Mostly shitty poetry

"2Am and I'm still awake writing this song, If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me, threatening the life it belongs to."

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Please understand that they don't care if you cry. It's not a factor that crosses their mind. If you cry, they won't know unless they are brave enough to hurt you straight to your face. Most aren't. They will hide, and you will cry and be the only one who sees. So if you cry, make sure it is not for them but for you. Weep for your wasted time and energy and your wounded trust and soul, not over someone who doesn't have the courage to acknowledge what they've done. Shed tears for yourself.

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I hate this small town. All anyone here does is go to church and have babies. And try to convince other people to go to church and have babies and then have their babies go to church and convince other people and their babies to go to church. They all seek “adventure” but really all they’re doing is killing time between having babies and going to church. Besides, seeing every new disney movie that comes out and getting ice cream isn’t an adventure.

Congrats, you went hiking. Congrats, you went to Utah and saw your cousins that have 12 kids. Congrats, your vacation sounds exactly the same as every other person you go to church with and their many many babies. I hate this little town full of blonde haired, blue eyed reminders of you. I hate this little life where no one has any personality or identify outside of their book that they peddle. I hate this little town. This safe, boring, vanilla, cultureless town.

[outofmindontopaper-blog]

The first picture we ever took together was on the fourth of July. Not during the fire works, but in the car on the way home. It was so dark but I can make out your smile if I look hard enough. That night was the only time I've ever loved America, the only night I've ever felt even remotely patriotic.

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Do you still read? Do your books still line your dresser? A mess and cluttered, a mirror image of life? Mine was identical but we had different tastes in literature. Your stories were better, they progressed. Mine had great character development but the plot is stale. I wonder if I'll see you and who you'll be writing about.

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I'm just the girl from the window, Who didn't mean to see you come home, Just the girl from the window, Who saw more than you'd ever know.

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Hear you got a good girl now, White dress worthy, bible by her bedside, does as she's told and doesn't get dirty looks from your mother. Bet you scare the hell outta her.

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You killed who I loved that October.

You took over, a stranger with a familiar face.

I tried, but this Lazarus was not who I knew.

I wish the death of who you used to be had been the death of us.

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You killed the person that I loved that October. And like Lazarus you rose, but weren't the same. I wish I could try you for murder, for my best friend, for my lover, for me. But you'd be found innocent. You're not the same. You're so much worse. I miss my person, I miss so badly who you used to be. I have not loved you for quite some time, I wish I had known that the death of the old you should have been the death of us.

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I have so many things from our time together. They feel like cursed objects. Like if I destroy them, they destroy you. And if I don't, they destroy me. I know who I care more for now.

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It's peculiar to me how when I see photos of you, of us, My first thought is, "I tried." No longer "I hate you." Long past "I love you". Just a simple, I tried, because I did, and it wasn't enough. Thank god.

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I watched your mother bring her hand to her mouth, and blink away tears, when she heard you got the job. I saw her beam with pride, her hands shaking with excitement even though it meant you moving far away. I have listened to her talk with great passion, about the things you are passionate about. I have seen her leave early, so she can run an errand for you, as a show of support. I have seen her smile change when she speaks of you, how her eyes widen and she just bursts with love. I am amazed at how unconditional and true her warmth for you is. I am proud to know your mother, and I am proud of her pride in you.

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I gave her a book for Christmas last year, and after a while I no longer saw it on her shelf when I came to visit. I came to the conclusion that she had gotten rid of it. And initially, that confused me. And later as I learned more about her, I understood that was how she lived. She could have stability but never be stagnant. You see, she wears colored wigs, of every style and shade. She can pair the fanciest dress (that she will own for four months - tops) with a bright blue wig, and look stunning. When I make plans to see her, I don't know who to look for, she's always different. I think she's rearranged her room 3 or 4 times in the last year. She likes to switch things up. I've never seen her closet full, I doubt I ever will, and I love that about her. She makes use of her things and when it's time to move on, she lets go. No clutter. And from her I've learned so many things, but most importantly, enjoying the moment. There will come times when you have to say goodbye, and it doesn't mean you gave up, it means you need to move on.

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I tied a red string around his wrist for protection. A red string that had traveled from another continent.

It’s supposed to be tied on by someone you love. He didn’t love me but I loved him in a way I can’t explain. Maybe I didn’t love him, but loved being around him.

On Valentine’s day he told me not to fall in love with him, cocky grin stretched across his cheeks. He was only half joking - I almost punched him in the face.

How could I love HIM? How could someone like me who was so much more experienced and wise ever love someone who lived in a bubble?

He made me cry that night - not intentionally, but he did. He genuinely felt bad when it happened. He wasn’t used to being the bad guy, and he wasn’t even being bad, just, honest.

He wasn’t kissing me to kiss me, just to kiss someone. He’d been alone for a long time and I was conveniently located across the street. He could walk 20 feet and know I’d be there.

And I sat in his lap, that he had so tenderly pulled me into, and cried because I thought for some reason I was significant to him.

When we were in high school I taught him how to kiss. He was terrible at it initially, but considering his background it wasn’t unexpected. I think that was the night we walked all the way to the middle school and ran in the sprinklers, and he caught me in his arms. But he didn’t ask to kiss me until later.

I think my alone time with him was always a secret he kept. I used to joke to myself that I was a more fortunate Ann Frank - his little hidden Jewish girl.

I wonder what all the girls at his church would think if they knew about me. That I’d given him erections and had my waist pressed against him. That he’d run his fingers along my legs and grabbed my hips. I bet they’d hate me more than they already did.

I always got cold vibes from their covered shoulders at his sober parties. They put on housewife fronts and I wore short skirts. “What is she doing here?” “She’s probably only invited because she’s the neighbor.” “Why does he keep looking at her?”

They’d never know about the time we spent in the backseat of my car, holding each other and listening to music. And I’d tell him story after story, and he’d listen and ask questions while I laid in his arms and looked up at his blue eyes.

Most of his stories revolved around the church and his travels because of it. I always thought his beliefs prevented him from fully absorbing culture.

He said he tried not to think of me while he was away, that I was a temptation and he wanted to focus on the mission he set out to complete. I felt both flattered and ashamed when he told me that. On one hand, I was significant in his memory - the only girl he’d ever really known. On the other hand, I was only significant because I was the only girl he’d ever really known.

I liked his hair short or long, it looked good either way. It was always soft and never greasy, he was always clean. He always smelled good, never like anything specific, just clean. Always, always clean.

He hasn’t talked to me since he left. He was only in town a few short weeks. I’ve bugged him twice since then, wishing him a happy birthday and asking for help with a school assignment.

I don’t know if wishing him happy birthday was the right choice. I wonder if he wanted to hear from me at all, or if he would have even noticed if I stayed silent. I messaged him privately, staying in my role as the hidden Jewish girl.

I don’t think he has the red string anymore. I worry he cut it off, which would be the worst thing. I gave it to him for both loving and selfish reasons.

One was because he needed protection. He is so pure and bright and sweet that people will hate him for no reason. People hate people who shine.

The other being so I would still be there, in some small way, tied on his wrist like a balloon on a small child - there to remind him of the past.

I’d bet that he was going to marry shortly after, I liked to think that the string would still be there, to remind him of a life he could have had, maybe with me, maybe with someone else.

I don’t see the string in his pictures anymore. It’s gone and vanished from his thoughts just like I have. I’m happy for him.

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I loved to watch you draw - to watch the movement in your eyes and your hands drag across paper, smudging ink onto your wrists and palms. You didn't do so very often, but it was amazing to watch. Oddly, your drawings meant nothing. They had no emotion, no meaning, they offered zero catharsis. They reminded me of wallpaper you would see in a restaurant bathroom - it's something you look at for a moment and then never think of again. It's just there - and it wouldn't really matter if it wasn't there. It's not that they were poorly drawn - you were very talented, but you had no vision or impact. No one would ever pay for your work because it wasn't invoking. I think you knew that, and I think that's why you search constantly for any kind of meaning, so that it could translate into meaningful art. But the truth is that you will never touch people that way, that's not how you will be remembered, so maybe, you should work on being a better person.

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It's your birthday tomorrow, and I'm still debating if I should reach out. It wouldn't be weird if I did, but it also wouldn't be weird if I didn't. I wanted to send you a gift, I asked your brother for your address, and he never got back to me. It's too late now, it won't ship on time. I wish I could see you for some reason, it'd be stupid. I'm sure you have someone shiny and new to celebrate with. You haven't spoken to me once since you left, it was a month ago already I think. I knew this would happen but I honestly thought you'd miss me for at least a few days.

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It’s not me. It’s you.

My heart is open, my love is unconditional - there are no restrictions, no dues to pay, no requirements to fill.

And because I could not morally be with you without compromise on both our ends - because I believe in equal rights, progress, and unconditional love - does not mean that I could not, or do not love you.

Whereas you could never even try.

You could never even fathom it.

Because you were raised to think anyone who is different, is bad. Anyone who does not feel the same, love the same, worship the same as you, is subconsciously lesser.

You can preach god’s love your entire life, but until you practice it - you will never feel it.

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I cried more than I thought I would when you left. How could I feel so much when in the grand scheme of things, I mean nothing? I bet you do so many great and wonderful things that when you look back on your life, they're all you see. I wish that for you so badly.