sad. I know that our town is full of broken dreams and missed opportunities, and I know that this is where it all starts. It's like I dive into a pit of fire, every year. I keep swimming, the flames licking my belly and charring my feet, until I realize that its too hot. Then I jump out, dowse the blaze. I rest for a little bit and mend my wounds, while my memory of the swim fades. But then I see the pit and the inferno, and I forget about the past, and I jump right in again. And I know I still have those embers glowing inside of me. I just haven't found the courage to put them out.

Sealed the Deal

I'm anxiously awaiting the day that I formally become a high school student. The first day of school when I walk through the doors, and am immediately self-conscious and intimidated by the new crowd of the same people. The same type of people, more specifically. The type that walk around acting as though kissing the most guys will get them somewhere in life. The type that act dumb to get attention. The kind that act like they're the newest trend, even though they've never sipped an ounce of originality in their lifespan. You're not a rebel, you're fucking psychotic. I'm scared to see my friends turn into people I don't want to know. I'm scared for myself to turn into someone I don't want to be. But mostly, I'm scared that everything will be the same. The same group of lethal bitches waltzing around and serenading people in false compliments. The same boys snatching my heart in their dream catchers only to declare it a nightmare. The same girls gossiping, lying, hurting without even a second thought. I'm scared for this. And I'm sorry if I sound like a stuck up teenage girl, but I am a slight variation of a stuck up teenage girl. At least I've found a vaccine for their virus. At least I'm just a little immune. I'm also scared for them: they've sold their souls for a lifetime supply of Facebook likes and Abercrombie cardigans.

Cast Away

I could probably fill up an ocean with my tears. But I guess I already did. Because now I'm treading water and its so odd, because I feel like I should be drowning. I feel like I should be drowning but some how I manage to stay close to the surface. Except then every so often rip tides take over and I'm cast out to sea. And I'm all alone there, with nothing but a long, desolate, blue view and the sun burning my cheeks. Then I'll fall asleep and wake up where I started. And sometimes, the water gets rough and I get caught in a wave that's breaking. The wave knocks me over, pummeling me with its briny fists. Salt water searing my throat and my eyes. I can't see. I hit the sandy bottom hard and the grains scratch me and the rocks slam into me. My arms flail and my legs kick weakly. I want to drown at this point. It would be so painless compared to this. But no. I float back up and drift on the choppy ocean surface, battered and bruised. But I recover, and the cycle repeats. And every once in a blue moon I meander close to a shoreline. So close that I can see the boats and people milling about. I can see the ever so hopeful lighthouse signalling me in. And I try to swim to the shore, I try so hard. But the water keeps pulling me back. I kick and tug but the water won't let up. I wish I would sink, but I'm not an anchor. I'm a buoy, destined to a life of rough seas and endless storms, barely keeping afloat. 

1999-2013

I feel like I'm decaying. I've got maggots in my brain and worms in my heart. They're all telling me that this isn't going to last long. That soon enough I'll fade back into the shadows of my ridiculously perpetual routine. And I really have no doubt that this will happen soon. With the morning frost comes the frost on my heart. With the falling leaves comes the falling of my spirit. With the glistening snow comes the glistening tear drops, dripping into my ears. Maybe I am decaying. But here it won't matter; as long as the funeral is expensive and the flowers are fresh from Fiji. As long as the black mourners shawls are Marc Jacobs and the coffin is made of first class wood. As long as I'm dressed in billion dollar jewels. As long as I died luxuriously. I'm broken and bruised inside, but on the outside I'm just like them. Falling into line. Gushing over boys. Smacking on lip gloss. Bragging about my new phone. Trying to be like everyone else. I don't want this anymore. But I don't know how to break down a door without razing a whole house. We are so desperate to be our own person that we eventually drown in our own misconceptions. Maybe I am decaying. So go get your flower crowns. Act like you cared about me. Send me your last regards. But it's too late. I'm already six feet under.

Via Dolorosa

I wish I had the guts to fall in love. I'm scared to make the same mistake they did. "Easy to fall, easy to break," they say. So I never really let myself fall. I just hang here suspended by thin strings that were very close to breaking. Because I want someone to cradle me, I want someone to sing me lullabies. I'm in love with the idea of love, not with a person. My heart is hanging now by the noose of reality; who killed my hopes and has got me in a choke hold. I can't breath anymore. There's no more silly strings to keep me here suspended above you all. No. Just a thick noose, braided of gritty ropes that scratch at my throat. But I don't die, of course, because that would be too pleasant, too quick, too painless. Instead, I dangle here, slowly suffocating on my own insecurities. Slowly choking on my own flaws. I watch you all, frolicking below me with your hearts worn on your sleeves, like its the newest, trendiest accessory. I watch you all fall in love, I watch people fall in love with you. I watch your hearts break. And I laugh because, even though the sadness that follows heartbreak isn't very nice, it's better than this. Some of you are hanging up here with me, faces turning blue, hands clawing at your noose. Some of you try to scream, but your calls never make a sound and you end up gurgling and gasping, fingers prying violently at the rope. You act like there is a possibility of reprieve. I know there's not, I don't even try. And sometimes your ropes will snap, because you let someone into your heart again. And you'll fall back down, the air rushing around you, filling you with glee, your heart swelling, a bashful smile spreading across your face, blush rising in your cheeks, their image filling your head. Your thoughts are dizzy and buzzing. Once you land on those amorous plains of that existence, you can't walk straight or think straight you're so high on love. It's like a drug. There are addicts who always get their fill, but when they don't, they go through a nasty withdrawal. There are dealers who make big bucks on your misfortune and vulnerability. There are those people who try it once or twice, when they go through their reckless faze. But then there are people like me, who get a little taste and yearn for more. But no one would sell it to me. They didn't take me seriously, "You want someones love? Are you kidding?" So I removed myself from the equation completely. But most of us don't fall again, most of us aren't that lucky.