The Extras

I forget sometimes to believe in gravity.  And the peace that comes with having two feet stuck firmly to the ground.

Somewhere between my fifth house and my hundredth new school, I forgot.  Wishing on turkey bones and laughing at people who carry dogs in their handbags.  I forgot what it meant to be stable.

There is a person standing at the edge of a precipice, wondering where the gas leak is coming from.  Wondering about how many people still wear socks with holes in them.  And what time it is in Africa.  And how to do winged eyeliner without messing up.   

And how that boy had really beautiful eyes, and how he used them in the right way but for the wrong reason.  How it sounds when it’s quiet enough to hear everything.  How skin feels against more skin and how knees feel during bon fires. 

If it's worth the risk.

There are people who think about June weddings and flowers and big dresses, and there are people who think about girls with big lips and long hair at dark and musky bars.  There are people who write their feelings on napkins and leave them in booths in cafes.  There are people who kiss in parks and on boats, and there are mothers who tell their sons not to look down girls’ shirts.

There is Right, and there is Wrong, and there is Sometimes. 

And I am nowhere to be found.

Pause

You must know by now that because you've taken her, she needs you.
She waits on you.

I know you're looking for the same to come from where you once had been.  I know you're taking your time and being reckless.  Maybe you're killing time.  Maybe you're bored.

I know you're disinterested.
But I depend on you.

Unseen voices will come undone, and lower me down into my shallow grave.  Taunting me into the comatose fate I knew I'd always have.  Separated and detached, just like I always allowed myself to be.

If I wanted to, could I ever be more than what I've resigned myself to be?  There's so much still that I haven't known.  So much that I only think about when no one's listening.  They are the secret revelations I keep between me and the window well.

Romance never was my only option.  Yet it's the only thing that seems to make a difference anymore.

Will there be a way out for me, if I so desire one?
Or will it be too late?

Existentialism (No. 9)

(I like this video way too much.

If you watch the whole thing:

marry me?)

_______________________________

Here lies a hiccup, a hunger, a love.  

I wanted to do something that deserves to be talked about.  Because I'm a bad sister and a bad lover and a bad student and writing was the only thing I thought would redeem me.  It's my last plea for guidance, my last second chance.

I'm afraid that my lack of a past is a sign that I don't really exist.  My mind is plagued by snapshot images of nights in front of the television and folding laundry with my mom.  Movies and car rides and sunset colored walks through trees.  The haunted playhouse and Hilary Duff.  I'm afraid that I made it all up.  Because I can't hear anyone, and I can't remember what they look like.  I can't see more than 5 seconds.  I can't find what I should have never forgotten.

I'm afraid that you'll tell me the truth about everything, and I won't be me anymore.  I'm afraid of waking up one day and looking 60 years old and not knowing how I got there.  Not knowing why I can't run as fast as I used to and why I never had any kids.  

I'm afraid that you'll forget all about me, like I have forgotten you.  So easily.  So shamelessly.  

I think that even if I do end up with my handprints in the sidewalk, I'll still feel this way.  No matter how many vague metaphors I make or how many songs I listen to.  Even if I do end up making that movie about the girl who doesn't fall in love in the end.  Even if I do end up giving that acceptance speech.  I'm not ever going to move on.  I'm not ever going to be satisfied.

What I'm trying to say is that I wanted to be fixed.  I wanted to be able to get up and out and not stress about making small talk.  I wanted to make you laugh.  And I wanted to exist.  

But I guess writing is better than existing.

You get to pretend to exist.  

Peter Isn't On This List Because He Doesn't Really Exist

These are those who thought they were enough:

THE BOY

You are both sweet and obnoxious at the same time.  You smell like dirt and your face reminds me of a lizard.  You have as many freckles as I can count, and you spit when you say words that contain the letter P.  However, I still have that little alligator figurine you gave to me on Valentine's Day.  You made me very ashamed for most of my life, and I know that you hate me for pretending you weren't mine.  Please don't think of this as an apology, though, because I know that you held hands with Marissa Clementi on Thursdays.  

THE KID

You freak me out a little bit.  Your hands sweat when I so much as glance in your direction, and you chew your food way too loudly.  I admire your dedication to Christianity, but your "text prayers" are just strange.  God can hear you when you speak, you don't have to text him.  You thought I was mean for telling you to date other people, and you're right.  That was mean.  You bored me.  I had run out of questions to ask you, and I was starting to repeat them.  And you didn't even notice.  You just wanted to see my name light up on your phone, and I was eager to erase yours.  Honestly, the only thing we had in common was that our desperation was matched in severity.

THE FRIEND

You weren't afraid of singing in public, and you wore fingerless gloves just because you could.  You had a yellow backpack, which was very easy to spot in the crowded hallways, and you would always say hello, which was nice. You said that cats were your favorite animal, and I still liked you after that.  You told me stories about living in New Mexico, but you could never remember the capital.   And when you touched my arm, I felt it for days after.  You made me believe in love, and I hate you for that.  Because you never really looked at me the same way my dad looks at my mom, and you didn't ask me to Prom.  You left me sooner than you came, and it took me twice that to forget your middle name.  Maybe someday I'll be able to forget the rest.

THE MAN

You have a goofy face.  You do.  It's very angular and sharp, but you wear it well.  You were so much taller than me, I mostly didn't know where to look when we spoke.  I only saw you once in a while, but it was all I ever looked forward to.  You made things exciting and you were clever and charming in a way that was too forwards sometimes, but I liked that.  I liked that you would kiss my hand when I walked into the room, and I liked that you always told me I was beautiful.  There isn't much I have to say to you.  Except maybe that I wish we had had more time.  But even with that being said, I don't regret anything.  I don't miss you.  I don't want you.  You were nice, and so was I.  But I can be nice to someone else.  And you were being nice to other girls long before you met me.
  

THE STRANGER

You confuse me the very most.  I know many things about you, but I still don't know how to make you laugh, and I still don't know how to catch your eye when we sit in silence in the back seat of the taxi in the rain.  I appreciate you way too much to have a regular conversation with you, and I just don't deserve you in all of your complexity and perfection.  Still, I know that I could very easily fall in love with you.   Mathematically, you and I are made for each other.  But I've always been terrible at math. 

THE BOSS

You think like a man, even though you don't act like one.  You make really bad jokes, but I laugh at them anyways.  And when you talk to me you always say one bad thing about me, and two good things.  You have small legs and small arms and large hands, and you ride a motorcycle because some guy told you once that you're inadequate.  I find myself always running your errands, and sticking around longer than I should.  I want your approval, but I can't stand your company.  You never liked me in a romantic way, and I am glad for that.  But you do want to buy me pants.  And I'm proud to say that I'll never accept them.  

"Wendy: Sir, you are both ungallant and deficient.

Peter: How am I deficient?

Wendy: You're just a boy."

--J.M. Barrie