“She is a friend of my mind. She gathers me, man. The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order. It’s good, you know, when you got a woman who is a friend of your mind.”

Sixo, Beloved by Toni Morrison.

the words she longed to hear didn't belong to any spoken language; they began in his eyes, were fulfilled with his kiss, and resonated in her bones as he held onto her as if she were his only lifeline.

LOST.

the wind nips at her toes as they dangle perilously in the air. her long hair is blown into a scattered mess, covering her face as she looks out into the distance. red and blues and pinks and oranges, they all blend together in ways that are beautiful and peaceful and dangerous.

her sigh is lost in the breeze as darkness threatens to blanket the world. she doesn't know what to think anymore, which is why she's where she is - in her metaphorical limbo.

she knows what she did was right, but that doesn't make it any bit more tolerable. falling back, she gazes uncertainly up at the purpling sky as if it could tell her the answers to all over her questions.

but, of course and as always, it can't and she ends up closing her eyes and seeing his face with those eyes and those lips and that hair. she pictures his smile and his ears and the goofy way his face scrunched when he was concentrating. she sees the look he gave her when she was doing something goofy and the one that said 'i love you' in a way that words always failed to say it in. she hears his laugh as clear as ever and his voice is as present as if he was standing behind her.

she remembers those days where she and him were so wrapped up in each other and the summer heat and newfound freedom and perfection that the time slipped away before they could ever realize it was there. she hasn't forgotten his words and his promises and their comfortable silence. memories of the way he felt and the way they fit and the feel of his hands haunt her almost daily.

she misses all of it.

she sits up again as the sound of footsteps sounds in the distance. she thinks about his lies and his choice and the consequences. she reminds herself that his hands aren't hers anymore and that she wouldn't want them anyway after what he's done. she remembers the spilled secrets and cruel jokes and new personality - the things she wouldn't deal with.

she snatches her feet back from the ledge as the sun disappears below the horizon with its last tribute to color. she stands up and she walks away, not even pausing as he made to stop her.

if only starting over were as easy as walking away.

TRANQUILITY.

it’s hot, but what else could anyone expect in the middle of the summer? the nearly complete darkness is punctured only briefly by the on and off glow of fireflies over the lake. i swing my legs back and forth over the edge of the dock, close enough to feel the coolness of the water in my feet, but not breaking the surface.

the crickets and the toads are quiet tonight, as if they know the normal presence of their chirps and croaks would awaken us from this extraordinary moment. my hands grip the edge of the dock as i try to hold onto the moment and glance at him from under my thick curtain of hair.

though i can barely make out his face in the darkness, the beauty of the smile that spread slowly over his face knocks me breathless. in one swift moment, he wraps a muscled arm around me and pulls me to him as he falls backward onto the dusty wooden dock.

we should have made a noise, for the dock was old and creaky, but i noticed that all sounds were suspended. i laughed noiselessly at his boyish grin and brushed my hair from my face. his hand traced my jaw, neck, and shoulder, creating a trail of fire all the way to the exposed skin my sundress didn’t cover.

my lips brushed his lightly and i felt him tighten his grip on me pulling me closer. i smiled into his mouth and pulled back teasingly. i thought i saw him smirk at me but before i could wonder why, i found my back pressed hard against the dock, staring up at his face, his features silhouetted by the dim stars and sliver of a moon.

i sighed breathlessly at the sight, not making a sound, and he ran a hand down my side until he found my exposed legs. my breath caught, yet again, and he pressed his lips to mine.

the air is thick with tension and emotion and quiet.

the sporadic thumping of my heart is the only noise that can be heard for miles, for on nights when the silence gathers, my heart explodes.

[03.07.2010]

TREEHOUSE.

down the hollow from the porch,

there's an opening in the trees,

and if you look real closely,

you just might see me.

as i do almost everyday

at just about this time

i look up at our treehouse,

i close my eyes, i sigh.

daddy build it when we were young,

before school and cars and boys.

back when we were innocent,

consumed with barbie dolls and toys.

i think this was your favorite place,

and that's why i return

to stare up at the broken wood

wishing you weren't gone.

[03.05.10]

FEAR.

don't be scared, you whispered. i'll always be here for you.

i'm scared.

i'm scared for what i have to lose, and what i have to deal with.

i'm scared of not having anyone to turn to, to hug, to kiss. no one to console me and hold me and listen to me complain. no one to think that its cute when i cry.

i'm scared of missing you. of the gap thats left in me when you're not here.

i'm scared of letting you go. of not finding anyone that loves me like that, or that i love like this.

i'm scared of the memories that won't leave me alone. the ones where you're cute and we're perfect. the moments i never wanted to end.

i'm scared of my exhaustion, yet sleeping isn't peaceful either. you haunt my dreams, you haunt my presence.

i'm scared of the future. because i don't see you in it.

[02.27.10]

OF SEARCHING.

it was shoddily built, but what did expect from a six year old? when my dad offered to help, i'd declined; i could do it all by myself - when had i lost that independence? it wasn't even a club house... not really. it was more like a wooden fence nailed on top of a few fat branches high enough up in a tree to require a ladder of thick pieces of wood nailed to the trunk. i was never the princess type, anyway.

the wood, warped by eleven years time, moaned underneath me and my sleeping bag as i turned over to lay on my stomach. it just getting light and soon the sun would peak over the hills that lay just to the east of my makeshift bed in brilliant colors of pink and purple and yellow and orange.

i rested my head on my hands looking in that direction, waiting, and trying not to fall asleep. i closed my eyes; i hadn't slept well in my room, there was too much shouting and violence tossed around in there.

pictures of us decorated the walls, screaming happiness and joy that no longer existed. when i'd tried to pry them off, the frames burned me and the nails made me bleed. the blanket choked me, wrapping the intoxicating smell of his hair around my throat and successfully making it impossible to draw a breath. the teddy bear attacked my feet, even when i kicked it across the room, and the toy-story watch he'd gotten in his happy meal that one time beeped and beeped until the resonance nearly turned my brain to jelly.

so i'd escaped to my childhood house, searching for innocence.

light flooded the inside of my eyelids and i opened them, squinting at the sun as it brought saturday morning over the hills. thats when i saw it, the buck, standing on top of the largest hill silhouetted by the orange of the early morning. i sighed and smiled just a bit.

maybe i had made the right decision: in coming out here, in leaving him...

i was just beginning to think that i was finally content with the world, if only for a few minutes, when a gunshot rang out and the buck crumbled to the ground. "i got one, dad!" i heard my brother yelling from the distance. "did you see that?"

i turned my head to face opposite the sun and opposite the world's sign that, then again, maybe i hadn't.

[2.23.10]

HELLO.

?

what happened to all of your pretty words?

CRASH AND.

the flames licked higher and higher into the fading sunlight. her fist tightened around a wet cloth as the mixed feelings of satisfaction, anger, and hurt swam in her head. she winced slightly as the water stung the burns on the inside of her hand – a souvenir of the deed – but the real pain hadn’t hit yet.

she watched as his house was engulfed in the destruction of reds and oranges and yellows, the smoke pouring from the top like a call to heaven, though not even god could save her now. she heard the snaps and crackles and sizzles of burning and took a deep breath, breathing in the smell of closure.

she’d placed the tokens on his bed. all of the items she’d collected over the years: his shirt, the presents, movie ticket stubs, and letters. she’d lit them first, lit them with the lighter he gave her. she hoped they’d burnt a hole right through the mattress they’d made love on. in her mind, she saw the outline of his house. she pictured the flames burning a precise path down the stairs they’d ran up, full of hormones and love. she imagined the fire continuing that path to the couch they’d spent so much time laughing and kissing on. melting the screen of the television they’d watched movie after movie on.

tears traced familiar paths on her face as she recalled all of the words that had been exchanged in the house ablaze across the street from where she stood. she supposed they smoldered too, the promises sizzling and popping into smoke alongside their physical counterparts

when he came back, he’d see. his world burnt to the ground just as he had set hers ablaze. the unfair part was that even with his belongings gone, he’d have more than he had left her with. he’d have ashes, she had nothing.

ignoring the pain and using the towel to wipe the sweaty tears from her face, she walked slowly across the street and up the stairs she’d hurried up months before. she paused in front of the door and almost knocked, just to keep the pattern. sighing, she used the towel to turn the knob and it hissed as the heat of the metal met the water. she let herself in and, in the middle of winter, she sat down, thought about him, and let herself burn.

[2.20.10]

ABRUPT.

it's unfortunate that the things that you want the most to forget are the ones that plague you constantly.

it was the day before the day before he left. she was waiting for him in their spot, the one that so many good things had happened in. she never thought that anything bad could be associated with this beautiful place.

she was wrong.

she was dressed in the shorts she knew he liked and a tank-top under her shirt, just to see him groan at the layers of clothes. she was early... or he was late... one or the other, she'd stopped judging by exact times due to the fact they would both never be on time, ever.

she cut the engine and the music died. it was scorching hot outside, a typical tennessee summer, but she figured she wouldn't be waiting long enough for the cool air conditioned air to leak out of the car. she leaned her head back on the headrest and closed her eyes.

the summer was coming to a close. her perfect summer; the best summer she'd ever had, hands-down-no-question-about-it. the fact that it was over weighed her down as if she'd swallowed a cement block. she'd already been back for her orientation and in less than forty-eight hours, he would be in a completely different state while she would be left here to deal with the petty people at her school who didn't understand.

she'd promised herself she wouldn't cry - not yet. that was for tomorrow when they said goodbyes. she'd promised herself, but emotions don't like to listen to promises and before she knew it tears were leaking out of her closed eyes. she knew he'd be there soon and that he make-up was going to be ruined, but she couldn't stop.

a knock on the window made her jump and she opened her eyes wide and smiled when she saw his honey-brown eyes looking through her window at her. she tried to discretely wipe the tears from her eyes, but she knew that he saw them. this was only the second time he'd ever seen her cry, she thought.

little did she know how much that was about to change.

she climbed out of her car and he took her into his arms and kissed her. she smiled at him. 'i love you,' she whispered so her voice wouldn't crack as much. 'i love you, too.' he replied easily and kissed her again. she told him that she had his birthday present, but that he would get it tomorrow in order to ensure she saw him again before he left. he laughed, 'fine with me,' and kissed her.

they broke apart and got into george (she'd named his car over a year ago). as soon as she buckled her seat belt, she felt it.

unease, maybe? she couldn't place it, but it didn't feel right. it wasn't easy and free and lovely like it had been for longer than the eight months they'd been together. she looked around and saw a foreign pair of sunglasses. female ones. 'who's are these?' she asked, trying to make her voice sound light and not accusatory. she'd been feeling like he was hiding things recently, but she didn't want to fight him right before he left.

they'd never fought, not really.

'i dont know,' he'd answered hesitantly. 'they must be my moms.'

'was she driving your car?'

'she took it to get cleaned, i think.'

'oh,' she didn't believe him fully, mostly because of that irritating feeling of tightness that had settled between them, but she let it go. they talked of nothing the rest of the way to the theatre and she wanted to believe that everything was fine, yet that feeling of unease wouldn't go away. something wasn't right.

she blamed it on the fact that they were both dreading his leaving. 'that must be it,' she thought and tried to settle herself.

they parked in the back and before they went in he lifted her face to his and kissed her. and she thought about how this could be one of the last times for a long time that she would be able to feel him.

tears leaked form her eyes without permission yet again and she grinned as he pulled away, feeling stupid. 'sorry,' she laughed at herself.

'don't be,' he brushed away her tears with his thumb and kissed her cheek.

'i love you,' she said again.

'i love you more,' he countered.

'liar,' she laughed as she got out of the car thinking maybe whatever had been stuck between them was gone now. he followed her example and walked up behind her, throwing his arm around her shoulders. she wrapped hers around his waist, 'maybe i'll just yell "no! don't hit me again!" as soon as we get up there,' she joked, referencing her red eyes.

'sad,' he chuckled. 'don't do that!'

he bought the tickets and they went into the theater and went to stand in the snack line. she'd always thought that this was a humorous habit of his. 'do you want anything?" he asked her as he planted a kiss on her forehead.

'no.'

'sour patch kids?"

"i'm fine,' she laughed.

'okay,' he grinned.

they talked of random things and she thought that maybe the weird feeling had finally lifted. it must have been the fact that he was leaving that was hanging in the air like a foul smell.

they walked into their theater and sat down. after he ate, he put his arm back around her and pulled her close, kissing her again. 'you're going to distract me from the movie,' she accused.

'you're the distracting one,' he grinned, kissing her again.

she rolled her eyes.

the movie was good; he'd kept his arm around her the whole time, kissing her at random moments, as he always did. when it was over, they walked back out, joking about the ending.

she was sad that the night was half-over, but she tried not to dwell on it. they got back into the car and she felt the air tighten again. 'your car smells weird,' she laughed.

'yeah, my friend smoked some weird foreign cigarettes in here yesterday.'

'that's not very nice,' she grinned half-heartedly. 'are those his sunglasses, maybe?'

'no, they're my moms,' he adamently insisted. she looked back out her window so she wouldn't have to make more conversation. she felt like crying again, but now it was because she couldn't figure out what was wrong with them. they were off-beat and she didn't know why.

why now? right before he left?

she shook it off and turned up the music. maybe silence would be better.

on the way back to their spot they listened to the titans pre-season game and talked lightly about the lineup. she tried to make everything better.

as they neared their spot, she mentioned that she had talked to a mutual friend the last night, and he asked what he said. she grinned at having a step-up, "i dont knoww,' she teased.

'tell,' he begged as they made the last turn.

'nahh,' she whispered as they parked, and turned to kiss his jaw.

'you're not fair,' he moaned as he threw the car into park and pulled the emergency brake up.

'i could stop and tell you the story,' she said quietly as she kissed him.

'not fair,' he repeated.

'or we could go back there,' she suggested, motioning towards his backseat.

'i really shouldn't,' he said after a pause.

she pulled back, confused. this wasn't how it normally went. usually he was out of the car before she could finish her sentence. 'do you have to be home?' she asked, glancing at the clock. it read ten-ten. weird. they both had curfews of midnight, usually.

'no,' he said quietly opening his eyes and looking at her.

'oh,' she said. 'what's wrong then?' she asked, genuinely confused. everything had been fine... had she done something wrong? should she have not talked to their friend?

'i think we should take a break,' he half-sighed, half-muttered.

she stared at him and sat back, completely shocked. she hadn't been expecting this at all. she quickly thought back to the note she'd written him just that afternoon to go with his present. that was completely unnecessary now.

'oh,' she whispered. willing herself, again, not to cry. so this had been why it felt so off. she would have been slightly enraged at the fact that he'd just taken her on a normal date just to dump her, but she was too shocked and hurt and confused to even muster up another emotion. 'okay.'

'no, listen,' he sat up straighter and looked at her. 'i don't want to go off and hook up with other girls. i just...' he explained it to her. and, really, she guessed it made sense.

nobody wanted to go to college with a girlfriend. thats what she'd told him and he'd vehemently denied it.

until now.

tears streamed down her face silently, and she looked at her feet, 'i understand.' she whispered when he was done explaining, even though most of her didn't. she didn't understand why he would do this to her now. why had they dated all summer just to end it less than forty-eight house before he left? wasn't that a little mean? hadn't he promised that they'd stay together? that he loved her?

no.

she didn't regret it. it was still the best summer of her life.

'i feel like i am doing a bad job explaining this,' he said, frustrated, as he ran his hand through his hair in that nervous habit of his that she always teased him about.

and she couldn't help it, she smiled. 'it's okay.' she told him. 'i get it.' she looked at him and the tears increased. 'i should go.'

'you don't have to,' he almost begged her. she laughed, 'there's no reason for me to stay,' she looked him straight in the eye. he didn't have an answer for that one.

he leaned over as she went to get out of the car and she took his face in her hands for what she thought would be the last time. she kissed his forehead, 'i always knew i loved you more,' she told him, her voice all kinds of cracking, and she stepped out of the car and shut the door behind her.

she looked at her own car, tears clouding her vision, and took a deep and shakey breath. she had to get out of here. she couldn't stand to be near him, in his place, any longer.

she fumbled with her keys but finally managed to unlock the car, get in, and turn it on. she didn't bother with the music. she tried not to break down as she put the car into reverse and drove away from him.

a few sobs escaped, but she kenw she couldn't now. he'd see her if she stopped her. she had to make it to the next stop. she had to. she turned onto the road, swerving like she was drunk off of her ass while in reality she couldn't see clear enough, nor could she think straight enough to drive at all.

the drive seemed ten times longer than it'd ever been before, and she felt around stupidly for her phone. she pressed the number six and then the send button and tried to keep the car on the road as she drove.

'hello?' called the wonderful voice of her best friend.

'h-he d-umped m-m-me,' she sobbed into the phone.

'what?' she heard the concern in her voice and she tried to steady her own, 'he b-broke up with m-me,' she tried again.

'where are you?' the other end of the line snapped to attention.

'natchez, tr-trying to drive.'

'pull over, i'm on my way.'

'o-okay,' she finally saw her safe-haven and pulled into the other parking lot. she glanced down the path to where he had kissed her for the first time. and as she threw the car in park, she let the sobs rake over her body.

suddenly, she threw open the car door and ran over to the grass as the intensity of her sobs brought up her last meal.

so she sat there, sobbing, and completely baffled as to what the hell she was supposed to do now.

sometimes, you just have to get it out; share your pain with the rest of the world and hope that somehow, miraculously, that someone will be able to relieve you of a piece of what you feel everyday.

losing you was the worst feeling i've experienced and, though you aren't mine again, not fully, i would very much rather not lose any part of you ever again.

a [2.18.10] tale of [8.18.09].

TRUTHS.

the picture isn't mine, neither is the quote for that matter, but i did put the two together. i really like that quote. it reminds me of this one:

i guess the both speak to the same thing, in a way. they talk about how suffering, being broken, is a part of life. everyone who lives their life must suffer through trials and tribulations that are way beyond their control.

this is something that i have always struggled with. i like control. i enjoy being in control and knowing that my actions will consequently result in a specific outcome. so when it comes to things like love, things that are so far beyond the conceptual grasp of us as humans, i find myself falling apart and trying to shove everything into neat little piles of before-and-after. and that doesn't work with love.

people have to accept that they can easily be broken, and that being broken is a by-product of living a fulfilling life; that being broken isn't necessarily a bad thing. and that is what i have trouble understanding and accepting.

i digress.

these quotes speak to me because they say what i have learned the hard way. if i had read these two years ago, they wouldn't have meant near as much to me as they do now. because i've experienced the truths that they speak to. i've lived them.

[2/16/10]

THOUGHTS FROM 35,000 FEET.

when we first took off i was astounded. the fact that such a huge chunk of metal can propel itself into thin air never ceases to amaze me. my surroundings shirnk slowly, though i can’t even imagine the speed at which we are traveling past them. i grin to myself as i trace a green-blue tributary to a larger muddy-brown one with spider-web fingers of the odd blue dye.

i smile as i trace the circles and lines that make up the interstate – it seems like a child’s playmat from this height.

the trees look purple – it must be because of the winter – and there are large patches of them with tiny breaks for swingsets and slides. these purple trees section off houses from their neighbors in seemingly straight lines and i wonder vaguely who could plant them in such linear-lined squares and rectangles.

for a moment, the fact that we haven’t yet broken the clouds worries me. shouldn’t we be ascending more? however, another glance out the window and i decide that watching the monopoly-like houses and bug-sized cars for the whole trip wouldn’t be to horrible after all.

and then, before i know what happened, we are surrounded by a light grey, impenetrable fog. before i can stare at it too long, however, we break the clouds again and it looks as though i’m gliding on top of the world. the white of the clouds that stretch on until they meet the baby blue of the sky is a surreal picture and for more than a few second, i can only stare in awe and thank god that i was lucky enough to snag a seat by the window.

my ears pop and the captain drawls on over the speaker saying we have reached 35,000 feet.

in the two seats to my left sit an engaged couple. when i sat down, i guessed they were together and little hints have assured me they are engaged. the man, sitting on the isle, is tall, freckled, and has boney, round knuckles. his fiancée sits next to me (why she’d voluntarily pick the middle seat, i haven’t a clue) and leaves through a wedding magazine (i never said these hints were subtle). she has brown-black hair, brown eyes, skinny fingers and overall reminds me of the girl who is set to marry the main character’s love right before she stealks him back in just about every chick flick.

maybe that’s where they’re heading – back to his hometown for a vacation that will end with this brown haired man ditching this raven-looking girl for his high school sweetheart. i do know how chick flicks come to life sometimes.

looking to my right again, i am struck with the beauty of the other side of the clouds. from the ground they look grey and sullen but now they are anything but. i am reminded of snow – a long and forever-stretching blanket of undisturbed snow.

i see why white stands for perfection and purity.

the plane rocks as we enter a patch of suffocating grey; we’ve started our descent. the attendants walk up and down as if they are more comfortable here than on the ground. i find myself strangely jealous.

i am struck with the urge to learn to fly a plane. to be able to escape the earth and its problems and disappear into the sky at will.

i’ll put it on my bucket list.

[2/12/10]

NIGHTMARE.

it hasn't always been like this. i used to find the experience bittersweet; sure they were sad now, but they were in for something better later on. that's the way it always worked in the movies and books and even when i heard stories from friends.

but now, i don't like reading about break-ups. in fact, i despise reading about anything concerning two people parting. horrifyingly, it's to the point where i'll skim over paragraphs or pages at a time when authors go into describing emotions. movies and songs and stories don't bother me as much because i don't feel it as much myself.

now, when i read about a break-up, i begin to relive my own. it's terrible and surprising and a rush of things that i never want to think about again. while there are a few triggers - places. songs. words. people. - none of them are quite as bad as reading about a break-up.

i've come to realize that there are two reasons that this hurts me so. reading has always been my favorite way of escaping. it was my i-don't-want-to-think-about-anything-so-i'll-do-this thing. i have a very close and personal relationship with reading and books that hardly anyone can understand. laugh if you will, but it's true. books make me happy. i think that this is the first reason i cannot read about break-ups. my getaway shouldn't include the thing i'm trying to escape, should it? words shouldn't betray me by forcing me to confront feelings and emotions that i'd rather run from. sure, it may be cowardly, but when my escape haunts me in such a way, i find it near torture.

but then, thinking about it, i realize that i can read about death. i can read about parental divorce and dysfunctional families and the loss of friendships. if i can read about these emotional and painful things, shouldn't i be able to stomach a simple teenage break-up? you'd think so. which brings me to my second reason: breaking-up has been the single life experience i am not ready to face. it is the only thing that i have experienced that i am not okay with. the only thing i cannot look back on and accept. it's a road block i refuse to go around.

which is probably the most pathetic thing ever, and i know that. i understand that he's just a guy, yet i can't let go. i justify running from those feelings that bubble up when i read about break-up's by thinking 'yeah, but we're not broken up.' because we aren't. but we should be - we have been. if everything had gone as was expected that night, we would be. and i can't accept that.

unlike with movies, i don't know that everything will work out in the end. not with us. while it very well could, it more easily won't and i'l'l have to experience my worst nightmare again. i know this, but i fight it.

i loathe reading about break-ups because when i do, i experience a personal relationship with the one thing i have been hiding from for the last six months.

[2/9/10]

CHRISTMAS IN SEPTEMBER.

i’ve always thought that death was a lot like christmas, though it was the old fake tree in the corner that reminded me of the dreadful holiday now.

both are times for family and friends, times for roses and bad punch and hugs, times for people to show up for something they would rather have slept through…

i wonder how many people would come to my funeral – probably a lot.

now i sound conceited even in my own mind, but i’m not. there’s a logical reason i can expect a lot of people at my funeral even is i’m not old enough to have decades of friends, i don’t a family of my own, and i wasn’t that nice to the kids at my school.

see, everyone is interested in murder cases.

they’d shake my stepfather’s hand and squeeze my mother into a hug. play with my little half- sister and brother, talking about how sad it was that they’d never understand what had happened to me until all the memories of me had faded.

my stepdad would be patient with all the questions – well, i guess he might not be able to be there, he could be a suspect for my murder after all. wasn’t it always the stepparent? or that creepy neighbor?

hm. i don’t know, i never watched that much t.v.

i look up at the dirt-covered ceiling of my father’s basement. i am really getting uncomfortable lying the bottom of a fucking wire dog cage. i’m sixteen, i’ve been called a bitch before, but this is taking the term a bit too literally, daddy dearest.

stupid of me, right? looking him up on my old birth certificate. though, in all honesty, it had begun with that damn science project. who would have figured that punnett squares would lead me to my death? i hope that mr. granger gets investigated in my murder case – him and his stupid family-tree-punnett-square project are what led me to this cage and subsequently my murder in the basement of my fathers house, however indirectly.

plus, he looked like a guy who would kill sixteen year old girls for fun.

like my dear ol’ dad did, apparently. i should have asked his profession over the phone.

‘meet me for coffee’ my ass. i knew as soon as he suggested we go get something to eat that he had a different agenda. unfortunately, genes worked against me because my blue eyes exactly matched his and my hair was his shade of ebony.

so when i protested, other customers in the coffee shop bought the ‘i’m sorry, she’s just angry that i’ve grounded her’ excuse my father dished out coupled with an embarrassed look.

i should have screamed my name and his as i left the coffee shop. possibly his address (was this even his house?). maybe then he would have at least killed me in the car.

god, what the hell kind of murder was this? ‘wait here while i go and prepare the concoction,’ he’d said. like i had a choice, handcuffed and locked in this tiny dog cage.

‘yes sir,’ i had replied sarcastically. ‘good luck on preparing that with which you plan on murdering me!’

it’s crazy how uncaring i am about this whole ordeal. you’d think i would be rattling the cage, trying to escape with all my might. but i’m not. really, i just don’t see any use in it. the padlock looked pretty sturdy to me

maybe i’m just happy he hadn’t raped me.

seriously, what was my mother thinking, having sex with him?

holy shit, i’m going to die a virgin.

i find it funny that this upsets me more than the whole dying part.

‘bethany, it’s ready!’ he announces as he clamors down the stairs. i don’t look away from the ceiling. ‘any last words?’

i turn my head from the ceiling as he tries to look at me through the chicken-wire cage and i see that christmas tree again.

‘no? alright then.’ i feel the needle as he plunges it through my jeans and into my thigh.

‘i prefer beth,’ i tell him firmly as the drugs cloud my mind. i feel the needle leave only by the release of pressure.

he flips the lights on then, and with my newly blurred vision, it looks like the lamps have decorated that dusty old tree.

christmas in september.

[2/6/10]

COOKIE-CUTTER.

i've never liked cookie-cutter molds. not even when i was little and my family would make christmas cookies the "old fashioned way" (mixing sugar and flour and eggs and milk to make the dough. rolling it out with a rolling pin.) i used them, sure, but i always hated the "perfection" of it all. how if it wasn't just right it was bad. how the dough had to fit perfectly into the gingerbread outline.

so i'd "imperfect" them. i'd add a bit of dough to the head of the gingerbread man to give him hair, i'd make a three-legged reindeer, i'd make a star without points - anything to prevent myself from coming up with an army of perfect cookie-cutter molds.

i think, even then as a meager six year old, i recognized and appreciated the deviation from 'perfect.' i saw the merit in an imperfect army of amputee gingerbread and reindeer with an extra head, not in my mother's cookie-cutter exact models. i knew that i wanted something different.

so yesterday, when my interviewer asked me if there was anything else that i wanted duke to know about me the first thing that came to mind was 'i am not a cookie-cutter college model of the perfect student.' instead i pride myself on my ability to embrace identity, be different, and be okay with 'not fitting in.' i don't want to be perfect.

mainly because people who strive for perfection end up unhappy.

but also, they irk me.

[2/4/10]

LOVE STORY.

she wanted to write a love story.

you know, the kind where two people fell in love. that story about those two people who didn’t even know each other, but met when the best friend made her go meet her new boyfriend and then handsome best-friend-of-the-boyfriend just happened to look her way.

the one where he thought she was all that an a bag of potato chips in that tight, flattering dress she just so happened to be wearing and she thought he was just-another-man. possibly like the one she had recently broken up with – who knows?

fast-forward a couple hundred pages and you’d have yourself a perfect little wedding. one with white satin bows that adorned tall oak doors leading the way to a fat little priest and a nervous, handsome groom. where the bride looked ‘way too good to be marrying that man – honestly, him for a son-in-law?’ according to her father but everyone knew that later he would be spotted dashing quick tears away as his daughter said ‘i do.’

and, of course, in the end they’d have beautiful children; a daughter with ringlet curls who ran up and wrapped her arms around her daddy’s leg, squealing as her brother, only one year her elder, chased her with a granddaddy-long-leg-spider.

she wanted to write a love story, perhaps to contrast her own life.

not that she’d never fallen in love, of course, just that…

no.

she wouldn’t think about that, not now. thoughts such as those were reserved for one in the morning when she was lying on her lumpy mattress in the dingy apartment with six locks on the door but a window in the bedroom that allowed her to stare at the moon and the stars as long as the neon sign on the side of the building next to her had the remnants of a smashed liquor bottle keeping it from shining.

she traced the edge of her martini with her little finger as she glanced at the clock on the faded yellow walls. they didn’t card her here; she’s known the bartender and the fact that he had a wife got her alcohol even though she was wretchedly underage.

it was eleven.

she really ought to get to her place before the place got too wild. she certainly wasn’t in the mood to deal with sleazy drunks and their pissed girlfriends tonight.

no, she wanted to write a love story, perhaps her own. either way, there was not room for drunkards or two-cent whores or that man with the handle-bar mustache in her love story nor in any story she planned on writing or reading anytime in the future.

she sighed a devastated sigh – partly because she was devastated and partly because she was sick of dealing with her devastated self – and stood up, leaving her drink sweating on the table.

straightening the black-leather skirt that barely covered her ass and pulling at the shirt that revealed just a little too much of her midriff, she slapped a few ones on the table before tapping out of the bar in heels (and with the accompanying wolf whistles) that she had finally gotten used to.

the sticky night hit her full-force as she stepped outside making her wish that the few days of New York summer would just disappear already. the walk to her flat wasn’t a long one, though the lurking strangers in the night shadows made it seem so. she was almost accustomed to them by now, but something about the way they looked at her made her think, crazily, that they could see through her; that they could hear her story as if she was screaming it from the top of the wrecked building she slept in every night.

she slept there, but it wasn’t home. there was only one place that was home and she could never go there again. like a cliché, she’d left for New York and didn’t look back. she didn’t want to think about what she’d see if she did.

finally reaching the building, she climbed to the very top floor and walked down the long hall to the smallest apartment available. she unlocked all six locks, kicked the door twice, and then punched it open. after securing the place in the same way, she threw her small purse on coffee table before walking down the three step hallway and into the bedroom.

looking out the window as she unstrapped her shoes with ease, she saw that the annoying neon pink sign was blinking on and off again tonight. barefoot, she walked over and pulled the ragged old quilt she used for blinds down; she didn’t want to look at the stars tonight anyway.

she peeled off her outfit as she made her way to the closet-sized bathroom and, while the water warmed for her shower, looked at herself in the mirror.

she took a washcloth, dipped it in rubbing alcohol, and ran it over her stomach, her left thigh, and her breasts. the cover-up came off easily.

scars.

she traced them with her finger; up her thigh and to her hip. from her navel to her chest. like a spider web, like a secret, they covered her.

she pushed her long, brunette, ragged curls out of her face and stepped into shower letting the lukewarm water run over her.

she wanted to write a love story, perhaps one to mask the one she’d lost.

laying in bed in a t-shirt three sizes too big for her (it still smelled like him, she was sure of it), she allowed the thoughts, you know, those thoughts, to consume her.

‘come on, baby, we’ll be fine.’ he slurred as he brought her into his arms and held her tight. he leaned in and kissed her.

she smiled up at him – graduation had come so fast. someone yelled from behind them, the bonfire still going strong even if they were all too drunk to know a log from their leg by now.

‘are you sure you’re okay?’ she grinned stupidly at him.

‘more than,’ he kissed her forehead and slung and arm around her as he led her to his truck. something told her not to get in, to stop him. to walk the mile down the back road and to her house, but she was eighteen, this was her graduation night, she trusted him with all her heart, and together, she swore they were invincible.

the truck was silent, save the scratchy radio that blared country music. she was tired. ‘i can’t believe it’s over,” she whispered.

‘me neither, baby,’ he replied, looking from the road to her face. ‘you know that i –’

she’d screamed then.

it was a horse – or so she thought. he swerved; he swerved even though his ’89 truck could have handled the collision with a simple barnyard animal.

it couldn’t, however, handle one with the big oak she’d first kissed him under.

head on. so much glass. so much blood. his. hers. together.

‘love,’ he’d said.

she wanted to write a love story, one that didn’t end like hers; one that ended like the ones she had written not six months ago for her english class.

one that didn’t end in New York, in a dingy apartment, with clothes that exposed more of her than she’d admit; she wanted to write a love story that ended like he’d promised it would – back in the small town she’d grown up in, in a small house with a wrap around porch and children that ran around kissing boys down the street under the big oak tree.

she wanted to write a love story.

[1.31.10/2.1.10]