A Spitting Image

Your idea of "friendship" is a load of crap.
You are a master manipulator.
You have to have your way no matter what.
You only care about yourself and what benefits you.
Every line you fed me about "being able to trust" me, and "caring" about me, and "being on my side" was a lie.
It sickens me to think of how much time I invested in you and your emotions and your well being.
I wasted so much time on you.
What bothers me the most is that you know what I've been through.  You know how hurt I am.  You know where my heart is.  Because you're in the same freaking place.  And I would never, in my entire life, do this to you.

I am not her.  I don't love you.  I don't obsess over you.  I'm not even interested in you okay?  All I wanted was the friendship I thought we had, the friendship you said we had.
And as much as you hate her, as much as you hate every trait about her, guess what.  You're a spitting image. 
You are just like her and I hope that hurts more than anything else.  The way she plays with people's heads, the way she lies, the way she's so selfish but thinks she's God's gift to mankind.  You do it all.  You are that person.  You're selfish.  Conceited.  Vain.  Fake.  Stupid.  Manipulative.  Childish.
You are everything you hate in her, and I only wonder if you hate her because she reflects you.  I wonder if you see how similar you are, and how much everyone hates her, and you are terrified we'll feel the same if we see it in you too.
News flash.  I will.

I hate how you treat me.  I hate how you treat everyone.  I hate how you think you're better than everyone else.  I hate how you act.  I hate how you talk.  I hate how much time I spent with you.  I hate that I though you were different.  I hate that I was wrong.  I hate that you're such a disappointment.

I hate that it hurts to lose you.  I hate that I even got close to you in the first place, because I knew this would happen.

You were the one person I could count on, the one I could talk to, the one I really trusted and you screwed me over anyway.  So have a nice life while the lies last, but don't come crying to be when they crumble.

A Waiting Game With Sanity

Walking up to him was intimidating.
Like he was deep inside the walls of a castle, surrounded by armed guards and I was walking up completely empty handed.  I had nothing to offer him but empathy.  We were the same, but I had no idea how to get him to understand.  He didn't realize I had a castle of my own a few hills over.  A castle I rarely ventured from.  I know why he loved it there.  Felling safe, protected, and home after such a devastating blow was crucial.
He was like stone, impossibly hardened to the songs of the world.  To the idea of trying again.  Cold and rough and heavy.  His presence like a darkening cloud that seemed harder to escape from as time went on.  Warning after warning passed through my mind, shouting at me to give up and walk away.
But there I was.  Bearing my soul, begging for him to give it a shot.  Praying that he'd come outside, given failure would mean a volley of arrows through my already mangled heart.
I wonder if this is how the prince felt, calling out to Rapunzel.  No, this was worse.  At least she was willing. 
He couldn't see that he'd trapped himself.  That he was in need of rescuing.  That he needed help.
I didn't know at first either.  It felt better than anything in the world to lock the door and never look back.  But time turned into an unbearable sentence that I couldn't make myself serve.  Sooner or later, he'd feel the pressure too.
Only, when he started looking out the window for a savior, he'd find one.  Unlike the dismay I felt when I realized I'd have to rescue myself, he would feel relief.
As imposing as his walls were, as fiercely as he was guarding himself, I wouldn't give up.  I couldn't.  I couldn't watch someone struggle the way I did, drowning in silence, choking on self-pity, slowly fading out of reality until there was merely a ghost and no longer a person inside.
I was terrified.  Scared of rejection, of failure, of him.  So scared of him.  But I stayed.  Playing a waiting game with his sanity and praying for a victory.

Instantaneous Fall

It was a moment, an instant, when all became still.
The songs of the birds, faded and now silent.
Children wake to find icy windows, and leaves cover the ground.
Temperature drops give way to sweaters and scarves encompass necks again.
Where I stand, Fall is not such a season as a state of mind.
The fast-paced relax.  The chaos slows down.
We pull out our coats and favorite winter hand-me-downs.
Everything gets a dash of pumpkin, here, in the Fall.
The tress don't change, merely die and shed, the process isn't beautiful here as it is elsewhere.
But the spirit is.
More smiles are given, more jokes are told.
The colder air seems to revive and renew every heart in this town.
With Fall comes a sense of acceptance and a breath of change.
It isn't a gradual process.
It happens in an instant.
It happens over night, our instantaneous Fall

Caught in Limbo

She's caught in limbo.

Advancing and reverting and making no progress at all.

Things that seem strange are accepted while things that seem right are denounced.

Looking right and left, she sees no way out other than moving forward, into unfamiliar territory and the ball of anxiety in her chest weighs her down. No longer a girl, and not yet a lady, her place in this world is unsure. She tries to grow, to move, to change, but her confidence is shaken by uncertainty.

Is this how a lady would act?  Do I have to act as a lady would?  Does this make me immature or am I okay for now?

Questions plague her mind, making sleep unenticing and headaches inevitable.

How does one cross this transition and is it usually this hard?

She wonders about everything in her life but no answers come for sure.

The things she wants are changing with her, and some of them seem impervious to a girl of her age.  But then again, as her age reaches upward, should not her wants follow?

Her ideas of the world are lost between naivety and cynicism. Her plans stuck between dream and reality. 

Navigating this passage is like sailing through rough waters in slow motion, seeing the possibility of disaster all around and merely being able to pray that you steer the right course.

My Independence

Independence is something we strive for as young adults.  We're constantly bombarded to be self-reliant and not need help.  But my independence tends to by my downfall.  I'm fiercely independent and sometimes it gets in the way of relationships.

It is never my intention to be antisocial or rude, but I am self reliant most days.  I need space.  I need time to myself. The thing I fear is that my relationship will become my identity and I never want to give that a chance to happen.
Sorry if I tend to push people away.  I could sit and write for hours about how many times people I trusted with my life, ripped me apart.  I'm a cynic.  I'm a loner.  I'm distrusting.  And I'm way too young to be those things, but it doesn't change the fact that I am.
I don't mean to push or to draw back, but when I see those warning signs, I go into self preservation mode and I immediately retreat behind my walls.  If you really want to know me, to be my friend, to love me, you have to understand that.  You cant just assume that I hate you or I'm stuck up or I'm antisocial, because I'm not.  I'm just doing my best and sometimes my best isn't good enough.  I hate myself sometimes for how I recoil from human interaction.  I hate that when people try to make plans with me, I want to say no every time and have to force myself to say yes.  I hate being this way and I'm trying as hard as I can not to be that way. I don't like to settle for less than I want so I tend to stay alone.
So give me a chance.  Try to break down my walls.  Try to rescue me from my self-made prison.  Just don't get upset if I don't seem willing, because deep down I am.

Like We're Dying

There's a song by Tim McGraw called Live Like You Were Dying.
Its a great song musically but I love the lyrics more, they really make a point.

The song is about this guy who finds out he's dying (obviously) and then he goes and does all these really great things, taking advantage of the time he has left.  He goes skydiving, climbs mountains, rides a bull, changes the way he loves and the way he speaks.  He makes over his whole life in light of his diagnosis.  But my question to you is, what would you do if you knew how long you had left?

I think we all want to say that we'd do what he did, we'd take risks and do crazy things and admit our love for people and be kinder.  I think we'd all like to say that we would just come to life in a new way and totally demolish our last days with fun. But would we? 

Or would we sit around and mope?  Would we start saying goodbye?  Would we cry and beg God for more time? Would we do everything in our power to avoid that inevitable day?  Unfortunately, I think we would. 

As life would have it, none of us know when God will call us home.  I think that is the most generous thing ever.  Because without an impending date of doom, we have the chance to live like we're dying every single day.  Why wait until the last second?  Why live bored and sad and then jump on the party train right before it's too late?  Why not live a life worth living?  Why not jump out of a plane?  Why not declare your love for someone?  Why not go ahead and sweeten up your words and be genuinely good to people around you? Do crazy stuff, do the things you've always wanted to.  Kiss a stranger at midnight on New Years.  Travel.  Don't live in a protected bubble, waiting till the last minute to live, because what if your last minute comes before you think it will? 

We don't know how long we have, and we can't control it, but we can make sure that we live a life full of memories not full of "I wish I had"s.  We can look back with no regrets, all we have to do is make the choice today to live the way we want to remember living.

More Than Tinted Glass

I hold the bronze aviators gently in my hands as I fall into a pit of memories.

I can still feel the awe when I saw the mountains through their dark lenses for the first time.
I can still see the smiles on my friends faces when we stepped out of the bright white vans.
I can still see the house we painted through the protective coloring of the glasses.
I can still feel their protection, as the dark lenses hid the tears in my eyes from the outside world.
I can still feel them shielding me from judgmental, angry glares.
I can still hear the laughter from our trip down the river, where all the problems were washed away and I was saved by the boys  grew up with from self-destruction.
I can still feel the icy water as the glasses tumbled into the river and our rafts were momentarily abandoned to save my beloved shades.
I can still feel the laughter echoing down the river as they were passed around, resting on every face in our group when we retrieved them.
I can still see the beauty of the riverbed as their tinted color shielded my eyes from the world again.
I can still feel the awkward tension for eighteen hours as we traveled home.
I can still feel the resounding gratefulness for a week of bliss and stronger friendships.

I swear I can almost see our happy faces reflecting back at me and I have to blink a few times to dissuade the illusion.  These glasses hold more than tinted glass.  They are a reminder of the most blissful and most painful week of my life.  They are a reminder of the bonding and the breaking of friendships.  They are a memory in and of themselves and I treasure them to this day.

Glass Heart

Her heart was fragile, like a thin pane of glass.  One wrong move would break it down.  She was cautious with her glass heart, never falling too fast, but landing gently in disappointment so her heart was scratched, but still intact.
He wiped away everything she had worked for when he blew into her life.  He was a storm of a man.  Feelings, glances, laughs, touches, smiles all whirled around and swept her up in his wind.  They had a whirlwind romance, it was never meant to stand the test of time.  And when he left, taking his storm with him, she didn't have a chance to catch her glass heart before it shattered on the ground.  Every piece she picked up held a memory that ripped her open, leaving a trail of crimson in her wake.  Soon she had gathered all the pieces, but nothing could make them go together again.
Her glass heart was in pieces and with them she built something new to fill the aching hole in her chest. Piece by painstaking piece, she fashioned a rose from the bloodstained shards of glass.  And when she placed it in her chest, a light burst from her.  For no longer did she have a fragile glass heart, but a sharp, strong, beautiful, piece of artwork that rose from the ashes of disaster.  And from that day on, the light drew people flocking to her.  But the rose was sharp and she never let anyone get close enough to touch it again.  For if they did, they would undoubtedly be cut and their crimson life would only serve to deepen the red of her strength.

The Kind I Wait For

Me and my Grandma are very close. We're tied at the hip.  She knows me better than pretty much anyone in my life and I love her to the moon and back.

I never got to meet my Grandpa, her husband, because he passed a few years before I was born.  But I feel so close to him because of all the stories they tell about him and all the little bits of information I've picked up over the years.  I love him.  I never knew it was possible to miss someone you never met.  I never knew you could cry and hurt and miss over someone you've only seen pictures of.  But this isn't meant to be a sad post, so I digress.

Among the things I know of him, I know that he and my Grandma had a love like no other.  They were meant for Hollywood.  For Nicolas Sparks novels.  They were the epitome of star-crossed, madly in love like you wouldn't believe.  And that's the kind of love I want.  Even after all these years, my Grandma has always said that she'll never love anyone again like she did him.  She never saw other guys, she never got remarried.  They had a love so deep the ocean would be jealous.  And that's what I want.  I want a one time, end all, never looking back kind of love.  A love where he could be gone from this earth and Id still love him more everyday.  A love where no one else would ever measure up to him.  A love with no regrets and lots of laughter.  A love where you're truly best friends and lovers and spouses and where you truly stay in love forever.  I crave a love like my grandparents had.  Because even though I've never met him, I know he saw his entire world when he looked at her and she did the same and that's the kind of love I wait for.

Like Rain

He was like rain.

He was sweet like the sent of fresh rain drops.

He was soft and quiet and mesmerizing.

He was gentle like the falling rain kissing your skin.

Being with him was like being caught in the rain.

He drenched you in himself and when it was over, everything was washed away, leaving nothing but refreshing newness. 

His voice was so warm and rich it gave you chills.

He was the best of everything and being loved by him was better than a fairytale. It was perfection. It was intoxicating. It was remarkably dreamlike yet so unbelievably real.

My Nineteens

They say you find yourself in your twenties.

I think I've found myself in my nineteens'.

One year ago, I wouldn't have recognized the girl I see in the mirror right now.  Not that that's a problem, seeing as I actually love who im becoming.  A year ago I never would have been this strong, this determined or this happy.

I haven't found myself in the way I thought I would either.  I guess I figured it would be gradual and Id be happy, skipping through fields with soft music playing in the back ground and the sun shining off my hair.

I never knew it would be instantaneous.  That it would come through on entire year of depression and tears and loneliness.  I never knew that in one second, everything would change, like a light bulb coming on and I would be stronger than I ever thought imaginable.

I've changed more in the last three weeks than I have maybe in my entire life. 

I know what I want.  I am no longer willing to settle for anything less.  I know what my goals are and while I may not see a straight shot to them, I plan to achieve them all the same.  I don't get mad about minor things like I used to and I have an inner confidence that supplies peace in every situation.

I look back at who I was and I cringe.  I was so sad.  So broken.  So willing to be trampled on by worthless people.  I willingly let my heart get broken and I was ready to settle for a sick, twisted, one way love that could have really damaged me.

I look in the mirror today and I am amazed at what I have become.  There is a strength present and a spark in my eyes that I've never witnessed there before.  I stand taller, smile brighter and laugh louder.  My breaths are easy, not labored with the task of faking it anymore.  And I wouldn't trade this version of me in for anything else.  Im on the road to success.  Im on the road to happiness.  Im on the road to my future and I don't plan on making anymore pit stops.

I Live To Blow Your Mind

Writing is not an occupation for the faint hearted. I can't even begin to tell you how many times I think to myself I cant do this, there is no way im doing this.  Its an occupation full of self doubt.  Im constantly pondering if I can even call myself a writer.  The days are always different.  You have days where you love every single solitary word that drips off your pen and other days you hate every word that comes to mind.  Its emotionally exhausting.  You're constantly at war with yourself, changing and editing and deleting and rewriting.  But for all the bad days, I wouldn't trade it for anything.  It honestly has to be more than a hobby, more than a pastime, it has to be a passion if you want to make it a career.  Its terrifying and difficult and emotional but this is who I am. 
I've written several times on how im seeing life differently and this area is no exception.  I feel more confident than ever.  I still have bad days but even in the bad days I have a little voice in my head saying "it gets better, you can do this."  I have no interest in people who think writing isn't a valid career.  Tell that to C.S. Lewis or Chaucer or Shakespeare or Alexander Pope.  Writing may be unusual, but it is in no way invalid.  So watch me climb to the top while you stare with disbelief.  I live to blow your mind.

The Feeling

When the feeling hits, its like a freight train. Its instantaneous. Painful. Blinding. Overwhelming. Breath taking. It hurts like hell. It rocks your world in a second. You stop what you're doing. You cant think. You cant breathe.

The charcoal color sweatshirt, a tale-tale sign of trouble, slips over long, messy, blonde hair.
Tears build behind tired blue eyes, forbidden to fall.
The air that was just so comfortable has a biting, inescapable chill.
Goosebumps raise on pale skin.
The feeling stops the heart that's been so carefully guarded for so long.
Alone.
The word is incapacitating.
The lights are suddenly too bright.
And its all I can do not to cry out in anguish. I lock myself in my room. I turn up the music to drown out the voices in my head. The ones that tell me I'll  be alone forever. The ones that need someone...anyone... The ones that confirm every fear and solidify every doubt. The ones I can never truly shut down.

I am so alone. So lonely. And I'm trying so hard not to be needy, not to settle for less than I deserve but my resolve is crumbling fast. In the tumult of life, I need someone to be my life line and pull me back in. I'm spiraling out into space all alone. I need someone, anyone, to help me.

Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time, I knew what it felt like to have a zoo stampeding though my stomach instead of just butterflies. Once upon a time, I fell in love, hard and fast and without looking back. Once upon a time I knew what all the romance books and tragedies and movies were about, because I felt it every single day. And then I was left, utterly and completely alone to pick up the pieces of my recently shattered life all by myself.
Once upon a time I felt that feeling when your heart breaks, when it literally feels like your heart has stopped beating. Like all the butterflies or whatever you felt, they all just fell dead. Like life wasn't worth it and like nothing could ever hurt that bad again. Sophomore year in high school, a naïve sixteen years of life under my belt, I had my heart irreparably broken.
But when he came back, it was like he never broke my heart in the first place. I felt that passion, that need, that love just as fiercely as before. Nothing ever felt as intense as the feeling he gave me. He was my drug and I was a hopeless addict with no desire to be sober. My world revolved around him and only him and I was intoxicated with the thought of him and nothing else ever crossed my mind.

Once upon a time, but much more recent, I had an epiphany. My whole perspective changed on the world. Everything was different, my friends, my choices, my desires, my goals. And my view of him. When my perspective changed, I realized I was a game for him, an easy pastime when he wasn't feeling needed enough. For the second time in my life, every animal stampeding through my chest fell dead. And I grieved my lost love for the second time.
Fast forward to the present and I am at a loss. Im afraid no one will ever make my heart race like he did. Im afraid I'll never fall that deeply in love with someone again. Im afraid I wasted my feelings on someone who ended up being a joke. I have someone in front of my that I really thought I cared for. I have no idea how he feels about me, though everyone in my life is rooting for him. But I don't feel the zoo. I don't feel the storm. I feel birds sitting patiently in trees, but only fluttering from time to time, never fully bursting forth in flight.

My fairytale has turned into a nightmare, and no matter how badly I wish to wake, this is my reality. My knight in shining armor turned out to be the villain and there are no knights around. Only squires and palace guards, but no one riding in on a white horse. I cant wake up from this nightmare. I can not escape this feeling, like empty air caught in my chest.

Lover of Paper

I have always been drawn to blank paper. I could spend hundreds of dollars buying empty spirals and reams of blank paper. I love seeing it transform from a barren, crisp sheet into a mess of words and thoughts and pictures before my eyes and at my hand. You don't understand my love for paper. I literally salivate at the thought of fresh notebooks, untainted by expression. I live to destroy the pristine whiteness and create. Part of me hates to ruin the perfection but part of me relishes the chance to demolish and blemish and stain the snowy whiteness. I live for that moment when the pen hits paper for the first time. The first line. The first scar. I love how paper softens and tears and bends with use so in the end its limp and greyed and fragile. I love marking up printed sheets and doodling to fill in every corner. There is something beautiful to be found in the ravaging of new paper. The carnage of eraser bits and pencil tips is stunning. The way a new spiral can be demolished from stiff to malleable, immaculate to disheveled, bland to enthralling, is just astonishingly appealing to me. I am of a lover of paper and of pen and of the marrying of the two.