tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63064774348896675222024-03-13T03:12:56.575-07:00In Which Sophie is Compelled to Seek Her Fortune"She was not particularly frightened. She wondered how it moved."Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-32860522143367698702016-03-22T10:12:00.000-07:002016-03-22T10:12:41.529-07:00i'm gonna dream about the time when i'm with youI know he loves me when we cuddle and his fingertips lightly graze my knee.<br />
<br />
I know he loves me when we're hiking through a slot canyon and he helps me up every boulder even though I can probably do it myself.<br />
<br />
I know he loves me when he says that if someone had a gun to the dog's head and a gun to my head, he would choose me every time.<br />
<br />
When he does the dishes all by himself and beams at me like a child.<br />
<br />
When he can't keep his hands to himself.<br />
<br />
When he says we can leave the gym before he's ready.<br />
<br />
When he tickles my back or plays with my hair or rubs my feet.<br />
<br />
When he offers to cook me dinner.<br />
<br />
When he asks me what I want to watch on Netflix.<br />
<br />
When he listens to me play piano.<br />
<br />
When he says he loves listening to me play piano.<br />
<br />
When he lets me read Harry Potter to him.<br />
<br />
He kisses me softly when I'm wearing lipstick.<br />
<br />
He says, "I do," every time I hand him his wedding ring.<br />
<br />
He eats breakfast when I make it, even though he doesn't eat breakfast.<br />
<br />
I knew my husband loved me when we knelt across the altar.<br />
<br />
I knew my husband loved me when he told me he had to run to the restaurant's bathroom for an upset stomach and that he "might be in there awhile" when, really, he was calling my mother and his brother because he was so nervous to propose later that night.<br />
<br />
I knew my husband loved me when he went to my parents' house and saw my dad cleaning his guns, but still asked for his blessing, even after my dad gave him a bullet and said he would use it if my husband ever hurt me.<br />
<br />
I knew my husband loved me when he left in the middle of our biggest fight, got on the road to drive two hours home, but came back after an hour because he couldn't leave me that way.<br />
<br />
I knew my husband loved me when we were laying on the couch at two in the morning after dating only a few weeks, and he leaned in and whispered, "<i>I think I'm falling in love with you.</i>"Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-40263408536627241462015-06-02T11:13:00.001-07:002015-06-02T11:15:31.704-07:00yesterday is long ago and far awayI don't know how to write about being happy.<br />
<br />
For years, I poured my heart out on this blog. Well, I gave you most of it. The bad parts.<br />
<br />
But now I'm happy, and I don't know what to say. I'm getting married, and I don't know what to say.<br />
<br />
I don't want to write a post saying, "It gets better." Because I don't know what "better" is for you. Maybe what's good for me, won't be good for you.<br />
<br />
But I'm happy, and I wanted to let you know that it got better for me.<br />
<br />
I think high school was an okay time. I had friends that I saw every day and I went to easy classes and got mostly A's. But sophomore year was rough and junior year was rough and senior year was whatever. I don't know why, but I cried a lot in high school. I didn't have much to be sad about, but I cried because I needed to feel that. And that was also okay. It's alright to want to feel and not be able to and then just cry because you can.<br />
<br />
High school is all for emotional experimentation.<br />
<br />
But things got real after graduation. Summer wasn't a thing anymore and I had to learn to pay bills and live on my own. Everyone talked about sex like it was real, because they were really having it. Nobody was who they said they were in high school. And they all did drugs and drank alcohol and I always knew that stuff existed but I didn't really see it until then. It was the first time I didn't feel like a kid anymore.<br />
<br />
So freshman year of college was rough. I still cried a lot. I didn't like where I spent my time or who I spent it with.<br />
<br />
And then I got over myself. I told myself I didn't have to be around the things I didn't want to be around and I didn't have to feel the way I didn't want to feel. So I still loved the people I spent my time with, but I didn't spend my time doing the things they spent their time doing.<br />
<br />
And then I was happy. Bills were easy to pay and I didn't mind living on my own and -- you better listen to this next thing because it's the biggest miracle of all -- I got the boy. The one I pined after through all of high school. I got him. I'm marrying him. And I'm happy.<br />
<br />
I got what I wanted and it feels natural. Like my life was supposed to be <i>this</i>. Like it had never been any other way before. Like I deserve this. And I do. I've earned this.<br />
<br />
There might be too many words in this post and not enough sense, but I think someone will read this and understand. And someone needs to hear this:<br />
<br />
It got better for me. And I'm happy.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7F-lOnqAdkk/VW3xf-Ihr2I/AAAAAAAAG5k/B-CwnT4RBOE/s1600/_MG_1753-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7F-lOnqAdkk/VW3xf-Ihr2I/AAAAAAAAG5k/B-CwnT4RBOE/s640/_MG_1753-2.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
<br />
- S.H.Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-18848865567601518512015-01-27T11:45:00.002-08:002015-03-12T10:59:48.059-07:00i'm like the tide in the deep blueI'm not going to make excuses for my lack of writing.<br />
<br />
I won't stand on stage and spout a whiny soliloquy to empty seats. I won't fill a monologue with writer's block or ugly words or no words. Because I have been writing. Not here, but somewhere; in my brain, on a page, in an essay stuffed somewhere on the bottom shelf of the desk in my small room in my small apartment.<br />
<br />
Words have left my pen, my fingers, my mouth and flown to someone else--somewhere else. Letters and phrases jumbled into sentences that mean something or nothing are floating out in the galaxy, or maybe the next one over. (My roommate would want you to know that it's called Andromeda.) But the next one over is supposed to be colliding with this one in some odd billion years and so the words will probably be coming back for more. They will be disappointed when everything is ripped to rubble and a new space time continuum has formed instead. (I don't know if that's actually going to happen. I don't know what a space time continuum even is. I heard it from Futurama.)<br />
<br />
<img height="209" src="https://40.media.tumblr.com/6170a043a46c17e6bf402ac343d4e53c/tumblr_nits26J1C41s9smbao4_540.jpg" width="320" /><br />
<a href="http://polariscastillo.tumblr.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(x)</span></a><br />
<br />
All you really need to know, empty seats, is that I think I'm back for now. That's all.<br />
<br />
- S.H.Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-79767517409163394052014-07-30T17:03:00.001-07:002014-07-30T17:05:16.565-07:00with these revisions and gaps in historyThe words rolled off of her tongue, and I swear it was sugar.<br />
<div>
<br />
<div>
I mean, the complete bliss and giddiness and the things that come in between.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I realized that <i>I want that</i>. I want to be consumed by my girlish hormones and impossible fantasies. Like, I want to create stories and thoughts and visions that fulfill some sort of longing for a boy who I find absolutely ravishing or some gross word like that. It's whatever.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Because I realize that I don't have that now, even though I probably should. I don't have that nervousness that captures your throat when you try to speak to him. I don't have that fear of rejection that's completely irrational because you're pretty sure he really likes you, but, like, what if he doesn't? Like, you know he's <i>said</i> it, but a lot of words have been said. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't know, I don't think this makes sense. Like, do you get it? Am I being too literal here, or not literal enough?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I guess I just really want to know a boy who creates swarms of butterflies with his walk, with the curve of his lips.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And right now, I'm sorry, but that feeling is lacking.<br />
<br />
- S.H.</div>
Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-6250506384411637682014-07-28T18:42:00.000-07:002014-07-28T18:42:57.362-07:00sleep well<div dir="ltr">
Things are different now.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
The way we speak,</div>
<div dir="ltr">
the way we laugh,</div>
<div dir="ltr">
the way we wear our clothes.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I think I feel your heart,</div>
<div dir="ltr">
but it's not the one I remember.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
You've turned from innocence</div>
<div dir="ltr">
to something</div>
<div dir="ltr">
dreadful.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
And I don't mean <i>you</i>,</div>
<div dir="ltr">
but I mean your eyes,</div>
<div dir="ltr">
or your hair,</div>
<div dir="ltr">
or something inside of you that is not the thing I knew before.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
It's just different.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I wonder when they all started making sex jokes.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
Or, perhaps, when I started noticing them.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I'm sorry, </div>
<div dir="ltr">
but I've been ripping my brain to shreds.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
- S.H.</div>
Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-28030127774912392852014-04-10T14:29:00.001-07:002014-04-10T14:29:37.111-07:00where i send my thoughts to far off destinations<div dir="ltr">
She was always riddled with ink. It filled the crevices of her palms and followed the veins down her arm. It bled into her heart and her heart pumped it out and it reached every nerve ending in her body. It filled her brain with ideas and she wrote them down:</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i>A girl, alone and misunderstood, but not really sad.</i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i>A girl, surrounded by people and really sad.</i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i>Music in the bones.</i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i>Wars within the head.</i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i>Thunderstorms and stars.</i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i>A girl, alone and misunderstood and surrounded by people and not sad, but really sad.</i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i>An unforgivable heartbreak because there is no one to forgive.</i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i>A very, very passive love.</i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i>A girl.</i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i>A girl.</i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
She wrote them down and told herself she would share them one day. She would wrap them up in paper and binding and actual printer ink rather than her bloodstream.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
When she grew up--not old, but up, but smart, but mature--she would share these things.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Now she's pacing from room to room and sitting in desks and listening to good words and she's trying to grow up. She's making it. She's almost there, she's almost there. Just another three years, three years.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<b>She is growing up.<i> </i></b></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div dir="ltr">
And when she is up as words are old, she will open her veins and her heart and her brain. They won't be ideas and she won't need to write them because they will be written. And people will read her words all over the world and that's a lot to hope for, but when she grows up . . . ,</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
- S.H.</div>
Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-16926485915613111022014-03-27T00:01:00.000-07:002014-04-02T00:26:11.569-07:00i said that i'm just fine<i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">I cannot write about </span></b></i><i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Death anymore </span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">because each moment I do </span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">is a moment closer </span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">to Death </span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">coming for me.</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b></i>
- S.H.Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-75999777377985851962014-03-20T22:52:00.000-07:002014-03-20T22:54:13.969-07:00by a lady in black<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRmtkmNtdncz-cDO0_r48iudR5C9g7_A3dJkbutkoH68OFFEnB7jylRMwUG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRmtkmNtdncz-cDO0_r48iudR5C9g7_A3dJkbutkoH68OFFEnB7jylRMwUG" /></a></div>
<br />
Empty souls fill empty cathedrals and sinners begin to pray. </div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
The saints serenade their ears with praise, but the angels remain still.</div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
The sinners have bruised knuckles and scorched hearts, and they don't know any better. </div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
They've arrived unwelcome. </div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
Not by God and not by the angels, but the congregation cannot tear their tandem gaze.</div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
Sinners perspire from the fire. </div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
They've seen Hell and it isn't a place, it resides in the eyes of the saints.</div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
And although light is pouring from the stain glass windows, coloring rainbows on their clammy skin, they are wishing they hadn't come. </div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
They are wishing they would've stayed kneeling beside their bed in the dark like they always have.</div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
That would be less damning.</div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
- S.H.</div>
</div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-12516567431906040392014-03-18T12:50:00.000-07:002014-03-20T22:53:44.809-07:00darling, everything's on fireAre we talking about<br />
fears<br />
or insecurities?<br />
<br />
Because I know I have a lot of the latter,<br />
but the former seems too hard.<br />
<br />
See, if we were talking about<br />
insecurities<br />
I could tell you about<br />
my weight<br />
that's perfectly fine,<br />
but I'll never want to be<br />
allowed to<br />
donate blood. <br />
<br />
I could tell you about the<br />
secrets<br />
I've hidden from the world<br />
because I know it would<br />
disown me if<br />
only it<br />
knew.<br />
<br />
I could tell you about my<br />
relationship<br />
with the moon and<br />
the sun and<br />
how they still mean the<br />
same things because they're<br />
both an escape.<br />
<br />
I don't know what fears are.<br />
<br />
And I don't mean I'm brave because<br />
I know I'm a coward. <br />
<br />
I'm malleable. <br />
<br />
I'll do anything they'll tell me,<br />
just to fit in. <br />
And they'll be none the wiser,<br />
but I'll always have<br />
my head bowed. <br />
<br />
I know I'm a coward.<br />
<br />
But what am I afraid of?<br />
<br />
Obviously bees,<br />
and I don't appreciate<br />
hands around my neck.<br />
<br />
But what terrifies me?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I think I'm scared of loss.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
My experience with loss is fleeting<br />
and I'm terrified of that meeting.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The loss of my<br />
<br />
<br />
family<br />
<br />
<br />
friends<br />
<br />
<br />
mind.<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm terrified of having<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
nothing.<br />
<br />
-S.H.Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-12973551538804831692014-03-08T22:38:00.000-08:002014-03-08T22:41:42.864-08:00I was told to keep writing. To never cease the movement of my hands and to let the words trickle where they may.<br />
<br />
I was told that it's okay to write junk.<br />
<br />
Because as long as I'm letting it out, I'm fulfilling my passion.<br />
<br />
I was told to keep writing. Even if I run out of things, I should just spill every thought from my mind:<br />
<br />
<i>This blanket is soft, and maybe a little too warm. It belonged to my childhood bed which was bigger than the one I have now.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I've lived in every room of this house and it's strange to go back.</i><br />
<br />
I am writing junk, but at least I'm saying things.<br />
<br />
At least I'm not quiet like I used to be.<br />
<br />
And maybe no one will read this, or somebody will and they will stay quiet.<br />
<br />
Because this is literally junk.<br />
<br />
But at least I'm writing.<br />
<br />
At least this is real.<br />
<br />
All of those beautiful things you read are revised. They've been poked and prodded and they've been given thought. They've been given a name.<br />
<br />
But when you're writing from the vast space of your mind, you can't pin that down.<br />
<br />
You can't call it beautiful or give it any title.<br />
<br />
This is complete and utter junk.<br />
<br />
But at least I'm writing.<br />
<br />
And this is something I can't revise.<br />
<br />
- S.H.Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-44363540470084230112014-03-04T02:22:00.000-08:002014-03-04T02:30:05.939-08:00we were both young<i>You left and that's fine.</i><br />
<br />
It's fine because you'll be back, not for a while, but you will come back. And things will probably be different because we will be older and you will be wiser and I will always be a few steps behind. Except, we have this unsustainable promise between us and I'm keeping it for now.<br />
<br />
<i>You are my brick.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I know we never said anything beautiful to each other, but at least we read each other's beautiful words. And some of your words had to be about me. They just had to be because if they weren't, I might not keep our promise.<br />
<br />
<i>You are my brick.</i><br />
<br />
And maybe that's selfish. Everything around me is changing and I'm using you to keep me sane. I'm allowing myself to feel the escape <i>for now</i> because you aren't here. But I'm telling myself that when you come back, I'm going to return to normalcy. Maybe that's selfish.<br />
<br />
<i>You left and that's fine.</i><br />
<br />
And I don't know why I'm giving you these words because I'm not sure if I love you. But every time I let myself down, I let myself know that I've been waiting for you. (Maybe that isn't how I should be doing this.)<br />
<br />
<i>You are my brick.</i><br />
<br />
My days revolve around you writing back. Because I want to read your words again and I want to remember them. So it's okay that you took five months last time. I had so much time to pound that paper into my brain.<br />
<br />
<i>You left and that's fine.</i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">You are my brick and you will come back and everything will be just fine.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
- S.H.Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-4984688758892768722014-02-27T14:09:00.003-08:002014-02-27T14:24:13.284-08:00looks like we're in for nasty weatherThe wind keeps blowing my hair into my face and into my lipstick, but it's okay because I like the way it smells today.<br />
<br />
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- S.H.</div>
Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-10941614666229560912014-02-25T19:56:00.000-08:002014-02-27T14:24:26.057-08:00to be different but the same<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><b><i>"I can give you the stars," he said.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><b><i>"How many?" She asked.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><b><i>He smiled</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><b><i>and whispered</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><b><i>and lied,</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><b><i>"All of them."</i></b></span></div>
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- S.H.</div>
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Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-69838974294676619822014-02-15T23:56:00.000-08:002014-02-16T01:33:02.358-08:00i'm sorry that i couldn't get to you<span style="color: #cc0000;">Warning: Ugly ranting ahead.</span><br />
<br />
Dammit, Nelson.<br />
<br />
I know <a href="http://anniemou.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Annie Mourusie</a> already said this in a <a href="http://anniemou.blogspot.com/2013/08/annie.html" target="_blank">past post</a>, but you taught us that art is theft and <span style="font-size: large;">I should be one of your favorites.</span><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<div>
<br />
Dammit, Nelson.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">You're only a high school teacher. </span><br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
And I still would have gotten a greater feeling if I had made your favorite blogs list.<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, Nelson.<br />
<br />
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?)<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Really, I'm still in Paris because I'm waiting for someone to tell me that I'm doing this right.<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, Nelson.<br />
<br />
I'm still here because this is the rest of my life.<br />
<br />
- S.H.</div>
Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-55113270878599298492014-02-15T14:31:00.000-08:002014-02-15T23:07:22.540-08:00you took my soul and wiped it cleanI'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.<br />
<br />
This is the longest heartbreak I've had.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
And I completely loathe myself for all of this.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
It's all been wrong since that day four months ago that I still stopped knowing how to recognize love.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
It's all been wrong since that day two hundred twenty two months ago that I never even knew how to recognize love.<br />
<br />
Except, I know I had it. I was told I had it.<br />
<br />
I'm really trying to make sense of this thing I've pinned in my heart. I think it's the absence of love.<br />
<br />
- S.H.Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-70555858767947572602014-02-11T15:06:00.000-08:002014-02-11T16:02:22.114-08:00as for me it's nothing newI'm sorry, darling, but I don't believe you.<br />
I don't believe in who you are.<br />
Because you always say<br />
that <i>this</i> is who you<br />
<b>have</b><br />
to be,<br />
but not once<br />
have I ever heard you say,<br />
<br />
"<i>This </i><br />
is who I am."<br />
<br />
- S.H.Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-6831734440032265052014-02-11T14:56:00.000-08:002014-02-11T16:02:31.459-08:00i guess you won't have trouble remembering me somedayI 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.)<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<strike>I remember when I liked the color.</strike><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
And I just want my crayons back. Especially the pink ones.<br />
<br />
- S.H.Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-17571143706901780242014-02-02T21:37:00.002-08:002014-02-11T16:01:54.822-08:00mega ultra sadIt'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.<br />
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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.</div>
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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.<br />
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And I was never the only one waiting for you. You should have seen the congregation.<br />
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- S.H.</div>
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Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-92079034605071228402014-02-01T22:06:00.001-08:002014-02-11T16:01:31.633-08:00everyone inside the mechanismThis is hard for me.<br />
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Humanity should be a simple thing.</div>
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The fingers</div>
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toes</div>
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hands</div>
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feet</div>
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arms</div>
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legs.</div>
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This should be easy.</div>
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It's the blood pumping</div>
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and veins</div>
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nerves</div>
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brain.</div>
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This should be fine.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But I can't leave humanity like this.</div>
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I can't describe this within the bounds of flesh and bone.</div>
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Replace these with metal and gears,</div>
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and you've got a machine.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It moves and works and it could be human.</div>
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If you leave it at that.</div>
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It's more and I'm not doing it justice.</div>
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And I don't want to sound like everybody else,</div>
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but I think they've covered it.</div>
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Humanity is not the brain,</div>
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it's the function.</div>
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It's the thinking</div>
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thinking</div>
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always thinking.</div>
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Not like a machine with an off switch.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Humanity is not the heart,</div>
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it's the warmth.</div>
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The pumping,</div>
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the beat</div>
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the beat.</div>
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Not like the chill of machines.</div>
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Humanity is the craving</div>
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the imagination</div>
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the creation.<br />
<br />
It's also the bad things.</div>
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<br />
The anxiety<br />
the depression<br />
the loss.</div>
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I think,</div>
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humanity's been named.</div>
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I think,</div>
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there's not much more to offer.</div>
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I think,<br />
I don't like this.</div>
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I think I'm human.</div>
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- S.H.</div>
Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-41190671788272230272014-01-26T21:59:00.000-08:002014-01-26T22:05:32.884-08:00butterflies are passive aggressive and put their problems on the shelf<div dir="ltr">
He spoke.</div>
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<br />
And butterflies flew from his mouth to the earth, to my stomach.</div>
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<br /></div>
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We huddled under a blanket, under the moon, in 30 degree weather and he spoke so effortlessly. The words were so easy; I wasn't the first to hear them that day.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I didn't say much. And it wasn't because I was shocked by his verse, but rather his voice was so comfortable and familiar that I had nothing to contradict. Because as I gazed at him, his steady jaw, I only felt fondness towards him. My kin.</div>
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<br /></div>
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He spoke and I listened and something was fluttering in the air between us and it was the strongest love I'd ever felt. Because I was elated by his trust and I knew it didn't change anything. Nothing at all.</div>
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<br /></div>
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He spoke and I felt like crying. But not the way my mother would have cried. No, I wanted to cry because I thought I should have known all of these years. I wanted to cry because he knew all of these years. I wanted to cry because, in that moment, I respected him <i>so damn much</i>. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I mean, the thickening of my throat was for the unfathomable courage that I'd never possess. All of the confessions that I'd never be able say. All of the vitality that I'd never be able to stress.</div>
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<br /></div>
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In that moment, I wanted to be him. I wanted to lay everything out for the stars and the moon. I wanted to reciprocate.</div>
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In that moment, there were so many things that I could have given.</div>
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I could have told him that I was still hurting so entirely from my loss that summer.</div>
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I could have told him that I did terrible things to my body.</div>
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I could have told him that I always went to bed with tired eyes.</div>
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There was so much I could have given.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But the night was his.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And it was so serene.<br />
<br />
- S.H.</div>
Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-82271342160687611752014-01-24T00:20:00.000-08:002014-01-24T02:04:24.828-08:00in with the outro and out with the old<span style="font-size: large;">This isn't the first time I've done this.</span><br />
<br />
I've been to Paris.<br />
<br />
But I'm coming back because I like what it does to me.<br />
<br />
Lately, I've been sitting in lecture halls with hundreds of people and it's really hard to be recognized there. Except, I think, I don't want to be recognized. Not for that. Not for doing what thousands, millions of people are already doing. <br />
<br />
Here's the truth: Nobody cares that you're going to college. But they ask because it's polite and it's what they're supposed to do. And when they ask you what your major is, they ask with apathy. And when you tell them you're an English major with an emphasis in Creative Writing they wish they didn't ask in the first place. Nobody cares that you're going to college, especially when it's for overtly impractical reasons.<br />
<br />
Except, it's not like that in Paris. I mean, they still don't care that you're sitting in lecture halls, but they're astounded that you've made it this far in such a remorseless world. They're astounded that you aren't using a carefully marked map as you venture on a road that probably leads off the edge of some unknown universe into a black abyss as mysterious as your tortured-artist soul. They're astounded by your blatantly stupid courage. And you have they're utmost respect.<br />
<br />
So I'm back in Paris, among the masses, and it's raining here and it's enough. It's enough to feel my heart working and my mind turning, and my hands are definitely shaking. Because Paris is no longer a place, it's a feeling and I'm beginning to feel fine. But I'm also feeling overwhelmed as it's been a while and I'm hoping I'll be able to do this again. Although, this time will be entirely changed.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to be afraid just for the sake of someone knowing my identity outside of Paris. I will not tell euphemisms. I will not obscure the things I say. My words will be assuredly mine. Because <span style="font-size: large;">you don't get recognized for being somebody else</span>. My name is not Sophie Hatter, but she is who I am. It's this person I've created beyond the name, beyond the character I've stolen from a book, and I've finally taken over. So I'm going to live up to it and get real with you guys. I'll share my innermost self whether you want me or not and I'll probably rub you the wrong way or offend you. But I don't give a fuck because this is Paris.<br />
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- S.H.Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-81851149928300743422013-11-16T21:42:00.001-08:002013-11-16T21:42:56.623-08:00Another OneI feel like I need to explain you because people still don't seem to get it.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I need to explain how you saved me.</span><br />
And I lost you.<br />
I need to explain how you were the only one who ever knew how bad it got, even if you didn't understand it. You knew exactly when I needed you, and there was not one other living entity that could do what you did.<br />
I need to explain how you knew that when I turned the lights off, it wasn't just dark, it was black. Even if you didn't understand. We still laid side by side.<br />
I need to explain how I didn't have secrets from you and that I actually took the time to say them aloud to you. Even if you didn't understand them. And you took those secrets to the grave because you didn't have words and that's why I told them to you in the first place.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I need to explain how you were the only damn thing that loved me.</span> Even when I did the terrible things I did. Because even if you didn't understand anything else, you understood that I loved you.<br />
And I don't know how I'm going to survive this time around because I'm getting bad and I'm doing things I shouldn't be doing and you aren't here to stop me. You aren't here to remind me that somebody loves me.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I need to explain how you loved me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I need to explain how you saved me.</span><br />
And you can't save me this time, just like I couldn't save you last time.<br />
I need to explain all of this, but I don't have the right words and even if I did, I don't think people would get it.<br />
I've never had a best friend like you and I didn't even get three years.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">And I still cry every time I listen to Brandi Carlile.</span>Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-53575691466999483302013-10-18T20:09:00.001-07:002013-10-18T20:14:42.664-07:00to wake the music in our bones,*I went back to senior year and Nelson's classroom and Paris. Here's what happened:<br />
<br />
What does it mean, to wake the music in our bones? Is it a realization or epiphany? The realization that you could be doing so much more than this. Than the quiet nights and empty words. Than the way you see yourself or others or the way you tell them what you don't think or don't tell them what you do.<br />
Is it some epiphany that makes you spin your mind 180 degrees? Because, let's be honest here, you can't physically spin 180 degrees in your small dorm room.<br />
Is it a change in emotion or action or the way you look or dance with others? What does it mean, to wake the music in our bones? Because I've talked to my bones and they seem to be singing already. They sing about mistakes and heartaches and maybe even desire. They serenade me with the words my heart said and my brain said it didn't say. (Except, my brain's a liar.)<br />
What does it mean to wake the music in our bones? Should I make incisions? Remove them from my body and use them as drumsticks? But I don't think I'd survive without my bones, even if they were still making music. See, I need my bones inside me, where they belong. Because sometimes I cant hear the music and I need them to remind me that it's there. I need them to serenade me when I lie awake at night, staring at the stars, deciding if I really exist or not. I need them to ground me or else I'll fly to space to touch those stars and land on the moon and then I'd die from the lack of oxygen.Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-31445980746031581982013-09-11T23:33:00.000-07:002013-09-11T23:34:03.604-07:00I feel heavy.<br />
<div>
It must be the weight of my heart.<br />
<br /></div>
Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6306477434889667522.post-51772644626480971402013-08-16T19:38:00.000-07:002013-08-16T19:38:04.875-07:00Letters to My Former Best FriendsT - 1999 - 2010<br />
Our whimsical childhood filled with creatures of incredible imagination ended with you. I could go on forever in that world with adjacent minds and singed hearts, but it ended with you. Our fantasy quickly faded and morphed into a harsh reality when you gave a quick hug accompanied by the absence of eye contact. We were no longer damsels, and suddenly you seemed like the indifferent, much too cool, step-sister. Even though you are 1 year and 7 months younger than me. Even though you used to be on my side. <br />
We were destined to be hand in hand for a long while, but you cut off all contact when you moved away. Except, you still see C and I'm just sitting here holding on to nostalgia. And I will <b>never</b> forgive you for that. I'm starting to think you were on her side all along. (Was it because you were both in AM and I was in PM?)<br />
<br />
C - 1995 - 2010<br />
I think you're just too cool for me now. Or it could be that I horribly and tremendously broke your heart.<br />
<br />
J - 2001 - 2005<br />
And you're too good for me. But, this whole best friend thing was never mutual anyway. We may have bonded extremely well over fowl and stallions, but not over what truly mattered. Because I could never be there for you like she could. You know, your (to this very day) best friend. And I think she knows a lot more about you than I do because you didn't teach me, but I didn't teach you either.<br />
<br />
S - 2009 - 2010<br />
We were such a good pair. You always endeavored to make me happy and I wasn't such bad company, right? Although, I don't know if you were really utilizing your entire potential when following through with your so called plan. I'm starting to wonder if you got close to me with a strategy alternate to your plan. Because I did terrible things under your reign and some people still have not found it in their hearts to forgive me.<br />
<br />
J - ? - ?<br />
I hardly remember my time with you except the time you spent kissing my cousin.<br />
<br />
H - Summer 2010<br />
You were never my best friend.Aubri Brevardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11044737112305673952noreply@blogger.com2