When it’s over, you’re the sadness from the start, the kind of sadness that aches in every place, in every heart. You brought me your hands and I smacked them away, all because you didn’t stay. It’s not that clear, you and me, but it should be, don’t you see? There is a midst, an open dream, and your eyes were right, a special green. It was hard to come back, offer myself, then be attacked. You looked at me as if I had sinned, but weren’t we all just born to sin? I told you, the stars fall, each and every one, but you were convinced that I couldn’t tell. I dreamed of a life where I could be worthy, a sadness in line that never hurried. I brought you to my chest, my dear old friend, and you smacked me away, as if it were the end. “You monster, you beast,” You cried all of a sudden, and I was angry, and started running. I ran until you caught me, thick and clear, and I said to you, “I’m a monster, but you made me real.”
These are your words, point bank and to the point. These are your scars, the ones that had faded over time and the ones that faded quickly, washed away like the ocean water but hurt all the time. These are your voices, the different pitches, the tones, the way you lie and the way you whisper when you’re sad. These are your arms, the same ones that are burned and battered and brand new, because they are finally pushing the monsters away. These are your hands, the ones that had been held and dropped too many times to count, the ones that had held on too tightly and let go too fast, the same ones that have been bruised and broken and yet opened to hold. These are your feet that like to take long walks in the water, because the cold, frigid air is something that you miss so dearly when the heat comes along and makes you feel tired, the same feet that run so fast away from depression, from sadness, from uncomfortable situations, from loving at all. These are your knees, that bend when they are sitting, up against the bathroom wall or in the tub, where the water runs and the knobby knees of yours are bent, your head in them, crying.
These are your ideas, the same ones that have been lost time and time again, but still came back to haunt you in a way that nothing could ever be the same. These are your memories, the ones that you keep replaying in your mind before you sleep, the same ones of fantasy that make you smile and feel warm and sweet inside, the same ones that make you cry and wish you were back in time, the same ones that make living in the present feel just as impossible as ever. These are your friends, the same ones that had backstabbed you, loved you for who you really were, the ones that stayed when everyone else left, that left when everyone else stayed, that hugged you like you were the only person in the world and protected you from all harm and made you beautiful. These are your family members, the same ones that drove you mad, make you scream until your curled up in a ball on your bed, the same ones that love you (yes, they love you, kid) and the same ones that never would hurt you, ever, and love you even when you’re being a bitch, the same ones that you hate and yet love all in the same right.
And this, this is your mind. It is simple, beautiful, cloudy, fucked up, mysterious, sarcastic, tired, drenched with regret and love and understanding and can change the entire course of the universe in one moment. You are afraid of it, you are in love with this mind of yours, because without it, you are not you, you are not the one you thought you were. With this mind, you are free.
These are your feelings, the same ones that make you hurt and cry and scream and bang on doors and windows and break things and hurt you and make you want to die, the same ones that make the living suffer and make the suffering cry. Without them, you are dead. Without them, you are not living. Without them, you are nonexistent. Your feelings are beautiful, they are the ones that make you human, make you flawed.
And this, this is your heart. It is broken and sad and lonely and happy and blissful and miserable and adventurous and kind and understanding and lovely and dying. It is old, it is new, it is all that matters, it’s all that makes you.
combined from all the people i’ve met, combined from the people i’ve lost and gained and hated and loved. combined from all the shit i’ve went through, every sad moment tied together with the moments of pure joy thrown together with lust, love and pain.
combined with screaming, knives, tears, sweaters, cups and cups of tea, homework anxiety, depression, loneliness, happiness, bursts of joy and sweetness.
eighteen little voices
eighteen little people living inside my head that are always there
they remind me of the eighteen people i have been.
There are diamonds splattered all over the place, didn’t you realize? The shiny ones, the best ones, the ones that had been cast off to the side of the jewelry store, the ones that had been displayed for everyone to see, to buy, to smile at and the ugly ones that will never be worn by anyone, never admired. Those are the ones locked up in dust, stored away for ages and we never pay attention to them. People come and go, shrugging, nodding off those diamonds like they are dirt, like they are just too unlovable to fit on little girls’ little wedding fingers and it’s all the same with the beautiful, perfect ones, the ones that get picked every time. They are admired, praised, held so carefully and always win. They win like it’s their job, that’s why they are displayed so well, and they’re bought at such high prices for such little reasons. They are easily bought off—-they are charming, they are cruel because they break, but the old ones, covered in dust, would never leave your side, never leave your precious finger because those diamonds know what it’s like to be cast away, never given a chance. Instead, they’re burrowed away, left to dull and break, left to shatter.
People are like this. People are sorted into categories, beautiful and ugly, and they are determined for the rest of their lives to be this way. The beautiful people get the love, get the greatness, and the ugly people get the heartache, the sadness, the tragedy, but aren’t we all diamonds? Human nature depicts us to be animals, literally ruthless and harmful, just in a different way—-instead of right away atacking, humans hunt, we prey, we kill and we destroy and ruin and make a mess of things because we’re careless and we have no regard for the life around us.
We all are beautiful, though—-like all diamonds are beautiful. We all have the ability to shine, to bring light, to bring happiness—-we’re all judged so quickly like diamonds, and some are bought for everything they have, just for money, and others never see the light of day again, hidden in dusty drawers. We’re all beautiful, we’re all diamonds, I said, so why can’t we all be loved? We’re all shiny, happy things.
we’re all shiny, happy things.
It was a day that consisted of throwing up and feeling like shit. It was a day where the sun found its way back into the clouds and the rain and the wind had its way again. You don’t even know me, you don’t even know anything about me, but that’s okay. I know some stuff about you, because I’m oh so creepy and oh so tech savy. I bring a lot of heart into your otherwise heartless list of girls, who have all been nothing but arrogant and judgmental and can we all just agree, not that fucking great? I sound jealous, like a jealous, little school girl, and maybe I am, but maybe I’ve got something worth while to show you. I’m not pretty like the other girls, and I know that, but hey, I’ve got more heart in me than any of them, and more kindness and understanding and interest. I could be yours, if you let me. I could sit ontop of your piano all day and just hum along to your tunes.
I really, really could.
She brought me down the hallway, and it was evident that I was sobbing before. Same shit, different day. I hated school, the entire building, the entire atmosphere of it. It all seemed like such bullshit, like the days were just dwindling down and no one learned nothing at all. No one ever learned from their mistakes, teachers never learned, but most importantly, the kids surrounding you needed learned. They will go on to great colleges, universities, and be what? They’ll be cold-hearted and mean and cruel and they will still be like that forever. I’m not an AP honors student, but I’m kind and I’m gentle and I love everyone and I treat people the way they want to be treated.
I was ushered into my own therapy room, but we walked past each other, and I swear I thought you looked into my eyes and knew exactly how I felt. You brought so much…emotion into the table, and it was only a very split second, because I looked away, fearing you might judge me, fearing you might think I’m worthless like everyone else in this god for saken high school. I was angry, felt as though my lungs were going to explode, and I wanted to cry and scream and tear this world apart.
I sat on the couch, my therapist letting me cry, and I really thought this was it for me. I really thought I was done, just with school and now I was going to have to be homeschooled and gross, I didn’t want that. My thoughts were insane, guiding me in all directions, until I heard your music. Until I looked up and heard your music from the next classroom, the next room over.
I thought it was a recording, but it wasn’t. It was some kind of angelic music that brought tears to my eyes, but different tears. Tears that made me feel like I belongged, that kept telling me to go moving forward because the reward would be greater, everything would be greater. I held my hands together, pretending someone was holding them with me, and for a moment, I believed that I could fight through things, and that things weren’t actually so shitty. It made me feel as though things were going to be okay, that I could breathe and my lungs weren’t going to pop off.
All because of you and your music.
Thank you. I don’t know if it did that to bring light into my own sorrowful day, if you intended for that to happen, but you’re the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen and I know you want nothing from me or with me, but I had to say it anyway. You really got me back onto my feet and I hope you know how much that meant to me.
And so now, when I see you in the hallway, I just think of the boy with the piano that played a song that made me shine, even if only for a moment.
We don’t mean a lot to each other, but when we do, when we really show it, it’s brilliant. We walk in the light of a new day, a day that has birds chirming and kids running around with shorts and there’s a quiet peacefulness that isn’t so quiet within us. We are out to destroy whatever it is in our path, to destroy all that we hate, as well as all that we love, if our ambition has anything to say about it. We walk down that path, watching as big seniors zoom past with their thousands of dollars cars and we laugh at them and their futile attempt to be cool, to be anything at all that resembles cool.
The way I see it, you’re the coolest kid in town. The way you walk, the one you’re so tall and you just don’t fucking care, and the way you play your every move like you’re playing a chess game that you didn’t even know you were in. All of your moves are goddamn perfect, your smile and the music and the things you say. You’re the only other kid in this entire town that actually watches Bill Maher, that appreciates him as much as I do and his guests. You’re the only other kid that listens when teachers talk, that rebels when things aren’t fair or kind or right and you’re the kid that talks about Bethoven in sophomore year and spoke about him like he put the stars in the sky.
You bring a smile onto my face, just by talking to me, just by noticing me. I’m that weird, indie chick that walks alone everywhere, that doesn’t have friends to laugh with in the hallway, but you’re the kid that actually smiles at me and makes me feel like I’m worth a damn. The way you look at me when you talk, the way you breathe in heavily when you’re talking about those fucking stupid republicans, the way you joke about how some people think Kurt Cobain was murdered, and how we’re justso all-knowing and pretentious without taking ourselves seriously at all.
We know so much about the world, so much, and we know we must learn how to conquer it. You will be perfect, just the way you are, and I don’t know about me, but I don’t think much about me when you’re around, espescially about how fucked up I am. It’s the way you smile, the way you actually awknowledge and appreciate my existence instead of thinking I’m just that weird indie girl that doesn’t like people and listens to stupid, rocker music. You think I’m cool and in that way, I laugh and correct you, but you look up at me and tell me that I am the coolest girl you’ve ever met.
You walk back, saying good-bye and although we’ve only walked a short while, it feels like we’ve walked the longest time. I am out of breath, not out of tiredness, but out of sheer happiness and divine pleasure. You walk away and I watch, but not for too long, and keep walking in the new spring air. I know you just want to be friends, and I know you don’t like relationships, but jesus, you’re the sweetest, most interesting kid I know. You’re lovely, just the way you are, and I get the feeling no one tells you that enough, so maybe, maybe one day later on in our lives, I’ll get the courage to tell you.
And I’d say that you’re the coolest kid in this entire town.
It’s a sound that doesn’t make a sound at all, but a scream so painful that it consumes the body like a tennis racket whacking a ball. It is reckless, without care, and it will come back and haunt you like a terrified, vengeful enemy that is speaking of blood. The blood wants blood, lives with blood and craves the blood and sooner or later, you will bleed that similar blood. The lost blood of those who have traveled down the right and loneful paths, the paths that we haven’t dared to go down and have taken in such a way. We breathe in the innocent air and are left to discover a world that is new to us, new to us like a newborn baby that has been given to us on a silver platter. We wish, we dream, we imagine, we cry, we cut, we wander, we wonder, we leave and we stay. We are the useful human beings, the ones with a curious mind and an anxious, beating heart, one that describes the truest form of evil and beauty. We are the monsters inside your head.
It is a pecking sound, that same familar call that has come to us in the middle of our deepest sleep. We breathe in that night air, and we roll over in bed and we toss and turn, until we are awakened by a light, or a fog, that has drowned us and yet awakened us at the same time. We are gasping, we are gasping for air, as if someone has taken us by our shoulders and forced us into a tub of cold, brittle water that is like ice upon a winter’s coldest night. It is heart-stopping, how frigid that water is, and when we emerge, we are broken and confined to a small space that is left there for us. We are assigned numbers, we are left to wander and dream, but we are abanonded. We are gone, we are watching you as you flee, flee, flee. Come away, the whispers and hushed tones are always saying, come away, come away.
You are better than what you appear to be, and you will not be fooled by such horrible voices. Voices that mask on a monster, that wish for you to feel pain and inflict pain. We all have that ability to bring pain onto others, but what if the longing, the desire, the want to harm yourself becomes even more powerful? It is all about murders and killing, but what about if we kill ourselves? You know better, you know one body itself is more powerful than millions of others who blindly cater to such things. You are confident, yet you are afraid, because each day, those thoughts enter your mind. It is like watching a movie in front of your eyes and every time you see yourself, you know that you are lying, lying, lying. You are saying that you are fine, that you don’t wish to kill yourself, on fear of what might happen—-what will happen? It is forced, hesistant laughter and it is fake, annoyed smiles that never quite feel the same as something real, something raw and beautiful, even if it isn’t desired by the others. We are not like the others, we are too genuine and too raw to believe in such horribleness and curlety that those people create. We are not like them, we are the good monsters.
We are the good ones that bring out the best in people, even if we don’t want to, and bring out the light in the darkest of skies because we can and we will if others ask us to. We will do what we want to ask, in fear of hurting others, because we are too lonely and afraid to pass up friendships. We are afraid that if we are alone, we will be alone forever and in that way, we are essentially frightened of ourselves. We are frightened at what we might do, what blade we might grab for, or the things we might do. It is heart-pounding, it was terrifying, but at least, at least, at least, it is real. We are the realest creatures, the realest things amongst this world. We have the power to say what we mean and mean what we say and from birth, we are created as innocent, beautiful and honest creatures. As we grow up, we lose more and more of our honesty, because of the others’ views and their rules and their nonsense that preys on dreamers like you and feeds on their every last creative thought until they are bad, bad monsters in the night. Until they are used, until they are unloved, until they don’t feel at all.