tiredofyou

I wish it would rain,
because that's the only weather you haven't stolen from me.
You won't read this but,
istillmissyou

'Tis the Season of Nostalgia

I love fall the very most.
Maybe it's because in fall I remember you fondest,
or maybe it's that soon the trees turn lonely,
but right now those leaves dangle hopefully & helplessly over the progression of their life,
eventually to meet their measure,
but some staying, nonetheless, an uncharacteristically optimistic yellow.
And while some leaves have browned and fallen meeting dismal but foreseeable fates
on the bottom of boots with a deafening crunch,
something about the yellow leaves determines to hold on longer,
their waxy but delicate stems pumping a godly ichor through their veins,
but when they descend,
and they will descend,
 it's not a dethroning,
but more of an elegant tango with the wind until they meet with the ground like all leaves must.

and you breathed life into the autumn air,
like some summer refugee,
when everything was changing and I was changing,
your blue eyes were my everything. 

and when I breathe in deep I can feel you hugging me
but when I look at the ashen pavement I see you walking away,
and leaves stick to your shoes,
yellow ones,
but I think I got stuck there too
in-between the creases where leaves rot and recollection turns sour.

But now it's fall again and I'm yellow.
and everything is changing and I'm changing
and when the memories flood
I'm warm and hopeful like a pumpkin spice steamer
and I love fall the very most.

Pre-TSD

You are relevant &

Whatever you are,

you're a lovely one.

& you can do this.

You can survive the cranium-cracking blare of the alarm,

and you can slither into your clothes.

You can start your engine,

and drive in the still hours of the morning,

when any volume above 8 is still too loud,

and 5:30 is burned into the corneas of your bloodshot & baggy eyes.

You can get through that congo line of cars,

and you can do it without a single curse word.

You can step out bravely into the 40 degree morning,

and slap that burden onto your back.

You can inhale.

You can walk in those doors,
fresh like febreeze,
+ shaking knees.

Just don't forget to breathe.

They'll love you babe,

you're a superstar.

You didn't leave your shine at home… did you?

He, Who Throws Rocks at Windows, Should be: a.) killed b.) kissed c) kicked d) all of the above

I keep trying to give up on you.
Did you know that?

Most nights,
my heart pounds at the bars of my chest
like a prisoner due for parole,
and I have to deliberately try
to stop believing in you.

But I can't,

and if you think that's my fault,

stop waltzing around my mind,

& carrying rainy days in your pockets.

You must know by now that innocent hearts won't stop believing in:
1. boys (with bedroom eyes)
    A. & dress shirts.

LMNOP

It's easier to write about things I understand,

Like the callouses on my fingers

or the stains on my shirts.

How they got there,

Whose fault it is,

and that I'll probably miss laundry day again this week.

I can't tell you how many times I've sat at this desk,
with my fingers against the keys,
so I can feel my heart hurt.

The key to being lonely
is giving away so much of yourself
that when you try to scream
you don't even have a whisper left,

You say you love me like it's the easiest thing in the world,
and when you're gone I miss you,
and the way you write the letter "A" like it's
a square instead of a triangle.

I keep trying to write
but I can't distinguish love & sorrow
because it reads like "elemenopee"

I'll let you know when that changes.

Plug Your Ears (lots of yelling in this post)

I've got a pit in my stomach as big as my fist
and it isn't the cramps or a stomach bug,

it's summer.

Summer is setting in on me and I think I'm going to hurl.

(Not that you would know because I've cut and pasted my smile for long enough to hide my anguish)

I like the idea but I hate the practice
and it's easy enough to act excited
but actually BEING excited is a different thing.

Because the junior year I've worshipped like religion is ending,
but it feels more like I'm ending.

It's the last summer.

I wonder if I even exist past homework anymore.

School used to be a hiding place but it turned into a home and
I don't know if I remember who I am.
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't want to know.

(the noisy hallway is a good way to cloud your head and
to avoid those nasty hard questions like "What do you want to do with YOUR WHOLE LIFE?')

I used to be so sure about what I wanted and

I remember when my backyard was enough
but my world is expanding and

I.
Can't.
Breathe.

Summer is empty promise and

I'm afraid alone will be here within the first week of summer
and that he'll set up camp and stay,
and he'll bring the questions. 

What do I want to do with my life?
I want to serve,
I want to love,
I want to feel,
I want to travel,
I want to breathe,
I want to cook,
I want to eat,
I want to have a family,
I want to make friends,
I want to make others happy...

I want to be happy.

"But happy isn't a career and neither is love"

BUT LIFE ISN'T A CAREER

And I'd usually tell you I very strongly dislike school but today it feels like a refuge.

When I grow up I want to be
happy.


(But apparently that's not an acceptable thing to write on your college application.)

The Freckles in Our Eyes

He was always Varjak to me.

He was always kind of blue,

But he was pink every Friday,

And the days he wore earbuds. 

To-From

You are so much more than a number.

You are more than your height,

more than your weight,

and you are more than your ACT score.

You are more than your student ID,

You are more than 3 kisses,

and you are more than 0 kisses.

You are more than 17,

Heck, you're more than 18,

but most importantly,

You're more than you think you are.

You are looking at a bright future.

I hope there's more me in your future,

but even if there isn't I want you to know,

I'm rooting for you.

I (tentatively) love you,
Abby

Enough

Sometimes it's enough that you're real.
It's enough that you are here and
that you are close enough I can poke your arm.

And when you're enough for others,
you're more than enough for me.

And when you've had enough,
I'll be more than enough.

And we can read each other the stars.

so happy

8 a.m
windows down
guitar strummin
bubble blowing
lungs
dancing
Hannah
cinemark
glasses
buns
big sweaters
diet coke
teeth-baring grins
fresh flowers
sun
skipping
flirty skirts
eyelash batting
terrible bowling
mom jeans
lemon juice
suz
magic (coldplay)
glitter
journal entries
moon rising
and myself.
and I'm sorry because I hate cliffhangers too
and I left a whole month of cliffhanging
and sometimes I forget that I
should write about
happy
too.

Crease

I'm driving 15 mph under the speed limit and
little tears are slowly tiptoeing into the little creases of my eye and
the old familiar anthems fade in like static.

I swipe under my eyes and stare straight ahead, creasing my forehead.
determination is etched into my face.

But I guess my heart doesn't get the message.
My heart mourns.
It mourns for the loss of that
incalculable twinkle
that was lost the moment
I finally saw.

But I can't see anymore because tears
start to blur against the dark and the headlights.

"Nobody will love you. Too fat, too tall, too annoying."


… I guess I got reception.

"Nobody will love you."

"Nobody."

Writers Block @ 11:40

I ate my bubble tape like a sinner today. I just bit into it.
I know.
It made me cringe too.