Get the fuck out, now.

It's not cool when you stand behind me while I'm on the computer, playing loud games that sound like bowlingpinscollidingwithbowlingballs.
It's not cool when you stand there, when I already have a headache.
It's especially not cool because you made our brother NOT PLAY THAT SAME DAMN GAME because YOU had a headache.

You, my friend, are a hypocrite. 


AND I'M STARTING TO GET UPSET!


Just a little, so get the fuck out.
Now.

(No, seriously. I'm not even kidding. This is worse than having a mule kick your head out of spite periodically for three days straight.)

Common Realities

When we used to race down the staircase on our butts. Rug burn all up and down our calves from the carpet.

When we'd sneak into the spare-room (your NOW bedroom) to play barbies and beanie babies.

When we'd repeat certain words or gestures, pretending they were secret code for something, and pretending we actually understood them.

When we spent countless hours trying to actually make up secret codes. 


When we take long walks together, talking about everything that's on our minds, but knowing that's not everything on each other's minds.

When someone says or does something stupid, and we give each other that little smile....

We have common realities,
common grounds,
that we both seem to walk on.

It's never been a question of whose space, or whose thoughts.
We just seem to be there. 


I'm so glad I have you Here, Tiana.
I love you.

There. I said it.

"All of these noisy people, these noisy people.
All of these noisy people.
I can't stand
I can't stand
All of these noisy people."

I'm too dizzy for this.

Too dizzy, tired, and I just don't care.

It'd be silly to think I care.

But at the same time, I care so much it's breaking my heart. 
There. I said it.

You should know who you are.

There are three people I have questions for regarding last night.

Longer, deeper, and much, much more blood.

Am I feeling enough pain, now?
Am I bleeding enough, now?
Do I even have a chance a being thin, now?

Cut off all the ropes, and let me fall.

I wonder.

I wonder if I killed myself, would anyone cry? Or even miss me, really.
I wonder if people think about me. Ever.
I wonder if people leave school wondering why I didn't dare say one word.
I wonder if they ever question my foggy state.
I wonder if anyanyanyone wonders about me.

I wonder if they'd miss me if I were dead.


Now, the problem is, I highly doubt anyone would.
Highly, highly doubt it.

No one would miss me, or cry. No one thinks about me, no one considers my words. Or rather, my silence.
No one considers anything I have said.
And I'm sure...

so, so sure I've certainly said enough for a warning.

No one should be surprised.

Truth

I'll tell you this much.

I could care less, or more, about everything.
But I have every right
to hate myself.

Sunken, undercover.

That's awfully funny.

I think, you thought, for even a moment, that you understand me. 
That's really, truly, awfully funny.

There's nothing to understand, understand?
There's nothing to get, because I am no one. 
There's nothing
absolutely
absolutely
nothing
Here.

I am sunken ships you can no longer see,
hidden underwater,
as if someone drowned me.
And seaweed, and algae covers
and fish, no longer lovers.
I am in darkness, underwater.
Undercover.
And I am cold. 
But here,
here there is nothing,
no one.

Here I am alone,
so I do not exist.

Here, I am here.
But the schools of fish, of sheep,
they avoid me, walk past me,
veer away, ignore, forget about me.

I'm drowning, drowned.
Just the skeleton of a ship.
Just the skeleton, the sailors are gone.

Sunken, underwater-undercover.

It's awfully funny, to even assume you understand this analogy. 

The fight

Tie a rope
around your wrist.
While it chokes
You insist.
I am blood,
and lines I stutter.
I'm nothing more,
I'm just a cutter.
But pain is black
and bruises too.
I know I'm fat
I'm telling you.
So help me starve
each word I say
Tie them up
and hide them away.
And then it's silence,
and then it's cold.
From here, we're quiet.
From here, we're controlled.
Careful cuts
and careful cups
Of waterwaterwater
now you're telling US!
So you say to stop
to see the world.
But no one tried
to see this girl. 
While she held back
her words, her thoughts,
others drew swords
with which they fought.
They gave her darkness
they gave her fear.
So this is why
you just can't hear--


--hear her words,
they're calling out.
She's wrought with pain
from all your SHOUTS
Now you don't see
the lines so red
with string, with blood.
It's all we have.

We hide behind
these masks so white
and hide in dark,
we hide from light.
With rods inside
that hold us up
we must confide
or else we stop.

Now words grow small
and skin, and bones.
We're getting thin,
while throwing stones.
But stones are lies
and lies are short.
We're running out,
straight through the door.
As we pass through
the monsters gawk.
Making faces
with which they mock.

We're fake,
plastic
fools,
who want one thing.
But if it costs us
our life,
we will be thin. 

Drowning

Hold me down, and I will choke.
I will drown, I will be soaked.
Hold me down, let out the air.
Things are fine, here.

FUCKFUCKFUCK
LIESLIESLIES.


Hold me down.
I'll sit silent.
Let out my breath,
my breath,
my air.
Cover my mouth,
my eyes,
my ears.

I'll stay still,
while you choke the life out of me.
Drown me, go ahead.

I dare you. 

Things are FINE! :] Ish.

So I'm hiding,

From reality.

And it's notgoingtofindme.
Because today,
I hid under my covers in darkness.

And no one talked to me.
Not even one word was uttered,
so things are fine.

But things aren't really fine, just not terrible.

Or at least not yet.

Red string

Of course I replaced it. Who would I be without it?

But my grandmother...she asked me if I was wearing it because of this religion.
This religion, that seems to wear red bracelets.
I said no, I'd never heard of it.

Should I have told her, my quest is just as noble as any?
Should I have told her why I was really wearing it?

Mistakes

You know the saying, "We all make mistakes"?
Well it's true.
So true, in fact, it's honest. But it's pointless, because everything's MY FAULT anyway.
No one else really makes mistakes, no.
Just me.

Just. Me.

Happy!

Obviously I'm fooling someone.

Disarm

Disarm, disarm. 

Put your weapons, your hatred, down. 

And walk

away. 

Disarm yourself, 

and stop waging war on the world. 

Ah, friendship. What lovely things you have brought me -.-

She was talking to me today. Something about wanting to rip her veins out. Something about wanting to dig so deep there's nothing left but shreds and blood.
Something, but all I could think was, "am I the only one who is happy?"
And then I laughed out loud, because I'm not happy. 
And I told her. I told her that, no, she doesn't want that. She wants to make her last months in England count, make them fun, and then start again.

I told her, "at least wait until I can talk to you in person. At least live until then."
She promised.
She promised she would.
So she has to.

And then the two of us can be happy, together. Just like how it used to be, only ten times better.
Ten times better, but.
Not really.

Red bracelets

I always, always, always 
wear a thin red string along my wrist.

Yesterday, it tore in half and ripped off.
The question is, should I really replace it a second time, or
am I good enough the way I am?

I don't know what to title this.

All these things, you know--

people slipping in and out of my life. Yes, they do that. Friends just packing up and leaving. Things breaking, and that not-caring-enough-to-sit-down-and-put-them-back-together attitude. Like, I don't have the patience, really. Things burning rather than existing, that darn reality. Words blurring past, like, wow. Like, what?
I don't know, you know? Sometimes, like, I ask for someone to explain it to me. Just, say something makes sense, sure? But they tell me
they don't
understand.
And that's peachy. So, fine. I can't talk about myself, because every time I press on for details about someone else, they jump into an hour long conversation about their life. Which is interesting, and I care and all...but sometimes it'd be nice to actually feel comfortable enough
that I know they're not just asking to be polite. And it's like, they don't ask again. Maybe once, maybe twice, and that's that. They're perfectly fine to go on about their lives.
And that makes me wonder, do they care at all?
And that makes me wonder, do I?




--all these things confuse me so much,
but my patience fizzles out like a snubbed out match. Yeah, I'm not really going to figure this out anytime soon, am I?

Talking

Talking.

Talking is words covering paper. And when I talk, I barely finish a line.
But that's fine, because the words I do say mean more than countless pages of scribbles and ramblings.
Sometimes.

Sick, twisted irrelevance.

I don't believe it, I'm almost angry, I don't care. 
I bet you're lying, I'm close to rage, I don't care. 
I can't believe it, I am angry, but I don't care. 


This is stupid. I still don't care. 


Probably.

Gossip.

You are clothed in your words,
and if someone were to force you into silence,
you would have to face the world naked.
You'd be exposed,
and we'd all see you for who you really are.

All of us

I feel hazy. 

It's all these people, who think they're happy, who think they're fine. 

All these people, who aren't really okay. Not all the time. 

Yes. And all these words, and thoughts and noises. 

Especially the loud ones. 

Watch out for those loud ones. 

Actually, maybe it isn't. 

Maybe it's just me. Just me, my thoughts, my noises. 

Just my words, 

my shouts,

my actions,

my failures,

my falling-outs,

my guilt...

Fuck fuck fuck.

Maybe I don't hate this, but I hate this.

God. Damn. Everything.

Except, not everything. 

Just some things. 

Some things, some people, ...me. 

Monsters

In dark rooms, we hide. Under barren mattresses and dirty ceilings. 

We wait, tracing cracking walls, and watch as the lights flickerflickerflicker out. 

No one sees us. 

We are monsters, tracing our claws along your skin, and bringing the infection in. 

We are night-terrors, taking away all your problems, and giving you a thousand more. 

We are darkness,

we are fear. 

We are terrible,

we are Here.

And tonight,

we'll get you. 

Tonight, you belong to Us. 

Failurefailurefailure

Small reminders, every page, that I FAILED. 


No problem, it's fine. It doesn't bother me.

Only, every page, I sink a little lower in my seat,
shut my eyes a little tighter,
and pretend
I can't even
see it.

Even though I can, and it hurts like fuck. 

Happiness

The five minutes of my life
where I am happy,
where I am fine,
are the best five minutes of my life.

And once I find them
I will hide them away,
lock them in a box,
and keep them in the attic.

They're mine, back off.

Go places. Maybe nowhere, maybe never.

Here's how it works:

You're going to grow up.
But before you grow up, you're going to live. And you're going to make lists, and go places, and take trips. And you're going to break things, and get in trouble, and cry. And you're going to hate yourself sometimes, and other people, and the world. But everything will work out, so wait.

The thing is, you have to have faith.
I'm not going to tell you why, not really. Because I just know, that you'll grow up, you'll get older, more mature, maybe. And you'll tuck experiences under you belt, laughing, when you look back at how silly you probably were.

You're going to eat something that tastes bad, you're going to make a stupid face. You're going to get messy. I mean, it's life. That's inevitable.
You're going to laugh at something, smile at someone.
You're going to have good experiences. Very good.
But you're going to have bad ones too.

And along the way, the things you really want to remember,
are those tiny flowers along the high-way.

The ones that are bright, and small,
and cheery.

Because when you're 80-something,
those flowers will stick in your mind.

And you'll try to tell someone, "They're bright, remember them. The red ones, they're so realistic, I can see them now..."
But people will think you're crazy, and won't understand.
And you'll be frustrated, because they were so beautiful and
perfect.

Or as perfect as you can be on a polluted high-way.

But it doesn't matter.
You remember them, if they make you smile.

Remember everything that makes you smile.

Like, when you're upset, and your best-friend traces pictures on your  back with his/her fingers. Or, when it's sunny and warm out, and it makes everything feel tingly. Or being scared shitless at 3 in the morning, locked out of the house.
The things
that makes you smile,
will be the things
that help you
get older.

And once you've lived, once you've gone through everything you're going to go through,
you'll look back.
And you might want to know, "Can I do it all again?"

But don't be greedy.
This, right here.
This is your life.
And this is your time to live.

If you don't, it's your loss.
It really is.

Noise

Do you know that noise...
the one that buzzes in your ears,
just before you go to sleep?

I swear to god, 
it's following me.


That little noise...
the one that echoes throughout
large rooms.

I swear to god,
it'll be my tomb.


You know the noise, right?
That silence-breaker,
that risk-taker...

that noise, that's always there,
even when you're not?

Silence, I bet.
But it's loud as ever.

Questions

We're constantly grouping everyone together, tying them close with reflective tape so we can find them easily the next time we're looking.
Only, how do we, as people, know exactly who goes where?
How do we chose who sits in the nice group, and who sits in the mean?
How do we chose who sits in the bad group, and who sits in the good?
How do we pick who's
happy/sad
deserving/not
a hero/ a traitor
up/down
smart/stupid
caring/not....

How do we make that decision, without thinking, and calculating for years, and years.
As well, though.
What do we calculate?
What do we ask,
what do we know,
what do we take into serious consideration....


What is the criteria for being okay?

What makes you evil, or good.

Where do we draw the line?

"The question is how different are we. Us, and Them."

Fine.

Oh, for god's sake....

You've got to be kidding me!

Maybe, if there's no trust, then maybe, this isn't working out.

Maybe not at all.

I'm starting to have fun again

We faked it, because we didn't know the moves to the dance. 

But we smiled all the way. 

And when it was over, 

we fought 

with our imaginary swords because

that's

what

kids

do. 

goodnight love. it's dreaming, remember.

Small words, but they made me smile.

Maybe more than I should have?

What game? It's not a game, is it?

Gosh.

I feel like I'm contorted, in some odd way, and everything is all backwards and forwards and just...confusing.
Because my arms aren't at my side,
and my legs aren't underneath me,
and my head is spinning everywhere,
and what the hell is all this?

What are these words,
these gestures,
these smiles?

What are these deep conversations,
these little slip-ups,
these games
and jokes
and understanding smirks?

I don't get it.

How can someone so behind me,
make me so happy,
while I'm all the way across the room, the country, the world, the universe?

My arms are spinning in circles,
my hands
my legs
my head.
Everything pulsates to the beat,
stops,
breathes,
jumps,
twists,
stops,
and it's calm again.


But then the music starts with a new song -a faster song- and everything gets too tangled up to breathe anymore.

That hurts a bit, because this is just a game.
And games are supposed to be fun,
not stressful.

So I'm thinking,
maybe,
I should
quit.

But that's not good enough for you, and I have to think about you. Only you, because I don't matter. I can't let myself matter. It's youyouyou.
All you, no me. And I can't stand this anymore.

Actually

Could you shut up? Stop talking to me, stop bothering me?


Could you not wake me up in the mornings, yell at me. 
Could you not greet me after school. 


Could you just...leave?
Leave me be. 


I'm kinda sorta starting to really dislike you. 


More so than anyone else. 


But. 
That probably won't happen, because you're fixated on ruining my day. 


Hey, I had been smiling. But fuck that, right?


Sure. Fuck everything. 






...maybe all I need is to curl up in a fort with plastic dinosaurs and doritos, too. 
Fuck school, and all that. 
All that's just pointless. 

Solution

Go. 

Do it. 

Go do it right now. 

Okay?

Dc. 2

Those stupid little monsters are making her life confusing, and she's not
happy
at
all.

I don't know what to say to her,
to make her feel better.

But all I know is that those
stupid
little
dicks people seem to call boys,
don't deserve her,
aren't worthy
of her,
and certainly,
shouldn't
upset her.

And if I was there I would easily beat them to a pulp, watching them cry. And then I'd ask them, "Are you sorry now?"

I am terrible.

I should feel terrible.
Every second, every minute, every day.

I should feel terrible, absolutely, painstakingly terrible.

But,
it's not exactly like I always do.

Sometimes, the guilt's just not there,
and those are the days
I survive.

Until... until you go and do that
again.
And then,
as usual,
it hurts.

You're hurting me, but how do I tell you that?
You haven't even done anything wrong.
This is my fault,
my mistake,
me.

And yet, I'm torturing you, for it.

Why the fuck don't I feel terrible?