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.