Late Honesty

Hey y'all.  Its been a while since we had an honest talk.  And maybe that's because I've been scared to talk for a while.  And I still am.  I never intend for this to become some sort of online diary, I'm too private for that.  And frankly it's no one's business.  But I think I'm in need of some truths.  So tonight I'll share some of my truths with you in hopes of inspiring you to face your own.

I am all alone.  Before Thanksgiving, I got in a fight with one of the most important people in my life.  And when the dust from that battle settled, I lost him and two other people I care about.  At first, I was just confused.  Now I'm confused and furious.  I extended an apology and here we are, over a month later, and I've heard not a peep from any of them.  As angry as I am, and as many furious fights as I've staged in my head, its hard to accept that I lost the last three friends that I had.  It was probably my fault.  I don't even remember what we were fighting about.  But they don't seem to care that I'm gone, so why should I care that they left?  It sounds easy when you say it that way.  But lost love isn't all that can break your heart....

I fell in what I thought was love with a boy I didn't know when I was fifteen years old.  He walked past me with a ponytail and a guitar case and I haven't stopped thinking about him from that moment on.  I think we had a shot once upon a time, but we blew it.  He wasn't committed at all and I was so infatuated with him that I couldn't see reality.  He was all I could see and I didn't care what came next.  I don't know if he ever felt anything for me, and frankly I'm too scared to ask.  I don't want to admit to him that I let go of other relationships to pursue him.  I don't want to admit to him that I would still say yes to him in a heartbeat.  I don't want to admit that he was the first guy to break my heart and kill every trusting instinct in my body.  But I would take him back, in spite of all that, and that's what I'm the most ashamed of.

Someone I've cared for from a distance for a very long time has finally started to notice me.  And I have never been happier.  But I lost all my friends, and I can only annoy my relatives with the details so many times before I start to feel like a bother.  He's starting to feel familiar in a bad way though.  I'm afraid I'm giving him too much trust, too much time, too much thought.  But this is what I've wanted for so long, how am I supposed to stop now?  Every time my phone rings, I pray that it's him.  Every time it's not, my heart breaks a little more.  I'm terrified to reach out to him because I don't want to scare him away.  All people seem to do these days is leave, and I don't know if I could take that from him too.

I feel like I'm lost in this storm of fear and confusion and uncertainty.  If I had one thing to hold onto, maybe I'd be okay.  But I don't.  It's me all alone, spinning out of control and I don't know how to fix it.  Do I let them know how hurt I am? Or do I let it go? Do I call the first boy I ever loved and tell him everything he meant to me?  Or do I walk away?  Do I reach out first even though I'm scared?  Or wait for him to come to me?

I don't have the answers yet. Maybe I never will.  But knowing what I'm scared of helps.  It gives me control over something.  Even if I don't know what to do with that control.

So, late-night-bloggers, random people gracious enough to give this your time, or friends who read this without telling me, What are your truths?  What are you afraid of?  And what do you do?  I pray you're lucky enough to find answers more swiftly than I.

Beautiful, Terrible Distance

Sometimes all you really need is distance.
Distance is a beautiful, troubling thing.  Too much can distort things and make them seem more beautiful than they are.  Too little and all you see are the flaws.
But sometimes, you drift out and get it just right.  You can see everything for what it truly is.  You get the bigger picture.  You forget the tiny details that seemed momentous when they were staring you in the face.
I took some steps back recently.
And I still can't see things as clearly as I'd like.
But I can see more than I did in the black storm cloud I walked away from.

I can see that some friendships aren't meant to last a lifetime.
And sticks and stones are not the only thing that can break you.
I can see that there are some feelings that never go away.
That time twists and distorts them into new, strange entities you never asked for.
I can see that some people will never truly see how much I love them.
And that I am guilty of the same things.
I can see that, if I'm patient, God is always going to answer my prayers.
And the answer isn't always what I want to hear.
I can see how healthy I am emotionally, and mentally.
And how bad off I was for a while there.
I can see that there are people in my life that I don't deserve and I take them for granted.
And that some people who didn't deserve me where taking me for granted as well.

I can't see it all.  I don't know where my heart is.  I don't know how my life is going to change in the coming months, or how I'll handle it.  I don't know exactly who I am.

But I know I'm worth more than the selfish people I used to associate with.  I know writing is all I'm ever going to want to do with my life.  I know that as hard as school is for me, its helping me.  I know that I am never alone, that God is always with me.  I know that life will always be a crazy ride.  All we get to choose is weather we hold on, or let go.

Seasons Greetings

Merry Christmas loyal readers.
It's the season of light and laughter down here in the south.  It's a season of parties and weddings and shopping.  It's the season for giving, for togetherness, and love.

But around here, it's a season of sadness, and loneliness too.

Its the time of year where mourning and grief show up at the train station with bags full of memories. They unload and take their coats off to stay a while.  And even when you beg them not to, they drag out the photo album and show you everything you've lost.

Some of the pictures make you laugh until you cry.  And some make you cry until you laugh.  And some just prick holes in your lungs with pins of anguish and suck the air from your chest.

There's so much to be grateful for, and you look around at everything you have and you realize just how lucky you are to be living your life.  But the empty chairs where loved ones used to sit, and the empty inbox waiting for Christmas wishes from friends remind us with a bitter sting that nothing will ever be how it was again.  And all that reminder does is hurt.

You never know who's losing their mind in your life.  Most of us are good at keeping it quiet.  So in the spirit of giving, I'll give you some advice. Weather your living it up or trying not to give up, take a moment to remember those that you've lost and those who have lost, and send up prayers of mercy for their pain.

Letters of Fear

I've always thought I was strong and cool and brilliant.
It turns out, I'm afraid.
I'm terrified of so many things.
But the one thing that I'm scared of, that ruins everything, is telling people how I feel.
Because I'm afraid, I won't do it to their face, but this is my safe zone.  And here comes danger.

To whom it may concern,

I didn't write that message all those months ago.  The one that said I was done with you and all my feelings relating to you.  I wasn't done.  I'll never be done.   I don't know how to be done with you.  I didn't want to write it and I didn't want to send it.  But the people around me convinced me that I had to.  That in order for my life to go on, I had to let you go.  And they were right for a while.  Or they convinced me they were.  It didn't feel right when I was crying in the living room at 2 A.M. and it doesn't feel right now.  So I'm sorry, that I let that happen.  I'm sorry I said goodbye when I didn't want to because I think I lost my very last shot.  Now you're looking for something new and I think it could be me.  But I doubt you'll even look my way because of what I said.

To whom it may concern,

I don't know what to do.  I thought things were going well until you dropped off the face of the earth.  It all came together and fell apart within a week.  You were there and everything was brilliance and happiness and then you were gone.  I could feel it the minute it happened.  I felt things change.  Maybe it was the freezing temperature outside.  Or maybe nature got in the way.  But something happened and you're gone now.  I won't be the first to reach out.  I won't tell you I miss you.  But I've gotten as close to that as possible.  You fell into my life when I needed you most.  I needed someone who didn't make me feel crazy or weird.  I showed you things that no one even knows exist.  You've seen my work in the earliest, messiest, most fragile stages.  You should know it takes a lot for that to happen.  Where ever you are, come back.  My mind is restless and I need your ideas.

To whom it may concern,

I never should have reached out to you.  It was a moment of weakness and I hope you don't respond.  I should've trusted my instincts and kept you as far from me as possible.  All you'll do is absorb the details of my life like a sponge and then wring them out in places I never wanted them to be.  Follow your instincts and run from this conflict.  Just pass away into my past and don't try to make a comeback.  It was weakness on my part, but I'm not weak anymore.  And you aren't strong enough to handle this.

The Unfortunate Nature of Labels

I've always hated stereotypes.  I find it hard to find anything more degrading than shoving a label on someones forehead and then resigning them to that box for the rest of forever.  But what I didn't realize is how how much I've been trying to operate under stereotypes myself.

Until recently, I had a friend who was obsessed with labels.  I don't even know if he realized it.  I sure didn't.  Then one day I realized he only referred to me as "the blonde" "the dumb blonde" and "the country blonde".

And I realized something about stereotypes.

I'd always been looking for a box to fit in to.  But my imagination was too big for this and my attitude didn't quite fit in that and my style was just not the right size for those.  I was never 'popular' by typical standards.  But I had friends in every clique.  As a kid, it's hard to see the value in that.  You feel like you could belong anywhere but actually belong nowhere at all.  But now, looking back, and knowing the kind of person I am, I wonder why I ever wanted to fit into a stereotype at all.

How boring is it to be one thing?  To never strive to be more?  To never push yourself of test your boundaries?  To never leave your comfort zone?
Why would you want to be one thing when you could be twelve?  It makes identity complicated, but life is complex.  And if life is simple, are you really living it at all?

I would rather have a life full of crazy, uncomfortable, rewarding, exciting, experiences than to say I lived a calm life.  Life, humanity itself is infinitely complex.  So why would you settle for being anything less than that?  We only get one chance at this life, so why not make the most of it and become every inch of who we can be?

I've always wanted to be Cinderella.  But now, I want so much more.  I still want to be Cinderella, and get a pretty dress, and win over the prince.  But I want to fight the dragon in Sleeping Beauty too.  And I want to be a warrior, and a fighter, and a peacemaker, and an artist, and a friend, and a mentor.  I want to find every instinct in my body and at least attempt to use it.

Yeah I have a southern accent, and yeah I have blonde hair.  But I'm smart and I'm not ashamed of it. I love football and superheros and action and war movies.  But I also love gushy, romantic movies and fantasy books and glitter.
I don't have to pick any one thing.  No one does.  Because who would want just one label when you could have a collection of them?

Who would want to be simple enough to describe in one word?  I certainly do not.

Sunday Coffee

He  came in soft and slow,

settling in before she even knew he had come.

He was warm, like Sunday morning coffee.

She wasn't sure what to do,

but the answer came in easy like a breeze.

And before she knew where she was,

or how she had gotten there,

she was in love.

Poison Memory

Every time you're there, the memories come.
They sit at the tip of my tongue.
All the horrors I've seen.
The past I try to hide.
They sit and wait, like a drop of poison, to fall to your ear.
But every time you take a breath, your eyes light up, and I can't do it.
You talk about your passions and bring mine to life.
You drive the madness back inside.
You keep it at bay one day at a time.
I crave your calming presence.
I pray for one more day of your easy smile.
For one more chance to hear you laugh,
And you save me every day.

Rosy Steps

She went from walking across plains of barren ash, to fields of roses in a week.
They sprung up, all around her feet, all at once, with no warning.
At first, it was a small patch.
But it followed her as she walked.
With each step she took, they sprung up.
Every place her foot kissed the earth, another row would grow, spreading like a brilliant fire across the barren land.
They made her feel like running.
Like filling her lungs with clean air and escaping the dusty cloud she lived in.
And so she ran.
The flowers followed her, ever as loyal as they were stunning.
The blood in her veins was racing.
Her heart was beating.
Before she knew it, all she could see was color and she forgot what blandness felt like.

Princess of the Self Built Tower

When you let them go, all you can see is the anger.
All you know is the pain and the sting of the fight.
And when you walk away, you don't care where the pieces land, you just pray they won't land too close to home.

But when the dust settles, and you can see clearly, things are never that easy.
Time softens the worst of all situations.
You remember less fights and more smiles.
You forget the tears and remember the laughter.
And all the sudden you're standing in a cold, empty castle that you built yourself with the debris.

One day, you look up and you realize no one locked you in that tower but yourself.
You threw stones at every prince and pauper that tried to save you.
And eventually, no one cares enough to save you anymore, so you have to save yourself.

Searching for Alignment

We have the misconception that we enter this world whole and leave it broken.  

I think it is, in fact, the other way around.  

From the moment you are born, you are empty.  

No knowledge, no relationships, no independence, no freedom.  

As you grow and learn, you become filled.  

Every relationship your build, fills you more.  

Even when they end, they don't break you completely, they just break off a portion.  

Eventually, someone will come along who has a broken edge that aligns with yours.  

They may fit for a season, and then the ground may crack and shift and in a second, someone who once completed you, in no way fits your edges anymore.  

We search all our lives, not for someone who can put us back together, but for someone who's brokenness aligns with our own in such a way that we feel more whole than we ever could without them. 

Few Words for a Hard Day

Life is never easy.
Just when you find the top, you begin to fall.
But nothing is ever all bad, there is always hope.
You just have to look.
In heartache, there might be one moment of laughter before the tears return.
In betrayal, there are always the memories.
Though, they do taste bittersweet with recollection.
In every darkness, there is light.
Sometimes you just have to look harder than others.
There is a poetic-ism about the tragedy, if you can find the right words.
Maybe I cannot.
Maybe I can only string together a faint outline of those acute moments of bliss in the torrent of pain.
Maybe I cannot accurately represent them.
But I can feel them.
I can feel them like the sun on my face and the wind in my hair.
I can touch their softness, their authenticity, like the petals of a flower.
Maybe I can't tell you what they're like.
Maybe I can do them no justice.
But I can live them and that's really all I want.

Infinite Sunlight

Days come that make it hard to breathe.
They fall interspersed between the moments of light and make you forget that light exists at all.

But there of moments of incredible brilliance too.

Moments where one breath seems to last forever.
Moments where the sunlight is infinite.
Moments when this fragile life seems invincible.
Moments when the blue sky seems to stretch out into eternity and clouds cease to exist all together.
Moments when your ribs hurt from laughter and all you pray for is this feeling of hope to last for the rest of time.
Moments when nothing can touch us as we soar above the clouds in balloons made of dreams.

These moments are the ones to live for.

The people you make these moments with are the ones to live with.

War Alone

She never did like peace much.  It was a nice reprieve but the real beauty was in the chaos.
When her pulse raced beneath her skin.
When her hair stood on end.
When her breaths came in quick succession.
When her vision sharpened and her hands were quick.
That was the moment she lived for.  In that moment, she felt quite acutely the reality of life and the pang of existence.  It was then that she was at her finest; when every instinct kicked in and instead of a clumsy mess, she was an instrument of pain and vengeance.

She felt the tingle in her spine and the knot in her stomach and let out a sharp, dark laugh.  They had made a terrible mistake, bringing this to her.  They would pay with their lives.

From every angle, came arrows, flying through the air, aimed for critical points.  They hardly mattered, she was a machine.  She was created for this.  Let them come.
But she wasn't fighting enemies, she realized as the fog of battle dispersed.  These were friends.  These were trusted faces.  The realization caught like a lump in her throat.  She stumbled, thrown by betrayal and a rouge arrow slit her arm open.

Letting out a pained, disturbing cry, she fought harder.  But her mind was whirling and her hands were sloppy.  For every two attacks she fended off, one caught her by surprise, nicking her somewhere, somehow.

The tears came as she realized how alone she was.  Rage, hurt, and anger buoyed her strength and she tore through their defenses.  Even if she won, she wouldn't have really won at all.  She wouldn't exit this one unscathed.  She was fighting this war alone.

Willingly Blinded

I am neither a pessimist nor an optimist.
My mood changes like the wind; it is never fixed.
But on days like today, when sadness and light mingle in equal parts of my soul, I can see it all.
I see the darkness and the hardness of the world.
But I can also see where the light seeps in.

Sometimes the light hits the right angle and shimmers in a rainbow of color over what we see.
It illuminates the right points, contours the right edges and brings focus to the right angles.
It makes the ugly a bit more beautiful.
It gives harshness the appearance of softness and makes everything more gentle.
It shines on the shadows and makes them less dense.
It shows a path of hope though an otherwise dismal forest of despair.

When the light shines in the dark, it's hard to focus on anything else.
It's hard to lose yourself in the blackness.
It's hard to look anywhere other than directly at the hope that blinds your eyes.
And maybe that's for the best.
Because in total darkness, there is no up or down.
There is no order or reason; there is only chaos and frantic fear.
I'd much rather blind myself on light than let the darkness blind me.

Paths

I am caught, flitting between two roads with no foresight of where they will lead.

I know one is dangerous.  

Full of peril and heartache but undoubtedly full of feeling.

The other is safe, bright, hopeful. 

The moment I decide to slip into trouble, the light shows up.

It calls to me with reason and stability, never wavering an inch.

But the itch for excitement nags at me, tempting me to stray for a moment.

The mystery is alluring but the light is warm.

My mind turns in unending circles trying to decipher right from wrong as they swirl together.

I ask but no one has an answer.

Their words are as twisted as my feelings, going back and forth; reaching no real end.

I am stuck and I am lost.

I fear tumbling down some unwanted path due to dizziness.

And sick to my stomach with incessant turning, I begin to fall.

Walking Into Fire

I am begging you to get away from the fire but you just keep walking farther away from me, closer to eminent destruction.  I can scream my throat raw but you won't listen.  You aren't willing to help yourself and there's nothing I can do from here. I just watch with teary eyes and cry for you to stop.

I've run into the fire too many times to save people who wanted to burn.  They never thanked me, they never wanted my help.  I was the one burned beyond recognition time and time again.  I have too much fear, too much pride, too much self-preservation to run in after you.  It's a shame, because you're the one I'm most scared to lose.

But you just keep going.  I try and reason with you and you counter my every move.  Always another reason why you're destined to die this way.  Why you can't be saved.  Why there's no hope.

It's infuriating.  Maddening.  Sickening.  And it makes me want to stop trying to help you.  If you could only see how dangerous this is.  If you could only hear how ridiculous you sound.  It seems so simple, stop and turn around, but you swear it's more than that.  Still, you don't even try.  You let the flames lick your shoes and bite your nose and I know there's not much time left.

It's all I can do to save myself.  I can do nothing for you.  You've resigned yourself to this fate, this destiny that was never intended for you.

I'm sorry I couldn't pull you out.  I'm sorry I'm too selfish to save you.  But in all fairness, you never tried to save yourself, and if you didn't want it, could any power on earth ever really change your mind?

Maybe she could have.  Maybe you just didn't want me to be the one to save you.  But I was the only one here.  Yet she was all you thought of as the flames took control.

Tranquility of Feeling

She stood and gazed at the ocean with its crashing waves and rolling white caps.
What a beautiful scene.
What beautiful, thought provoking, inspiring place to be.
They seemed, to her, a metaphor for feeling.
Beautiful when gazed upon, and gently stirring in the shallows.
But dangerous and crushing in depth.
If you didn't get caught in the tumult, she supposed, and lived to make it out even father where depth became impossible to fathom, it might be beautiful again.
She surmised that underneath the torrent, if one could only hold their breath long enough, they might submerge to find the tranquility underneath the danger.

A Floating Ribbon

Wind whipped and picked her up, tossing her through the air.  

She lived for the feeling of being whisked through the wind.

She danced amid the clouds and twirled like a fallen leaf.

Every once in a while she would come down low enough to be caught by an innocent passer by.

They might tie her to their wrist and she would revel in the heat of their skin against her.

But the silken ribbon was slick and no amount of knots could keep her tied up for too long.

After minutes, days, weeks even, she would slip out and catch a breeze that shot her towards the sun.

She lived both among the living and among the clouds, never settling for long with one or the other.

Landing

He was like Ferdinand, frightful on the eyes and easy on the heart.

I didn't expect to feel so safe under his shadow.

But his kind words and his gentle hands brought me out of my cocoon of doubt and showed me hope.

He wasn't too soft, he didn't treat me like I was breakable.

And in that way, he helped me realize I wasn't as fragile as I thought.

He messed with my mind, my life, my hair.

He had a little touch in every aspect of my life.

My nose burned with the scent of his cologne, but the smell was pleasant.

It smelt like home.

I realized I felt safe with him beside me, teasing me, making me smile.

He knew when to be harsh, and honest.

But he knew when to be kind and quiet and give my heavy heart a reprieve.

It was like in one moment, in the breath of a second, as midnight slid into morning, I had found a rhythm and a home.

I was tired from constant flight, never stopping, and in the moonlight he looked to be the perfect place to land.

A Woman of Words

I am a woman of words.
I live to place one word after another.
I strive to make people feel, to make people connect, to make them feel like they aren't alone.

Words are all I care for.
They take up a massive space in my heart.
They make my world turn.

I am never at a loss for words.

I had an alarming realization tonight.

I will never know what to say to you.
I will never know if it is alright to speak.
I will never know what you want to hear.
I will never know when my voice is appropriate.
I will never know the right words for you.

For a woman living for words, you put me at a loss.
And nothing in my life is more terrifying than the thought of you and my precious words not being able to exist in the same space.

Writing Prompt

It was time.  She fought against it for to long.  She had been selfish for too long.  This was her one chance to help.  Her one shot at salvation for her family and everyone else.  Knotting her hair at the base of her neck, she painted on makeup like a war mask.  She slid thin arms into a burgundy jacket and zipped up her suit of armor.  The town was eerily silent as she trudged through the empty streets.  Her family would worry when they found her missing but surely they would thank her when they found out what she was doing.  Tomorrow, people would be passing the news along as gossip in the streets.  It would reach her sister's ear by mid morning and she would inevitably rush home to deposit the gems of information on their mother's ears.  And all the worry would subside.

She tried to convince herself of that scenario as the gleaming mansion came into view.  He was waiting in the window, watching her walk in the moonlight.  All the town thought him mysteriously handsome.  She thought him grotesque.  His square jaw and eternally squinting eyes screamed danger to her.

But here she was, walking up the steps to his home to offer him a compromise.  This had to save them.  That had been his ultimatum hadn't it?  He would protect the town with his army of humanoid soldiers if she trained him.  She knew, of course, there was more to his request then the simple desire to learn.  They way he leered at her made her skin crawl.  But she bolstered her courage and with a deep breath, gave the door one solid thump.  He had no idea how soon his lessons would start.

When the door swung inward to a dimly lit parlor with no one in sight, she was momentarily confused.  Taking a tentative step forward, she reached with her mind for his being; the power coveted by so many.

She couldn't sense him.  She couldn't sense anyone.  The moment she was inside, the door swung shut behind her.  So the myths were true.  His mansion was haunted, or magic, or rigged to look that way at least.

He was behind her, uncomfortably close before she could sense him.  That bothered her.  Before she showed surprise, she turned the tables, grabbing onto his consciousness and twisting hard.  His knees buckled and his tall countenance hit the stone floor.
"What?  Not ready for your first lesson?" she sneered.  He moaned on the floor and writhed in imaginary pain.
"Fight!  Fight back!"  She yelled, inching closer to him with every agonizing second.  He groaned loudly and tried to sit up but she sent a fire down his spine.  No stench of burned cloth floated up.  No smoke of burned skin.  But the man screamed with the pain of a thousand fires.  The familiar twisting in her chest began as she looked down at the tortured soul.

She removed the pain with a breath and leaving him sweating and panting, she walked away.

"Welcome home little tormentor."  He choked.
The comment caught her off guard and made her grimace.  She spit towards his face and stormed up the massive stairwell.

Once on the second floor, she realized she was lost.  Swearing under her breath she scanned the doorways for a sign of her new prison.

"Last door on the left."  a smooth, condescending voice breathed from a few feet away.  He wasn't too close as he had been many times before, and she could hear a touch of fear in his voice.  Ignoring him, she made her way slowly down the hall, coming to a stop at her new door.  It was closed, like all the secret horrors hidden away inside were too distasteful for prying eyes.  Her hand shook as she clasped the doorknob and turned.

This is Me Asking

All I ever wanted was for you to say we we were the same. To say we fit like puzzle pieces. To say we were destiny spun up in a whirlwind of hope and forever. 

All I ever hoped was for you to see me through the same haze of love and adoration through which I saw you. 

We fell apart a thousand times, and I always seemed to be left alone, picking up the broken pieces that sliced open my hands and my heart. 

Now, all the words I wanted reserved for my reverent ears only, have been spilled out to the world. I feel like I'm hanging on a string, perilously close to falling. Again. 

I was right though, about you. All your silence, all your darkness, all the issues running through you like blood in your veins. I was right. 

You sent an open invitation to over a thousand people. An invitation calling them to ask. To say. To tell. To hold you accountable for their confusion. And my fingers are itching to tear you apart. To beg for resolution. To ask for another chance. To demand you explain what you ever felt, if anything, for me. My heart is tearing at the seams, trying to pull itself from the hollow spot in my chest and race to you. But my brain is scrambling backwards, reeling, grappling for control. 

My biggest question, is how do I reconcile this tearing in my chest and aching in my head? How do I ask you all the things I want to know? How do I begin to explain my twisting, ever changing confusion that melds with my affection? 

I don't even know what to ask. I've waited so long for an open door, for a chance to get inside your heart and figure out what you were thinking. Now that it's here, I'm not sure I want to know. The hopeless romantic in me sings that this is fate, and your way of calling me home to your arms. The cynic in me is screaming it's a trap. 

My worst nightmare is that you'll say you never cared. That I was fun to play with but you've graduated to bigger, better toys. My worst nightmare is you not wanting me when all I want is you. 

I saw your darkness before you said it was there. I was willing to help you fight it off, for I have darkness of my own that I'm learning to tame. I say "I was" but I mean "I am". 

I am willing. I am still here. I am always going to want you. I am waiting for you to tell me you want me. I am waiting to hear that you saw this and knew I was speaking of you. I am here, ready, willing  and wanting to be yours. But you have to let me in.

You speak of being closed off, of having trust issues, but you can trust me. You can always trust me. Even if you don't want to. Because there will always be a space for you in my universe. It might orbit farther away and then come home to slam in my chest, but it will never disappear, it will never be filled. 

I'm floating out here, dangling above the world from a worn and weary thread. 

Please tell me it's safe to come down. 

Please tell me I'll find solid ground.

The Boy on The Bus

Across the bus, a young boy caught his eye.  His blue eyes were rimmed with red.  His curly hair sat is a messy mop on top on his head.  He looked utterly hopelessly alone.

He knew that look.

The boy reminded him of the summer when he turned twelve.

He had sat on a bus, much like this one.  Shipped to his distant aunt's home after that wretched accident.  That awful day when reality pulled the rug out from under him and whisked his parents away forever.  He remembered crying for days at a time.  He remembered sitting in the ugly bus seat with burning eyes begging his heart not to break in such a public place.  That was the most he could do back then, beg the feelings not to overwhelm him and curse them when they disobeyed.  His cousins didn't understand why he was always angry.  No one did really.  He was sick of their pitying looks and their meaningless condolences.  It was all words.  Nothing could change what had happened to him.  No amount of sorry was going to fix it.

He had taught himself not to cry that summer.  He managed to take all the rage, confusion, and pain and twist it into his own tool.  The feelings fueled his art, made him successful.  But he'd give it all up if it meant never feeling that pain at all.

He wished he could tell the boy it would be alright, whatever it was that he was fighting to push down.  He wished he could reach across the seat and console him.  But how would that look?

Instead, he gave the tiny girl with the blonde, ringlet curls nestled under his arm an extra dollar and told her to buy some candy to share with the little boy.  His daughter obeyed immediately, excited at the prospective new friend.  When his wife gave him a questioning glance, he sighed and told her it was nothing.

When the girl plopped down next to the boy, he seemed wary.  But her constant chatter was infectious and soon he was easing into conversation.

If only someone had done that for him, the man thought maybe he wouldn't have spent so long feeling alone.

Made of Lace

She had a habit of hiding behind a curtain of golden waves of hair.
It was safe behind the curtain, no one could see her.
No one could see the pale blue of her eyes or try to read the stories stitched on to her heart.

Her voice was gentle, like she was afraid her voice could shatter the air around her.
Her hands were soft;afraid of touching something too hard.
Afraid of breaking someone the way she had been broken.
Afraid of scaring someone off.

Everything about her was fragile, delicate, soft.
Her heart.
Her dreams.
Her words.
Her hopes.
Her mind.

She was like ancient lace; beautiful, intricate, subject to deteriorate under too much friction.

She needed someone who could put her behind glass and keep her safe, but all her life she longed for someone who could unravel all her threads only to weave her into some new material more suited to the roughness of the world.

It Wasn't a Movie

I always wanted a romance worthy of a Nicholas Sparks novel, or a classic movie.
I always wanted Hollywood.
And I thought I got it.

I thought I finally got to be that girl in the classic.
The cliched, predictable love story.
I thought I was the young innocent who fell for the older, guarded, misunderstood.
I thought I was 16 and in love with a dangerous, mysterious guy that I would end up fixing and finding forever with.

It was perfect.
It was love at first sight.
It fell beautifully in line with every great romance story.
It rose and fell in the right ways at the right moments.
Tragedy struck right on cue, when everything was perfect.

I waited four years for the big resolution.
For the happy ending.
For my own happily ever after.

In the end, I got faked out.
Reality flew on set, wrecked the studio, tore my script, crashed the cameras, and blew out the lights.
And I was left with a suitcase full of broken hearts and shattered plans in the harsh sunlight of life.
Life showed me that it wasn't love, it was adoration and infatuation.
And it hurt like hell for a long time until I learned to see it as a lesson and not a tragedy.

So maybe I didn't get to be Belle in The Beauty and The Beast.
I wasn't Molly Ringwald, he wasn't Judd Nelson and we weren't living in The Breakfast Club.
But I also don't have to carry the weight of a "lost love" with me for the rest of my life.

I don't think I'll ever be able to forget his name.
I don't think I'll ever forget how happy I was.
I don't think I'll ever forget how much I cried.
I don't think I'll forget any of it.

But I know what I deserve now, and what I want, and what love doesn't feel like.

Choosing to Write

I think I've vented on this subject before, so if this seems familiar, forgive me.

I don't understand why people continue to tell me to find a "back up career".  And I cannot figure out for the life of me why they always suggest nursing as that back up.  News flash: I hate needles.  And blood.  And pretty much everything dealing with the human body.  And other humans.  And science. Needless to say, nursing is nowhere in my future.  Ever.

The selfish part of me wants to scream "I've written a book people! A real book!  One that is on my shelf that has my name on the cover and my picture on the back and words in the middle that I came up with!"
But I don't want to be that person so I smile and nod and say "maybe" to ever stupid suggestion I hear.

No I don't want to teach.  I'm not called to teach.  I don't have the patience for it or the desire to do it.
Yes, I'm going to major in English.  Yes I think it is a career, and yes I think it's a good idea.

Honestly though, it's no ones business, and I don't get why everyone thinks I need their opinion.

I have prayed over the decision to pursue writing as a career more than anyone knows.  I have had anxiety about how I'm ever going to make a living.  But what I know for sure it that writing brings me peace.  The idea of being a writer, in any capacity, brings me joy.  The idea that I get to do what I love for the rest of my life is exhilarating.

It's not easy.  It's incredibly difficult to find a thread of inspiration and unravel it completely only to spin it back up into one contiguous story that other people want to read.  I'm not just sitting around day dreaming, I'm researching so my facts are right.  I'm sketching and googling and Pinteresting and erasing and rewriting.  I'm waking up at 2 am because some thought that HAS to make it into my manuscript hits me in the head.  I stay up until 3 am because once I grab hold of some trail, I want to write it out as far as possible so I don't lose it.  I waste my entire check on spiral notebooks because I've filled all twenty piled on my desk.  I write until my hands cramp up because my computer is on the fritz and I have six manuscripts that have to be finished anyway.

So to those people who think writing isn't a career: I don't care.  Every time I look back at my life, all these tiny pieces that never made sense before finally fit together and they all come out to one thing; me writing.  When I look at the progress I've made, the things I've accomplished, I know that it is 100% God.  He is behind everything that I do, and I think if I was following the wrong rabbit whole, I wouldn't be nearly this successful.

No one has to like my choices except for me and my savior.  No one gets to determine if I'm where I'm supposed to be but me and Him.  As long as God is guiding me, no one can tell me I'm on the wrong path.

Cobwebs in The Corner

Thin spindles of silk hang in the corners.
Dust clings to them, ignored for years, decades even.
Dim light filters through grimy, broken windows littering the floor with broken shards of light.

Frost hangs in the corners and winter makes it's slow approach.
Warm wind fades to cool breezes that fall to stinging gusts of ice.

A man huddles in the corner, half frozen.  Close to death.  Transfixed by the cobwebs in the corner.

He mutters the same few sentences over, and over, and over once more.
Some would call him crazy.  Homeless.  Sick.  Deranged.
His frail ears wouldn't pick up the sound anyway.

Stronger than steel.  Smaller than thread.  Holding together till the end.
Stronger than steel.  Smaller than thread.  Holding together till the end.

He chants until his voice goes raw.
Until the effort of speaking is too much.
Soon, he is silent, but the words echo in his head.

The cobwebs in the corner catch the dusty light as the door creaks open.
Boots thunder on the soil floor.  Men rush in, hunch over him, call to one another, talk to him.
He stays silent, holding onto life like a spider's web; by a thin, stretching thread.



It is warm when he wakes up.  The light is brighter;whiter than the cottage's ever was before.  Nurses bustle back and forth.  He's too weak to say a word.

Sleep.  Sleep.  Sleep.  Then strength.  Ounce by ounce, it returns to his bones.  His muscles.  His heart.  His soul.

Much later, a woman reaches for the corner of his room, swatting at a tiny, abandoned web.

"No."  He croaks.  The sound startles her and she stops.
"I don't mind them.  They kept me safe."
She eyes him with confusion but backs away from the webs.

"They teach us.  Stronger than steel, smaller than thread, holding together till the end."  His voice is a whisper as she inches to his bedside.

"Just when you think it can bear no more, it proves you wrong, even when it's been forgotten."  He whispers as he falls asleep.

The woman shuffles out, careful not to disturb the man or his cobwebs.

You Were Poison

I didn't want to let you go.  You have to know that.  You have to realize that leaving you was one of the hardest things to do.  You were my last string, my last anchor holding me to my past.  The part of my heart that longs for the familiar screamed at me to keep you close.  But reality told me different.  You are a toxin that I had to be rid of.  Had I stayed in your presence, I surely would have died.

It's different up here.  Floating above the things I know.  Landing for a moment anywhere I please, but never growing my roots deep enough to stay.  It feels a touch like freedom.  It feels a touch lonely.  But mostly, it feels like breath is finally coming back into my lungs.

I had no idea how long you were holding me under water; denying me air.  Denying me life.  You sat the weight of betrayal on my chest and expected me to carry on like nothing had changed.  I failed you there, but I don't mind.  I couldn't live that way anymore.  That's why I left.

I want to be vengeful and hope that me pulling away is killing you half as much as you killed me.  But I know better.  You won't feel the sting until you've made some drastic mistake.  You won't realize I'm gone until you need something and I'm not there to give it.  But right now, in this moment, I doubt you even know I'm gone.

You were poison.  Sucking life from someone else just so you can live yourself.  Call me selfish, whatever you please, but I'd like to live for me for a while.

The Clouds of People

I've always been fascinated by clouds.

They way they float together, becoming one and splitting apart.

Changing each other and creating new forms.

It has occurred to me that people are much the same.

We come together, impacting and changing the lives of each person we come in contact with.

Sometimes we split and become two different things.

Sometimes we softly drift apart.

And sometimes we drift together again after a long time.

It is in that reunion that storms are born.

Thunderstorms of emotion,

hurricanes of repressed feelings,

beautiful lightning storms of something new and brilliant.

We drift and we collide and we tear ourselves apart, each of us hoping to find a storm we want to live inside of forever.

The Things You Don't Know

I spent the first week of July at my favorite place on earth. Pine Springs Baptist Camp. A place that changes lives. A place the ignites the fire of Christ in icy hearts. A place full of miracles. But something one of the girls in my dorm said got me thinking about how we portray our selves and what others see. She made a comment about me being "preppy" and "happy" and "giggly" all of the time. I was immediately defensive. She doesn't know me. She doesn't know my struggles. She doesn't know my heart or my life. So I thought I'd take a moment to share my secrets, the parts of me that I cover up with smiles and giggles. 
This girl, no offense to her, but she has no idea who I am. And honestly, you don't either. So here I am. Here are the ugly truths that hide deep in my soul that no one knows. 

You don't know that one year and ten months ago my best friend in this whole world died unexpectedly and I'm never going to stop hurting. 
You don't know that my heart physically aches every single day. 
You don't know that it's been five years since I've had a best friend.  
You don't know that in the course of two years I lost 6 friends and I still don't understand why. 
You don't know I have severe trust issues. That I ice out anyone who gets remotely close to me because I'm so freaking terrified of getting hurt again. 
You don't know that I have severe anxiety when I step foot outside the house. 
You don't know I've had to develop my own methods to stop myself from having a panic attack as I walk across campus. 
You don't know that I cry almost every single night before I finally run out of tears and pass out, exhausted on my pillows. 
You don't know that all my pillow cases are stained with mascara from my late night sobbing. 
You don't know that I've been single for fours years because someone took my heart and ran it over with a lawn mower when I was 16. 
You don't know that he's still my weakness, after everything he did to me, I've let him break my heart three times and I still miss him. 
People call me a flirt but they doesn't realize that I prefer the company of guys because they don't snicker about me behind my back or make me feel ugly or fat. 
No one in my entire life has heard this all as blatantly as I'm writing it right now. You don't know how proud I am of myself for being able to post this and not be self conscious. 


There are dozens more examples of demons I had behind my smile. But there's a lot of good too. I like looking up, just walking and looking up and feeling so infinitely small in this massive universe. I push past my insecurities because I want to be that happy person with a constant smile. I don't want my issues to win out. I want to control them, not for them to control me. I'm that girl who makes straight A's but takes an extra minute to get the joke you just told. 


Anyway, this girl doesn't know me. She doesn't know any of this. No one does. Well, you do now I guess. And that's insane. Because I don't speak this candidly to people. 

So if you've made it to the end of this post, I guess what I want to say is first of all, thank you for taking a spare moment to read it. And second, you never really know people. Don't assume. Don't call names. Just be a descent human being and be kind. People are always fighting battles you know nothing about. 


With love,
 M. A. Trappe 

Sunshine and Light Bulbs

He was sunshine in the purest form.

All smiles and glowing and brightness pouring from every inch of his skin.

He was radiant.

Glorious.

Warm and inviting like a cloudless day on the water.

Every time she looked at him, she was blinded by his incandescence.

She couldn't stare directly into his face, not the way the knots in her stomach begged her to.

Instead, she glanced around the edges, where it was just bright enough for her to warm up a bit.

She thought she was good at faking it, her own light.

He set a good example that she tried her hardest to emulate.

In her mind, she was just a star, a little farther away, and only a little less bright.

But he could see through her glare.

He did what she couldn't and looked at her dead on.

And to him, she was a light bulb.

When she was on, you could hardly look at her for the brilliance.

But when she was off, all you could see was fragile glass and wires.

He knew if she was handled too roughly, she'd break apart and the glow would die forever.

She wanted so desperately to hide the glass.

But to him, she was beautiful when she was off; all glass and wires and exposed.

Her delicacy was what made her different.

In a world of rocks who despised the light entirely, and flowers who needed it to live, she could create her own.

But the wires made him fearful too, for he knew that if she kept it up too long, she just might burn herself out. 

Social Media Exile

About four days ago, I decided I was sick of the toxic ideals, vocabulary, and morals of pop culture and America in general.  I'm sick of seeing the words "bae" and "goals" and "selfie".  I'm sick of hearing about how "thigh gaps" are life goals for different people.  I'm sick of hearing about the Kardashians and Bruce/Caitlin and how make up can change your life.  I'm sick of hearing about how pastel hair is the new "thing".

I needed a break from main stream America and Pop Culture and trends and fads.  I needed to take a moment and come back to what I believe, what I know is right, and what is important to me.
So, I signed out of Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, Kik, and Twitter (all the social media platforms I use) and I turned off the notifications for all five.  Yes, you read that right.  I turned off the notifications.  And the result was shocking.

What did I find? you might ask.  Well, here it is.

Day 1 was torture.  I checked my phone every ten minutes, on the dot, like an addict going through withdrawals in desperate need for their drug of choice.  I couldn't focus, I couldn't sit still.  I was restless, I was bored, I was irritable.  It was terrifying.  Technology and Social Media have weaseled themselves into our lives, convincing us we need the newest, biggest, touch screen.  Or that we NEED to know who wore it best, or what tragic fashion mistake Kim Kardashian made or who the latest celebrities to get divorced are.  We need it like we need air in our lungs.  We HAVE to know what that cute guy from high school is up to or what that crazy girl turned out to be or we'll just die.
But guess what: I'm still living.  I'm right here sucking in oxygen like I have every other day of my life.  And I'm not dead.

Day 2 was a whole new world.  I checked my phone every few hours, but it wasn't nearly as heartbreaking to remember I logged out of everything.  I could focus on chores and laundry and doing the dishes.  I found things that needed to be done and GET THIS: I actually had a good time.

By day 3, my IPod was missing almost 24/7 and I didn't really care where it was.  I only picked up my phone the two times it rang.  I got to spend an entire day enjoying the REAL company of my family, not obsessed with the virtual and insignificant lives of people I will never ever meet.

Today is day 4 and the benefits are really hitting me hard.  Not only is it perfectly okay not being tied to Facebook, or Instagram, but my mood has improved.  I'm not looking at photo shopped or even real pictures of girls who are naturally thin and thinking "man I really need to work out" or looking at filtered versions of selfies that took seventy takes to get perfect and thinking "man I'm never going to be as pretty as her".  I'm not looking at other peoples stomachs and thinking "I wish mine was that small" or looking at other people's relationships and thinking "gosh I'm so alone".
I've stopped comparing myself to everyone else.  I can look in the mirror, or into my heart, and think "hey, God made me beautiful and smart and talented and funny and outgoing and I rock it."  I think "man I'm blessed to have this life."

Without the constant shove of media trying to tell me who I should act like or what I should look like or what "pretty" is, I can find myself and become confident in the things God gave me.

I guess the point I'm trying to make in all of this, is that we don't realize how attached we are to our Faceboook profiles, or how many likes we get on Instagram or how many Snapchat friends we have.  We don't see the negative effect that Social Media is having on our emotions and our mentalities.  It is only when we chose to take two steps back that the real world and the reality of the nature of mass media can hit us square in the chest.  And folks, that isn't a good feeling.  It's scary, and unnerving.  It's like someone's had a hold on your mind and your heart that you never even knew about.

So I challenge you to become a Social Media Exile, try for just a week.  Sign out of all Social Media platforms; Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, Twitter, Periscope, Vine, Tumblr.  Sign out, and don't sign back in for an entire week.  Fight through the urge to check your notifications, turn them off completely.  If someone really needs you, they'll call or text or email.  You'll be amazed at the results and the mindset you find yourself in.  If you don't believe me, just try it,

Rain and Proverbs and Noah Oh My!

Could there be any more rain in Texas?
I feel like all we've done this summer is drown in wave after wave of pouring rain.
First, it was just a little rain.  And then we got this whole Tropical Storm Bill thing going on.  I'm so sick of rain, I can't stand it anymore.  The sky changes in an instant from blue and gorgeous with fluffy, cotton ball clouds, to entirely dismal and grey, dumping tons of water all over creation.

Poor Noah.  If we're sick of rain, can you imagine forty days and forty nights of it?  Enough to flood the entire world?  I wouldn't have done well on his ark.
But every time I think there's no end to the rain in sight, I manage to see a rainbow.  Like God is promising me, it's going to stop eventually.  He always keeps his promises, and I guess that's what's keeping me sane in this downpour.  Noah had enough faith to build an ark.  He had enough faith to trust God when he said it was going to rain enough to cover the entire earth.  All of Noah's neighbors thought he was crazy to do what he was doing and to listen to God.  But he never slowed down.  He did as God lead him, no matter how crazy it sounded.

In the wake of all this rain, and thinking of Noah, I'm reminded of what my own Christian walk should look like.  If God leads me somewhere, or to do something, I should go, no questions asked.  Even if my family, or my friends, or my neighbors, call me crazy and think I've lost my mind.  God knows what's going on.  He knows the future and the past and the present, and he wants the best for us.  So even when things seem crazy, even when we have those moments where we're asking "God, how is this even going to work?" we should do as he asks.

So as I listen to the thunder, and watch rain coat my window, and hear my dog's nails clack as he paces the floor outside my room, I want to encourage all of you to think like Noah.  To be faithful, no matter the circumstance,  to trust God even when our human minds can't comprehend the process.

Proverbs 3:5-6 tell us "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thineown understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths."
We may not always understand what's happening, or what we feel He's leading us to, but if we trust him and put our faith in him, he will lead us.

Deafening Rain

The rain fell in deafening sheets as she stared out the window.  Such depressing weather.  How fitting.  It was like the sky was mimicking the turbulent emotions in her chest.

It was one of those days where she was dying to do something too tired to actually find pleasure in doing anything at all.  She had opened and closed Facebook six times.  Why she thought something life changing would have happened in the last ten minutes, she didn't know.  But she looked anyway.  Deep down, she was hoping the little green light would pop up next to his name.
Not that she would initiate a conversation.  It was just comforting to know they were doing the same thing when they were so far away from each other.  Well, comforting and simultaneously tremendously horrid.
With a sigh, she flopped back on her pillows and opened the little blue app again.  Nothing had changed.  All of her friends were either happily married, engaged, or pregnant.  People she used to know seemed like strangers.  His light was still off.  And she was still alone.

She signed off again and let the phone fall on her chest as she stared into the darkness.  She hadn't felt like turning the light on when she had closed the door behind her.  The cool darkness was comforting.  She felt like she blended in.  Like she belonged here, without light, without people.  That isn't fair.  she thought.  Why should I have to be alone?  Surrounded by people who have someone. 
That was the way her life seemed to go.  She was always just shy of being enough for someone.  People came together and fell apart all around her, but she never got the choice.  Someone might get close enough to brush her cheek, but they never stayed long enough for it to matter.

She tried to tell herself there was a purpose behind it.  That she was only going to be alone for a little while longer, and then her prince charming would come.  Maybe he got stuck in traffic.  But a month had turned into a year which somehow had flown into four.  Four years.  She'd had one date, a disaster.  She's been on the verge of something once or twice, but it fell through both times.  But it was enough to make it hurt.  It was enough to make her second guess herself.  It was enough to make her wonder if she was the problem.  Maybe she was too tall, too sarcastic.  Maybe she wasn't pretty enough, or smart enough, or funny enough.

But every negative thought shied away when she thought of him.  So maybe they hadn't been a "thing", and maybe they hadn't even been on the verge of a "thing", but they had something... right?  He hadn't shied away.  He had bowed up.  He fought back and made her laugh and made her feel like she mattered.  He gave her back years of confidence that had been stripped away.  So what happened?  He was there, inches from her one day, and the next he literally walked away without a word.

She liked to tell herself he had to, because goodbye would have hurt too much.  But her head knew better than her heart wanted to believe.  As she replayed their conversations over in her head, she pulled her knees up to her aching chest.  He would know what to say right now.  She thought as a tear slipped onto her jeans,  He always did.  And somehow, she let him get away.

The Life. The Guardian Angel. The Memory.

He was tall, well dressed, handsome.

He was witty, smart, funny.

He could talk to anyone, about anything, at any time.

 

She was tall...somewhat. She prayed she dressed appropriately.

She was witty as well, but awkward and nervous.

She hated strangers, and conversation, and especially hated conversation with strangers.

He came along and swept her up in his sarcastic, swaggering world.
Something in him was toxic to her walls, and they fell like silken curtains and gathered around her feet.  The destruction was a beautiful, glimmering, hopeful sight to see.  He put her insecurities down for a deep sleep, and banished her fears with a smile.  He made from this awkward slump of a girl, a gliding, beautiful, goddess, simply keen on being herself.

It was amazing, the transformation he set ablaze in her.  Insecurity faded to carelessness and then blazed in a flame of confidence.  Her heart shrank away in fear, and then grew and grew, parts melting that had previously been iced over.  In the mirror, she no longer saw tawny, tangled locks but strands of woven gold.  Suddenly, her laugh was signature, and unique, not embarrassing as before.

Every sideways grin, every quiet compliment, every silent look helped shatter her fears and blow them away.  He was a hurricane of life and renewal.  He washed away the ashen dust of her past and planted seeds of life in her chest.  Even with distance, he was a gentle sprinkle of faith when she needed it most.  And just like that, with a handful of moments gathered up and stuck in her back pocket, she was new.  She ran with life, instead of hiding, and every step she took, she credited to him.
He was everything to her;
The rain in the drought.
The sun in the storm.
The rainbow in the dusty skies.
The life after death.
The guardian angel who saved her then.
And he would always be the memory she never got tired of replaying in her head.

Click. Click. Ring.

I got a typewriter for Christmas this past year.
You'd think that hunk of rusted, dirty, grey metal was a shiny new car.
I was in love the moment my eyes slid across it's keys.
Today I realized the ancient ribbon still had a little ink left in it so I threaded some paper in and began clacking away.

The sound of those letters slamming into the ribbon and flinging ink onto the page is honestly music to my ears.  I want to write like that forever.
The clicking keys, the ticking roll as I move the paper up and down, the classic "ring" when I reach the end of the line.

Something in the antiquity, in the out datedness is beautiful.
Im in love with it's effect.

Dispicable Time

I hate time.  That stupid, despicable master clock that just keeps ticking along.  Unfeeling, unrelenting, uncaring.  It just keeps going and never lets me catch up.  It constantly confounds me.

How can people I used to snuggle up to on couches in their living rooms become people who glare from a distance?
How can people I used to text incessantly and have inside jokes with hardly recognize me and then walk on without another thought?
How can people I loved become people I loathe?

I'm by no means innocent.  I walk past people I used to know and hardly remember their name.  I am not without blame.  But today, this time, my heart is aching in my chest. 

Change over time spurs so much.

It spurs that feeling where your chest constricts and you can't get a full breath.  It spurs the clenching of fists and the thinning of lips.  It spurs the kind of pain that won't go unnoticed.  It rushes over you and floods out without consent and is impossible to stop.
You can fight it and fail or you can let it in and pray it passes.  You open your heart and let out the misery, the hurt, the unjustness of it all.  You drown in the pain and the aching in your chest and it radiates until your entire body hurts.  You let your eyes sting and your cheeks flood.  And if you're lucky, it might pass.

See Me

I want someone to see me.
I want someone to know when I'm joking and when I'm being serious.
I want someone to see when I'm trying to be funny and when I'm silently crying out for help.
I want someone to recognize my genuine smile.
I want someone to hear me say "I'm fine" but hug me because they know im not.
I want someone to realize when I need cheering up.
When I'm falling apart.
When I need support.

I'm tired of the faces.
I'm tired of pretending.
I'm tired of everyone thinking things are perfect.

I want someone to see me.

The Last Time

It was amazing, the way they set each other on fire the last time they met.

Really, if she had to blame it on anyone, it was his fault.  With all his deep looks and that perfect grin, how could it be her fault at all?  They made quite a team, when they weren't fighting each other.  But they could rarely stop arguing to let anyone else in.

It was a sweet kind of arguing.  He would point out something about her and she would be too cynical to take it seriously.  Endless giggling would ensue and they were off to the races.

He liked to flirt.  But not with her.  With her, it was different.  There was no hair touching or space invasion, no matter how badly she craved his closeness.  There were no compliments, no winks, nothing like what she watched transpire with other girls.  There was only good natured arguing and a hell of a lot of laughter.

She smarted off, hardly letting the thought of her words touch her mind before they came spinning off her tongue.  At first, she panicked.  But then he laughed.  He really laughed, and the smile that came to his face was radiant like nothing she'd ever seen.  And the knowledge that she put that smile on his face?  That was the best part.  His low, rumbling laugh sent a shiver down her arms and turned her cheeks bright red.  But she didn't care.  She made him laugh and at that moment, that was all that mattered.

He caught her off guard, reading into her in a way no one was ever able too, seeing through her like she was made of glass.  It was scary, but oddly invigorating.  He could see her.  For as long as she could remember, no one could see her like he did, and now there he was reading through her like a children's book.

At the height of their interaction, when he reached out, she rolled her eyes but her heart was pounding.  Their knuckles touched, and she felt a literal, physical, spark.  The act was simple, trivial really, but it seemed to solidify something between them.  Something that made her acutely aware of his location relative to her.  Something that held his eyes to her face.  Something unspoken between them that changed the waves in the air from friendly fire to something more.  Something with underlying meanings and a depth neither of them could hope to reach the bottom of.

Her only regret was how late in the season the moment had fallen.  Their season was coming to an end, the leaves of their trees all fallen to the ground now, ready for the next period of time.  But neither of them could guess whether they would move into the same season, or if one would move backward as the other slid forward.  There was no telling what would happen next, but whatever happened they knew for sure the air between them would never be the same.

What They Saw

She was a walking nervous habit.
Her knuckles begged her to stop popping them every five seconds.
The inside of her lip was constantly sore from incessant chewing.
The bounce of her knee made her thigh muscles ache for relief.
But there was no stopping it.
Nothing could keep her from clicking her pen.
Or from popping her neck.
Or from twisting her earrings.
Or from shaking out her bangs with her fingers.
Or from twisting sections of hair around her fingers.
They made her look fidgety, her nervous habits.
They didn't convey the nausea in her stomach.
Or the weight settled on her chest that made it hard to breathe.
She just seemed to have a lot of energy.
She seemed incapable of sitting still.
Which was another problem she absolutely faced, but it had nothing to do with the nerves.
They were two separate problems that seemed to manifest themselves in similar ways.
She could deal with excess energy.
She could laugh louder.
Talk more.
Hum.
But the nerves, the anxiety, that was a different story.
It was hard to control.
Hard to stop.
Hard to let out without looking crazy.
So she let them think she was overly energetic.
That she liked to fuss with her hair.
That the wide-eyed look on her face was normal and she was surprised by everything.
She didn't show them it was terror.
She didn't let on that her body was reacting without her consent.
Reacting to an emotion she didn't condone.
So she became the fidgety girl, the girl who laughed too loud and talked too much and played with her hair all the time.
As long as they didn't see the panic, that was okay with her.

Watching Her Walk

He stepped back into the shadows when he saw her across the grass.  He stood in solitude watching her walk.  She seemed so different than the girl he thought he knew.  Her eyes darted up from the ground for the briefest of seconds before snapping back down.  She seemed to be trying to shrink as she moved.  She wrung the raincoat in her hands nervously. 
That was it, she was nervous.  She wrapped the grey material up only to unravel it and fold it up again.  She switched if from her left arm to her right and back again.  He had never seen her this way, so fidgety and timid.  He sighed as she passed him still several yards away, turning to follow her with his eyes. 
Who was this girl?  What happened to her?  What happened to his girl?  He wasn't used to this side of her.  To seeing her look fragile, like an anxious baby deer.  He was accustomed to her rough edges, not her softness.  He was used to a sharp tongue and bright, questioning eyes, not silence and wide eyed fear.  Something in the way she moved intrigued him, so much so that he nearly called out to her.  But indecision took it's toll.  He hesitated one moment too long, wondering if she would smile at seeing him or weather her lips would turn down.  He wouldn't want that.  No, he wouldn't want that at all.  She fell out of his view but stayed at the forefront of his mind.  Why were the two girls so different?  Which one was authentic?  Where had her sass and sarcasm been just then?  And where was her doe-eyed innocence when he was around her?

Fragile Stitches

She spent years sewing herself back together.

 

All the words and all the lies, tearing out the fragile stitches.

 

She found stronger thread in creativity and confidence, but while the former was authentic, the later was entirely feigned.

 

No one would have know how frail the stitches were, except for her as they ripped.

 

But jealous gestures frayed the ropes and she began to fall apart again. 

3, 2, 1

I count down the minutes.
30. 29. 28.
Please be here.
27. 26. 25.
I'll get to see you, for just a moment.
24. 23. 22.
Will your eye catch mine?
21. 20. 19.
It never does, why should this be different?
18. 17. 16.
And yet I let myself hope.
15. 14. 13.
It's closer now and the ball of anxiety is my stomach is tight.
12. 11. 10.
The nerves threaten to take over.
9. 8. 7.
I'm in my place.
6. 5. 4.
I'm waiting. Waiting. Please come.
3. 2. 1.

A Representative of Prince Charming

Through a haze of tawny, sun-bleached hair, she watched him without his knowledge as she laughed.  He was watching her and her friend inconspicuously.  The gentle smile on his face suggested that the light-hearted, tinkling laugh bubbling from her mouth was the source of his quiet smile; her laugh pulling at the edge of his own.  With a frantic pounding in her chest, she looked away, afraid of being caught.  The room grew more and more quiet, the test began, but the look on his face stayed in her mind.

His hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, the arch of his eyebrow, the gentle smile that dared to stretch into something like a mischievous grin.  She was sure it was meant for her.  For her snorting, chuckling laugh.  For her happiness.  Despite her inclination to doubt, she let herself dream that her laughter elicited the same nervous tingle in his chest as his rumbling voice did in hers.  He was exactly what she wanted.  Exactly what she needed.  Exactly what she didn't expect to find.  His clean cut suits and sweaters along with his dazzling smile made her weak at the knee.  But what really held her captive, what really made her mind wander back to him every few minutes, was his sarcastic wit.
She had been told she wasn't gentle enough as a girl.  That her sarcasm and cynicism were intimidating.  But he didn't seem to notice.  For every action of hers, he had a remark and she had a witty reply.  The shot meaningless insults and wily retorts back and forth like bottle rockets.
For every stray though she let slip from her lips, he had a joke to which she was ready to respond.  He initiated most of their repertoire, but some days she felt brave enough to start it herself.  Their energy was, to her at least, magnetic.  When they were on a roll arguing or invalidating one another the rest of the world ceased to exist.  She never knew that friendly fire could rekindle that feeling that she had thus far attributed to inevitable heartbreak.

Through everything, the grief, the ache in her chest, the jaded mindset, she swore she wouldn't fall so easily.  One look would never change her future, she vowed.
What she didn't plan for though, fell into her lap without her consent.  Like-minded friendship, easy conversation, laughter, the unfamiliar feeling of acceptance, all descended on her in one large wave.  It all came down, drowning her in refreshing, blissful waves of exhilaration.  That was how things needed to be.  And with all the new, he snuck in quietly with a friendly challenge of intellect and a look.

Lord, that look.  That look tore her apart.  It was like he was trying to see through her and into her soul, into the inside of her mind.  Like he was slowly, gently taking her apart just to see how all the pieces fit back together.  It was a feeling that terrified her and intrigued her at the same time.  She was scared that he might actually see through her and find the betrayal, the heartache and the loss and the fear that created her cocktail of bitterness and sarcasm.  But at the same time, she was flattered he bothered to look at her at all.

For as "intimidating" as they said she was, he showed no signs of backing down from her challenge.  When their eyes locked, he never looked away first.  He met her embarrassed gaze with a steady stare.  Neither could be blamed as the habitual starter of their staring contests, for both of them started in equal parts.  It hardly seemed though that their interactions which were so glaringly obvious to her even registered in the minds of those around them.  Is it all imagined then?  She wondered quietly.

No little princess, keep fighting.  I think you've finally found prince charming, and if not him, then a representative of his court, coming to guide you home to his arms.

Dripping Drops

She'd never been on this side of it before.

The first time, she was the one dripping drops of sunshine in between the cracks of someone's blacked, broken soul.
He hadn't wanted it, but she didn't realize that.
All she knew was that her heart ached for how dark he had become.
All she wanted was to help.
But where she saw herself descending like an angel to rescue him, he saw a pesky mosquito and tried to swat her out of his smoggy sky.

She dodged the blows, misreading them as emotional defense, not legitimate dismissal.
But when he connected, it was a devastating blow.
She came crashing out of the sky and shattered like a porcelain doll on the solid rock of reality.
She tried so hard to pretend there weren't huge chunks of her missing, but she could only fake so long before she started emulating him.
She grew her own dark cloud.
It wasn't black and impenetrable like his, just a light grey that deepened quickly to charcoal through the trials of life.

She was tinting on black when he found her.
A different "he" than the one who broke her.
A "he" that was destined to fix a broken heart.
He swept in abruptly, distracting her long enough for the cloud to fade a few shades.
The look he gave her, that questioning, puzzled gaze that made her heart speed up and color rush to her cheeks, was unsettling.
She could tell that he could see the cracks.
One quick witted retort at a time, sarcastic comment by sarcastic comment, he began dripping drops of sunshine in between the cracks, like she had done for a doomed soul once before.

But she was different.
She didn't swat him out of her sky.
She craved ardently the shining liquid of hope that he seemed to be drenched in.
Slowly, as the drops he gave her began to add up, her cloud faded, until it dissipated entirely.
When that day came, she tested out her feet.
They were shaky after being on her knees for so long, but he slid his arm around her and held her up.
And when she was strong enough, she tested out her wings without a fear of falling, because he never left her side.

Two Fatal Blows

Words were launched, sharp like arrows, aimed to kill.
Volley after volley, blotting out the sun, blackening the sky.
Each one found its mark, severing arteries, tearing flesh, spilling blood.
She shot with accuracy, never missing a beat.
He aimed at random but his sporadic shots caught vital organs.

Their armor was as useless as mist, hardly deflecting a breath.
The ground was bright red.
The air hinted of decay.
There would be no winner at the end of this war.

When they called off their firing, when the smoke from the battle cleared, no victory was found.
Only two broken beings, slashed and ripped apart, falling to their knees in agony.
The death of what lay between them wasn't easy.
It was long.
It was torture.
It ripped out their hearts.
It smothered their cries.

But neither warrior breathed a hint of remorse.
They both felt the righteousness of their call to battle.
They both felt the other in the wrong.
Their war was swift.
Their war was brutal.
And their war was one from which no allies could hope to be recovered.

They thought it was a battle to the death,
but they were fighting Death all along,
and it was not in Death's nature to be overthrown.
And in the end, it dealt two fatal blows.

The Monstrous Beast

She paces anxiously.
Its going to be a long day with all these nerves.  Nerves over nothing and everything all at once.
She slides her long locks into a ponytail in record time.  The tale-tale sign of her all time high stress.
She paints on the black kohl liner and layers of black mascara.  War paint.  War with no one.  War with herself.
She pops the collar of her black leather jacket and sucks in a deep breath.  The hot pink and turquoise and violet call from her closet.
No.  Stick to Black.  Black is strong.  Black is safe.  She chides her ridiculous imagination.
Black helps her fight.  It helps her come off strong, the ever impenetrable fortress of bitterness and thorns.
But really, it just gives her a way out.  A way out of making the choices that color would make imperative.
The darkness does its job, hiding her from sight, bubbling around her like a poison and forcing them away.
If they're scared, they wont try to get in.
She struts across the pavement, her signature walk screaming of confidence and intensity and made up of lie after lie.
The anxiety expands, sucking her breath and thought and threatening to revisit her minuscule breakfast.
She acts fast, using a learned tactic to combat the nausea.
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8.  1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8.  She counts in her head to the imaginary music her feet pound out on the sidewalk.
Focus on the numbers and the anxiety can't take complete control.
A passing girls laugh catches her mid number and steals her attention.
What would that be like?
To walk and laugh and talk without headache inducing nausea and shortness of breath?
To trade inside jokes with friends and act like a kid and not care who sees?
What would it be like if you weren't worried what everyone was thinking of you all the time?
If you could walk into a room with a chest full of air and not be paranoid that people are talking about you?
She tries the trick she read online.  Four counts breathing in, and eight counts out.  The pain in her chest goes away. 
No use dwelling on 'what if' while reality gnaws a whole in your stomach.  She reminds herself as the thoughts float away, leaving the monstrous beast of fear and panic settled behind her navel.

One day, I'll know what it's like to wave goodbye to the beast.

Dandelions and Stars

I wish you could see yourself through my eyes.
How breath-taking you are when you smile.
How earth-shattering the sound of your laugh is.
How nerve-wracking your gaze is.

I wish you could see me the way I see you.
As a ray of hope.
As a future.
As a promise that better things are yet to come.

I wish I could be blatantly honest with you,
and tell you how amazing you are.
Tell you how your name sets off butterflies in my stomach.
Tell you how I dream of a life of you and me.

I wish I had met you six years ago.
I wish I hadn't skipped that first semester.
I wish you had walked into my life earlier.
I wish I had more time to spend with you.

But I suppose blowing on dandelions and wishing on stars will have to do for now, and when I see you again, maybe things will be different.  And maybe I'll get to do a little more thanking and a little less wishing.

You Taught Me

You taught me well without even knowing.
You showed me the cruelest moments of life without lifting a finger.
I learned how to love.
How to be inexplicably enamored and infatuated.
I learned what it's like to live a cliché.
To be the princess who falls for the villain.
To be the damsel in distress.
I learned, from you, how to lose myself in someone else.
To be so infatuated by someone else's power and intrigue that I forget to live my own life.
I learned to be blind to the truths spilling from the mouths of those around me.
To shut my mind and ignore and push away and fight whoever spoke against your name.
I learned so much from you.
I learned what heartache felt like.
How nothing seems to matter except for you walking away from me and the ever widening hole in my chest.
I learned how to grieve for someone that never died.
The body wracking sobs and gasps for air, praying that the aching would end. Suffocating in a pillow to muffle the sound of broken wails.
I learned how to live in a black cloud.
To bundle up in many blankets trying to keep the shivers at bay.
To stop eating when everything tastes like ash.
To hold the tears on the brink and not let them fall when people are around.
I learned not to get my hopes up because I'll always be left in the end.
Not to hope.
Not to dream.
Not to envision a future with anyone.
And when I ignore those little lessons you taught me, when I try and follow my heart, I end up here again. Holding back the tears. Choking on my questions. Spinning like a top in a whirlwind of confusion. Asking, how did this happen? What did I do to deserve this? Why was I so stupid?
Thank you for your lessons. For all the little gems of knowledge I acquired through your use of me. Maybe next time I'll be smart enough to listen to them.