May 21

vulgar words are the only thoughts I have when someone says

"Happy Birthday"

Birthday. Birth day. Day of Birth.

shit.
excuse my language, please do.

But, If only that bitch-of-a day didn't exist. I wouldn't be here staring at my wrists. Yesterday, when I kneeled down to pray I was at a loss of words. I bent my neck and stared at my hands.  I opened my mouth and moths flew out, dancing around with my sorrow on their backs. This caused my stomach to drop, because those sorrow moths were what kept it up. All I could think to say was, I hate you. as I sat on my haunches like a prisoner of war being put to death.  I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed my bottom lip. Why did he save me? Why. Tell me. Did I really choose this? I forget that I'm holding my breath and I let it out like a sigh so forceful, it could bust through my chest.  Hate you? do I hate you? Shit, I don't even know you.  I look to my left and see the layer of dust on your book. The anger keeps filling me up. How long have I been kneeling like this? Motionless... In the silence. As a war breaks out in my head.  I'm so confused. I push my hair back as if it will stop the attack. The battle rages on....

"Happy Birthday"

happy birthday.

forgetting #2

three months. twenty two days.

That's how long I've been away from you.

three months. twenty two days.

                     So now I'm going to release three months and twenty one days worth of emotion out on you guys. ( the last day I'll keep to myself because I don't want to overwhelm you with three months and twenty TWO days. That would be a little overboard.)

Here we go then, three months and twenty one days worth of my life all in one little blog post (spoiler alert, it will probably be a poem):

I keep forgetting to button the last button on my shirt.

I keep forgetting to finish that book I started last summer.

I keep forgetting Mumford and Sons got popular

and I keep forgetting where to go for third period.

I keep forgetting how long I like my bread in the toaster

I keep forgetting that girl's name in my english class

I keep forgetting I don't like british accents as much as I thought I did

and I keep forgetting you don't love me.

You call me up every few months to tell me about a new girl, then you tell me I look like someone.... someone you think is pretty.... and my heart swells. curse you.

I keep forgetting how much I like facebook. 

I keep forgetting I hate cats

I keep forgetting I love cats

and I keep forgetting I have a cat...

I keep forgetting that my face automatically forms a smile when I'm dozing.

I keep forgetting I'm actually depressed (probably because my face is tricking me)

I keep forgetting to eat lunch and dinner.

and I keep forgetting my mom was actually in love with Martin Kokol once and that he wasn't just a sperm donor as I often wish he were. 

I cry so quietly, and yet you could probably hear the tears splattering on my shirt if you listened hard enough. But who am I kidding? You don't know what the L word is. curse you.

I keep forgetting what to say when someone says "thank-you" (are you allowed to just walk away?)

I keep forgetting that I want straight A's

I keep forgetting to brush my teeth

and I keep forgetting "no shirt, no shoes, no service"

I keep forgetting I can't draw worth a darn.

I keep forgetting to write in my journal everyday.

I keep forgetting what I wanted to blog about.

and I keep forgetting how breathtakingly beautiful you are.

I never realized how much I liked holding hands until you held mine. and I'm just curious, do you know the spot on my cheek where you kissed me still feels warm?

I keep forgetting the pact I made with myself to not smile until my braces came off.

I keep forgetting that I hate my long hair.

I keep forgetting others have a harder life than me.

and I keep forgetting you have a girlfriend who is actually your age and not a baby as I am.

The words that you say pound in my head. "I don't believe in love, but it's all I'm really looking for and I don't have faith in god, but he's all I really believe in." and I sit and I hurt because your words speak to me. Yet, all you see is a fifteen year old girl who thinks she's seen the world when you hear my poetry. So I'll just rip up what I felt and glue it all together into a big fake smile dripping with wet paint. Look at me I think, but no one does. My little craft tricks you well, So that when you see me all you think is SAINT. However, remember kids saint stands for Shut Anger Inside Neat and Tight the burden is heavy but the guilt is light.  I watch my future slip like the sand in my fingers. the crashing of waves drowns out all noise, too bad shutting things out doesn't always last. Because the question I have keeps forming, Are my problems chasing me, or am I just running with something that's been long in the past?

I guess it's time for sleep, if I even can. Sheesh I keep trying to determine if I'm hurt or just completely numb.... wait let's get real. I'm just a misanthrope.

Conversations through the Bathroom Mirror

Everyone about to read this
Hey. So I wrote this about a month before school started (if you don't believe me look at the closing remarks) and a lot of these opinions have changed since I'm a little older and a little closer with some of you. (Jerem) And a lot of the fights are waaaaay waaaaay in the past. (Sarah) but for some reason I feel like I want to post this.  I swear this isn't exactly how I feel anymore.  There are still some things that stand true (Keaton), but a lot of it is old news and dumb drama.  So I thought about updating.... but I didn't.  Mostly because I've written and re-written this post so many times that I'm sick of re-writing. So if you're about to read this, don't.  Just turn back now while you still can.  Run away, because this is the worst post I've ever written and I hate it, but like all my other posts, it's apart of me and I can't sit on it forever. Actually... I could, but that's just not my stile. So without further ado. Here's a horrible post written by a me many many months ago. (please stop reading here)

Camri

Dear Cam. I've had countless conversations with you in the mirror.  Some that involved me yelling at you and asking you where you were when I needed you. Some are of me asking you if you're okay and if you need me.  But most are just me asking  begging you to be my friend again.  Usually this conversation ends with me crying, in my bathroom, realizing I'm alone and you'll never want me back as your friend.  Occasionally it ends with me saying, "Well I'm glad you are happy now, sorry I wasn't cool or pretty enough." and storming away to get ready for another grumpy day at school. But then there are those few few times when I look in the mirror and see your huge green eyes and all I say is "I'm sorry about your dad." and camri, this is what I want to say to you most of all. I'm so sorry about your dad. I'm so sorry. 

Ben

Ben. I've had one conversation with you in the mirror. Just one. I've had this conversation a million times, but it's always the same one.  It's pretty much me declaring how much I've always liked you and handing you a book entitled "go ask alice" and saying, "Is this how you feel? because sometimes It's how I feel and I haven't even gone through most of what you have."  Sometimes I'll even imagine myself kissing your cheek. Then I just walk away.  If I had the courage to do this, I still wouldn't. Because even in my messed up imagination, you reject me. Even when I have the power to make you want me in my head, you don't. And I know in my heart that is how it would be in the real world too. And maybe that's why I've had your conversation so many times, because I want to change it so that you like me. But oh ben. You never will. 

Sarah.

I haven't talked to the mirror you in a long time. But when we were first going through our fight I would verbally abuse imaginary you almost everyday.  Then I'd cry to you and tell you everything through angry tears. Everything. I'd tell you what happened to my sister, I'd tell you what happened with my dad, I'd tell you about Lisa. But knowing only the fake you in the mirror knows what I'm talking about, this will probably just confuse you. And anyway I don't want to talk about that stuff. I want to talk about the last conversation I had with you in the mirror. This one started out as usual, me being mad and saying things like, "I'm not dramatic!" (classic, a girl with tears streaking down her face telling a mirror that she isn't dramatic... hahah) but then I steered down a weird path, instead of me asking you in an angry voice "You don't know what I've been through, Do you know about [insert ridiculous family issues I'd never actually tell anyone]??" I said. Sarah. I don't know what you've been through. But whatever it is, whoever it involves, whenever it happened, I am sorry. And then I ran away from my bathroom and I cried but instead of anger pulsing the hot tears to my cheek, it was out of pure and honest longing to say those words to you and for them to come out as pure and honest as they are.

Koda.

Your conversations hurt me the most. Because I never cry during or after them. I just stare into my reflection (seeing only your face) and say that I hate you. I hate you because you made me drift from my best friend. I hate you because you are handsome. I hate you because you promised you'd always listen and be there for me. I hate you because you made me think I was attractive to you. I hate you because you left me in the dust feeling ugly and repulsive. I hate you because you gave me self confidence and then ripped it out of my hand telling me how hideous I looked as you did it. I hate you because everything I do I still think, would Koda think I looked pretty doing this, would Koda think I was interesting saying this. Would Koda think, Would Koda think..... And then I don't even leave the bathroom. I sit in there and hold my phone. and stare at it. And then I look up and your face is gone. replaced by my tired reflection. And I realize that I don't hate you. I hate me, because of you. And then I usual ask you for my confidence back, but you're gone and I'm left with my tired face. Ask me how confident that makes me feel. 

Jerem.

Jerem. Oh Jerem, Jerem, Jerem. The only conversation I've had in the mirror with you is funny and I laugh every time I think about it so much to the point I can't converse with the fake you in the mirror anymore. I don't actually know why it's funny to me... but it is. It's just about your blog. and that post that you talk about the 5 girls you've loved. And mostly the conversation consists of me guessing who the five girls are and getting it right (Saren, Megan, Layna, Sarah, and Chloe that's usually what I guess incase you were curious). I think I've only had this conversation with you because I don't know you. Not that I know any of the other people I've written about (especially not Ben hahahahaha what a hoot.) but I know how I feel about them, and I truly don't know what I feel about you. Mostly it's just the feeling of rolling my eyes at how funny you are. But sometimes it's anger because I don't feel like myself around you and I really want to. so many people have told me that they feel like themselves around you and that makes me jealous. I want to feel like myself around you Jerem. Why don't I? and sometimes I ask you that in the mirror... which I guess makes me sound like a liar because I said I haven't had any other conversations with you, but I didn't lie because you never answer me. And an unanswered question is not a conversation. 

Tessa. 

Usually I just ask you why you took Sarah's side. and cry. Then sometimes in my head you say "what the devil" and I hurt even worse. But lately I've just asked the fake you to forgive me because sometimes I'm positive I hurt you worse than sarah. Because while sarah and I talked on the phone trying to work things out (and occasionally fighting it out), you just sat by not knowing what was going to happen next. I should have tried to work things out with you too, but I didn't. That was really selfish of me. And for that I am so sorry. In a way I chose sides with Sarah too didn't I? Wow tessa. I'm really sorry. 

Keaton Henson.

You are my idol. And usual I stare at you through the mirror and tell you that. And in my mind I hug you and kiss your cheek and ask you to sing for me. And sometimes You even say back "Maybe I'll write a song called Katie major" and I cry. Oh I really really really want to meet you. 

Goose Girl.

Sorry yours is last dearest stranger, but I've been trying to think of a way to write about you in this post since technically I haven't had any conversations with you through my bathroom mirror because I don't know what you look like and the whole point of conversations through a mirror is to see others, not yourself. So instead of writing about our nonexistent conversation, I'll write about how wonderful I think you are. I really don't know who you are, which probably is so mean of me! I'm sorry. If you are a dear friend of mine, I'm sorry I didn't know you had a blog. if you want, you can tell me, but sometimes I hope you don't. I like your mystery. The second you followed me, I blog stalked you until at least 2 in the morning trying to find some hint of who you were, but then as I read each post I forgot about my search, I started focusing on your beautiful, BEAUTIFUL writing. Wow. I'm in awe at your writing skill. If you really are a stranger to me and we've never met, thank you for following me. If we have met, thank you for following me, but who told you about my blog??? ... anyway. sorry. Okay so you're a beautiful author and after that 2 am S.S. (stalking session) I wanted to write about you. I wanted the whole world to know about your blog. But then I thought if someone did that to me (which would never happen) I would be embarrassed and cry. So instead I had imaginary posts going on in my head that I have done no justice with this silly scrawl of words. I promise this all sounded so much better in my head. well just know I love you stranger or not. You are talented and lovely. 

 and now you all know why I look so crazy. Because when I look in the mirror, it's not to see my reflection or to do my makeup, it's so I can talk to you all being completely and entirely myself.  

But since High School is starting in less than a month I want to get my real self out there. So no more bottling things up. No more conversations through the mirror. Just radical honesty. Sorry if this hurt any of you. oh no. I really hope I didn't hurt any of you. 

Maybe being myself isn't the best idea. 

The clock is striking thirteen

November is here.

All that has ever meant to me is this:

Scruffy men and Thanksgiving feast

I don't count the things I'm grateful for or complain about the weather.
No.
I count the number of times I am planning to eat my weight in yams and complain about my lack of skills in talking to attractive men who are willing to grow hair on their perfect faces.  I count how many friends I have and complain that I can't get past 0 in that number. I count the hours I'm in school.  but I don't complain...

I count how many times you kiss me in my head.

I count how many times I think about you.

I count how many times you talk about the girl you love.

and I complain.
and complain.
and complain.

I count my steps from l to 100 and 100 to 1 million.

I complain that you've come back into my life.

 Do you count all the times you lied to me? Do you complain that you don't see me anymore?  Do you count the times you told me I had pretty eyes?  Do you complain that I said I love a boy that isn't you?  Do you count how many minutes it takes to get from my house to yours?  Do you complain that it's a lot?  No.
You count the things you're grateful for and you complain about the weather.

I count
I complain

you came back.

November is here.

and all that has ever meant to me is this:

You.

Cheap words are never worth the price. No matter how Inexpensive they are.

once a beautiful girl told me i was a mystery.
a game.
a puzzle to be solved
but ever evading resolution

i tried to grasp onto these words as my throat closed off.
they were coming
as the man with the lies spoke
with his fake profundity

they began to spill as his superficial voice grew
i began to tremble and i said to myself
you are a closed book
don't let him read you

and the tears wet my face as i tore the phone
away
from my ill-fated ear
i tried to lift my drooping heart

it sagged to the floor
i left it there
as i tore him apart
searching for what i had come for

they would not win this time
they would not rise up to save him
i would get them
and only then would i be solaced

his lies were cowards
they ran as i attacked
i hoped they wouldn't return
but not even i could dream up such an unreachable task

they would be back soon enough
along with all his other
fabrications and
ever continuous words



the latter were back sooner than expected



he spoke of the pain he's felt
and i sensed the tears falling
i almost felt for him,
as the wool began to darken my sight

he asked
"do you think we could learn about life from death?"
and the illusion was
shot

his words wouldn't have even been scripted in the tackiest film

did he really think i would credit this---respect it even?

this tawdry sentence 

sickened me 

it played

over

in my 

mind

"do you think we could learn about life from death?"

his words are always so cheap

so innocent 

it's hard to resist stopping to ponder the merchandise 

it's a good thing i've learned not to buy

because though the show is dazzling

the performance 

always. falls.

short.

but now i'm rambling about a conversation

that never happened

not to me anyway

because i wasn't there

my body was, yes

but me, oh the elusive 

me

who i really am

was gone.

whisked away by the wind

as the phone was torn from that



ill-fated ear 

"We're all individuals!"....."I'm not"....

I really miss my playlist singing to me.  It was so comforting to log onto my blog and hear everything that ever meant something to me play along with my writing. All the anger and pain I've felt, I would just listen to it, and type along to the beat, as the guitarist strummed the strings of my heart and the pianist struck the keys in my head.  Cheesy no?  Well that's my life. I like cliche statements, and sappy lines now ahh-days.  I talked to my beloved sister, Ari, about it and we've come to realize a few things.

Things My sister and I have Realized:


1.  Cliche statements are only cliche, because they are repeated.


2. Cliche statements are only repeated, because they are true.


3. We like Cliche statements and sappy lines.




I finished a book today.  Doesn't that feel good?  yes. yes it does creepy conscience asking me questions. Please go away now.  Anyway... It feels good.  I love those books that you can't put down until the very last chapter.  The books where you get to the ending lines and you let a gasp escape your crusting lips--- you've licked too often while you were in such concentration over the plot line--because you've almost reached the end and you don't want it to be done.  Ah so many people have written that line. Haven't they though?  So many avid readers who leaped into Alice in Wonderland and attempted to enjoy the silly decisions made in Gone with the Wind.  So many have written about not wanting a book to end.  So many who've not wanted to come back to the shining, sun lit, world of reality; where the glare of the bright light fuzzies up the line between right and wrong.  They want to stay in the world where the protagonist knows exactly what is right, where the villain chooses wrong for all the right reasons.  Where you can still have pitty for the bad.  Ah so many that want to stay in their books.  How cliche.  (:  


In the thesaurus it has a sentence before all the synonyms of the word cliche, it says "a good speechwriter will steer clear of cliches."  What a shame, I guess I'll never be considered that good.  I love how true cliches are, I can't steer clear of them.  It's like when you see what someone else is wearing and you think.. wow I like that, I'm going to dress like that, and when you do, suddenly you aren't being yourself you aren't "original" and you are claimed to be a copy cat (meow).  It's like that.  You were still being you, you liked what that person wore, YOU did, but because someone else has already worn it, it therefore CANNOT be yours.  Thats how I see cliche statements.  They have been said by others, so therefore it's not your opinion, even though it really is.  How sad.  How sad that suddenly in this world, where we are all considered individuals,  we have become an individual.  Singular.  One.  We are all one, and not in a good way.  


Is my train of thought on schedule?  
did you catch it in time...or were we too quick, too early?
because sometimes I really don't know if I make any sense. 


......anyway.  This sucks.  It sucks that I finally want to write and the words just don't come out right.  


I want to be an individual, 




















but isn't that just another cliche?

Golly Gee, You really don't need me...

clarity

keeps clouding my mind.

I can see things so easily, it's confusing me.

You don't like me, you like the idea of me.

And we're only friends because we have a common enemy.


These realizations keep occurring to me, and it makes me sad.

It's as if I've eaten a Bertie Bott's every flavored beans and I've gotten the taste of


Defeat.


ah well.
I don't care if we're Just friends; I'll just read a book instead.










I'm old enough now to pretend.