looks like we're in for nasty weather

The wind keeps blowing my hair into my face and into my lipstick, but it's okay because I like the way it smells today.

- S.H.

to be different but the same

"I can give you the stars," he said.

"How many?"  She asked.

He smiled

and whispered

and lied,

"All of them."

- S.H.

i'm sorry that i couldn't get to you

Warning:  Ugly ranting ahead.

Dammit, Nelson.

I know Annie Mourusie already said this in a past post, but you taught us that art is theft and I should be one of your favorites.

I should be one of those revered writers who sounds excruciatingly indie.  Something like, "There is dirt between my ribs, but you grew sunflowers with the curve of your lips."  It doesn't make any sense and it feels impersonal, but it's a great visual I'm sure.

Honestly, I don't care if my writing isn't that good, I really don't.  (Liar.)  But the fact that I've stayed in Paris--even after my visa expired--should be enough.

Dammit, Nelson.

You're only a high school teacher. 

It should matter that my professor asked for a copy of my film analysis paper.  Like, that's the important stuff, right?  It was about Pride and Prejudice and love and it was beautiful.  I think.

But she never told me if it was a good example or a bad example or an it-could-have-been-better-but-it's-definitely-acceptable example.

And I still would have gotten a greater feeling if I had made your favorite blogs list.

I'm sorry, Nelson.

This post is an absolute mess, but so is my blog and I thought they should match.  (Would I have made your list if I had made my blog pretty?)

I'm sorry that my music plays without you asking it to and I'm sorry that I dropped an F-bomb in my intro.

But I'm trying to make a career out of this writing thing and I need some sort of second impression and a first validation.  Because everyone notices my brother as a writer and my friend as a writer, and I just want to be noticed as a writer.

Really, I'm still in Paris because I'm waiting for someone to tell me that I'm doing this right.

I'm sorry, Nelson.

I'm still here because this is the rest of my life.

- S.H.

you took my soul and wiped it clean

I'm really trying to make sense of this thing I've pinned in my heart.  I feel it there and I feel it flow with my blood and dull in my fingers as I play the melodies of only ever loss.  Because I don't know how to feel anything else right now.  I know it's been a long time and I should be done with this part, but this is the longest heartbreak I've had over something inhuman.

This is the longest heartbreak I've had.

It's all been wrong since that day nearly eight months ago that I stopped knowing how to recognize love.  I mean, when something is torn so viciously away--so suddenly--how is there any other possible outcome than to make it a stranger?

And I completely loathe myself for all of this.

I'm upset that I can't stop writing about it.  Because now I'll always have these words documenting the inner workings of my organs.  My twisted stomach and still heart and beaten lungs.  I've created a diagram of my anatomy.  I've studied it over and over and it's taking up too much space in my brain.  There are more important things I should know.

It's all been wrong since that day four months ago that I still stopped knowing how to recognize love.

I thought she was happy.  But apparently you can't argue with three years and an answer from God.  And I'm still so bitter.  He lost a wife and I lost a sister.

It's all been wrong since that day two hundred twenty two months ago that I never even knew how to recognize love.

Except, I know I had it.  I was told I had it.

I'm really trying to make sense of this thing I've pinned in my heart.  I think it's the absence of love.

- S.H.

as for me it's nothing new

I'm sorry, darling, but I don't believe you.
I don't believe in who you are.
Because you always say
that this is who you
have
to be,
but not once
have I ever heard you say,

"This 
is who I am."

- S.H.

i guess you won't have trouble remembering me someday

I can't keep my fingernail polish from chipping.  I just can't and I remember when I had to ask my mom to paint my nails for me.  And even when I learned to do it on my own, I made her paint my right hand.  She's always been better at those kinds of things.

I mean, she's better at everything.  And I'll sit there biting my nails at an incurable mess as she takes it from my hands and turns it into something beautiful.

Then she's like, "I couldn't always do this. You'll be fine as a mom."  But that seems at least three heartbreaks away and I don't have the time.  "You just need to practice."  Or maybe I just don't know where to begin.

Like when I got my first haircut by myself because I knew I was old enough to do it, but  it didn't turn out how I expected and I was too scared to tell her to fix it. My mom took me back and got it right.  (I don't think I'd be able to do that even now.)

So here I am with my nails being the longest they've been since my last mess and I've painted them pink.  And I don't think they're long because I've stopped having reasons to bite them.  And I don't think they're pink because I like the color.

I remember when I liked the color.

My hair is slightly damaged from the times I've dyed it and my mom thinks I've done something wrong, but she still compliments it.

And I just want my crayons back because when I made a mess on paper that was the one thing my mom didn't need to take care of.  Because then it was art.

Now I've discovered new mediums like friends and pins and tags that hang from my rear view mirror and I'm not sure if that's art, but I know that it's a mess.  At least, I know they would make my mother want to clean.

And I just want my crayons back.  Especially the pink ones.

- S.H.

mega ultra sad

It's not like you were ever a tangible thing.  No, you were always running and I was several footfalls behind.  The only thing I knew was the back of your head and the width of your shoulders and that faded red T-shirt.

You played music once, not for me, but for yourself.  I told you I wanted you to serenade me always and I wasn't lying.  Because the notes that sprouted between the strings and frets of your guitar left me in a stupor.

It's not like I ever knew you.  You sat three rows and a mile away while we learned of the things that created a harmony.  It's not like I didn't want to know you.  In fact, I may have been late to class solely to sit by you, but you always came later.  We were never on key.

And I was never the only one waiting for you.  You should have seen the congregation.

- S.H.

everyone inside the mechanism

This is hard for me.

Humanity should be a simple thing.

The fingers

toes

hands

feet

arms

legs.

This should be easy.

It's the blood pumping

and veins

nerves

brain.

This should be fine.

But I can't leave humanity like this.

I can't describe this within the bounds of flesh and bone.

Replace these with metal and gears,

and you've got a machine.

It moves and works and it could be human.

If you leave it at that.

It's more and I'm not doing it justice.

And I don't want to sound like everybody else,

but I think they've covered it.

Humanity is not the brain,

it's the function.

It's the thinking

thinking

always thinking.

Not like a machine with an off switch.

Humanity is not the heart,

it's the warmth.

The pumping,

the beat

the beat.

Not like the chill of machines.

Humanity is the craving

the imagination

the creation.

It's also the bad things.

The anxiety
the depression
the loss.

I think,

humanity's been named.

I think,

there's not much more to offer.

I think,
I don't like this.

I think I'm human.

- S.H.