Epitaph

In (obliged) memory of Sophie Hatter.
May she find peace in all of the crazy fantasies she raged about and rest pretty well.

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Somewhere in that awkward stage of the mid '90s where no one is really certain if that counts as a '90s kid - Somewhat in the distant or possibly close future

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Awkward Socialite,
Only Sister,
Daughter,
Some Sort of a Writer,
and an Avid Reader of Tales,
and Adventurer.

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"Adventure is out there."

Void

They use hands as covers and lowered voices and adverted gazes.

She doesn't know.  

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

She's listening, again.

I am, I really am.

We'll talk later.

Afraid So

I'm definitely afraid.

I'm afraid that I won't find the right things to say.  I'm afraid that when I do, it'll all go unsaid.  I'm afraid that you'll never know what I really think because I'm afraid of telling anyone what I really think.

I'm scared of having to iron anything with pleats.  I just don't have the hands for that like my mother does.  I'm scared that I will won't end up like my mother.

I'm afraid of rejection.  Even though it's nothing unfamiliar.

I'm scared that my butt will get bigger.  I mean, I'm already insecure about it.

I'm afraid of hurting someone, again.  I'm afraid of being hurt, again.

I'm seriously scared of bees.  Like, I really think I have some kind of anxiety disorder because of it.  Just the thought of one or of anything even remotely related to one sends my heart into an uneven frenzy.  But in a bad way.

I'm afraid of telling my secrets.  I don't have that many left and I'm afraid that if I let them all escape, I'll have nothing that's mine.  I won't have anything to hold against them or anything to make me feel like I actually have the upper hand for once.

I'm scared of people touching my neck.  I really, really don't want to be strangled.

I'm afraid of losing it someday.  I'm afraid that I'll have one of my rare panic attacks in the middle of the hallway and that someone will look at me with pitying eyes and that I'll be so completely embarrassed.

I'm scared of the dark sometimes.  And silence.  I hope my husband won't mind me falling asleep to sitcoms or Brandi Carlile.

I'm afraid of being vulnerable because I just can't bear it when people get all sentimental at me.  I really don't like people discussing my problems with me.  I like to keep those all to myself.  I don't want anyone to butt in.

I'm scared that people might start to think that 'butt' is my favorite word after reading my blog.  It's not.  Well, sometimes.  (I have a lot of brothers.)

I'm afraid that I'm leaving this at a really awkward spot.  No style or grace.

Snails

I had a dream that you said nice things.

I had a dream that this was exactly what it isn't.

And when I opened my eyes to see the vast distance between where I was and where you were, I collected my head from its lofty seat.  I placed it on my shoulders with needle and thread and continued to tread lightly, silently.  Because although stars rest upon thrones, they fall to the earth on a collision course.

I pretend that all you write is only to me.

I pretend that thoughts of me set camp in your mind.

If we're honest, it once was true.  They way you looked at me and the way I looked away drove you mad.  At least, I think that's what you said.  Those words could have belonged to someone else the way that the bird doesn't belong to the sky, but rather the tree.

So now I imagine we're gasping.

Now I imagine we're screaming.

Every bit of you is not every bit of my ideal.  But there are parts that I like, parts I like a whole lot.  So when those parts that are refused by me surface and voice and make themselves known, I hideout for a few days, writing things to you.  I write that I'm finished and that we need closure and that it isn't actually over.  I'm the not-well-oiled machine.

And I'm looking for spare parts.

"We're Not Naming Our Child Broccoli."

Thinking, thinking, thinking.

I think about you, still.  About hands and Grace Kelly and illegal car rides.  About how you managed to sever a friendship that was seemingly invincible.  Hearing things about you and from you and confronting you.  I think about how I ended up not being good enough or too good, but not in the right way.

I think about how I shouldn't be thinking about you.  I think, 'It's been nearly 3 years.'  And I was naive and nothing was real because there was no way we knew what we were doing.  Even though I think about how experienced you were.  And how wild you were.  I think about how not even you could change this prude.  Is that a bad thing?

I still think about the way you smell.  That near intoxicating scent that made me close my eyes every time you were near and just breathe.  I think, 'Was that creepy?  Did he notice?'  And then I find myself thinking that I hope you actually don't smell that way anymore because I don't want her smelling you and I want it to be my own memory.  And I'm thinking, 'This is definitely creepy.'

(But now I'm thinking I should blame that on you, too.  I mean, I already blame you for messing with me emotionally.  Why not add mental health to the list?)

I'm thinking about how, since you, no one's even remotely close to my radar.  I'm think that the damage is irreversible.  I'm thinking that I'm way in over my head and that I'm blowing everything out of proportion because how could someone so arrogant and irritating remain in my head for so long?

I'm thinking about how I'm so over you.  I'm thinking that that felt really good to say or write or whatever.

I'm starting to think that there's a small possibility it may be true.

But I'm also thinking that this is all my fault because--even though you were no good for me--I was the one who broke it off and I still wonder why all the time.

Brandon Flowers

And we're caught in the music.
It's swaying and sleeping
and filling
our fears.

In the midst of the crossfire
we take to the clouds
and run for
the images
that play in our
heads.

In between Heaven and Hell
the chaos is coming
to gather
us
all.

"And we're caught in the crossfire of
Heaven
and
Hell."

Rendezvousing and Dog Butts

Love is gross.

But I probably say that because the closest I've come to love is that awkward junior high relationship that's, like, a statement that you can be an adult as a thirteen-year-old.  Even though the whole thing consists of walking to the bus together and hugging in the hallways.  (Except, the school banned that and proclaimed it was PDA.

We did it anyway.)

Then you move on and a few years later there's that summer rendezvous which you know is doomed to end once the school bells start ringing.  I think this relationship exists so that a person can have someone to hang out with for three months.  It's a distraction; a brief source of entertainment; something to satisfy our hormones and hyped up emotions.  It's terminal.

And although I've experienced both of these, I've never been close to saying those three words that everyone foams at the mouth over.

I mean, I love my family and my friends and my dog.  (Especially my dog.)  And I've said it to all of them, but no one talks about that kind of love; no one wants to hear about that.

And the worst part is, I can't even tell if my dog understands me when I say it.  I mean, she wags her tail and rubs her butt against me, but is that love?

What is love, really?

I Don't Want to Write This

I remember the first time I heard you.  It rang in my ears and I knew it wasn't an accident and I felt it.
I felt your lack of presence.

I saw you waste away to nothing; a heap of graying flesh and bones.  I saw you pretend it wasn't happening.

It must have been tiring.  The excuses, the deceit.  Tip-toeing around yourself in order to keep the facade in check.  It must have been lonely.

I'm sorry you let this happen to you.  I'm sorry you let the deceptive nagging win.  I'm sorry I watched you break down.  Snot-faced and red-faced and crying.

It's like, I can't even help you.  I mean, you won't let me help you.  Really, you won't let me in.

You won't let anyone in because there's no room.  Because there's an ugly monster, gnashing it's teeth and rearing it's head.  And sometimes you let it loose.

Except, you're getting better.  Except, sometimes you falter.  Except, I don't know if you're healthy or taming.

I just want to know that everything's okay.

I just want to know that you're okay.

I just want to know, okay?

Man-Made Machine

There's this tension that I can't seem to shake.  It thrives in my lungs and my throat and escapes through my mouth.  It's this heaving; it's heavy breathing.

And now the world is quaking and everything I look at is shaking.  But that's just my hands.  They infect the things--the humans--they touch.

Except, it's all normal because I'm laughing.  I'm throwing my head back and my hair quivers because the noise erupting causes my body to erupt, too.  Because, I think, I'm programmed that way.

This is why.  I let distractions come if it means escaping the reality of what's happening to me.  I let you in and I let you in and I keep letting you in.  Because someone planted it in my system.

This is why.  I'm alive and I feel alive and I pretend I'm not pretending.

And it's my everyday routine.

This is why I'm a machine.