Everyone Shut Up.

Be Careful, Kailee.
Hold your tongue.
Don't call.
Ignore her.
Brush it off.
Don't see him.
Don't try.
Be careful.
Be careful
Be careful
Be quiet
Shut your mouth
Hide
Be social
Don't tell them what you're feeling
Pretend you're not feeling
Act happy, like you don't care, like you do care, modest, arrogant, smart, stupid, shy, outgoing
Act
Act
Act
Don't say I love you.
Play hard to get.
Be open, but not available.
Make plans. Fake plans.
Be busy.
Just relax.
Relax.
Relax.


Be yourself, but not quite.

Am I right? I think so, and that's all that matters.

I knew these girls and these boys who steal from people constantly, maybe even subconsciously. But it's necessary, for they'd be invisible without slowing pillaging little bits of other people's personalities.  

You go to shows now? It sure looks cool if you do!
You wear DIY shorts? Punk rock!
You think binge drinking on weekends is something I should be shocked about? Please!
You're such a hopeless mess, right? How hip!

Invent problems. Hide your sorry tongue stumbling over the words that probably came out of someone else's mouth first. I told everyone you'd be the best story he'd ever read. I should have guessed the story would be one I wrote.
You sure said sweet things when you were lying half naked in my bed. And you said them to her, and to her, and to her. Thank you for giving me 100%....of your bullshit.
Bravo. Really, you're playing this part better than I could have expected.

Do you feel bad? Is this about you? Probably.

Command more attention.
Act more like _____ Dress more like _____ Talk more about _____ Listen to _____ Read_____ Drink_____ Smoke_____

Try harder.
Try harder.
Try harder.

Because you told me to write every day...

This is what I think today.

I think that there is no point in telling anyone anything anymore because it's all just the same stories tumbling out of my mouth like I don't already know that you already know what happens.

No more stories.

Not until someone makes them worth telling.

nonsense

Scream so loud it burns your lungs. Sing louder. Dance harder. You're the only one who'll ever know.
Pretend you've let them in. Pretend the dramatic synopsis you give is the truth. You're truth is too dirty, too dark, too lonely. Remember all the words you've read that never give you answers to the questions that haunt you. Keep your sentences short. Keep your eyes cast downward and your gaze misty. Keep your voice low. Hold it all. With your frozen fingers hold everything, everyone you can. Give them all and give them nothing, of you. Climb earnestly. Watch your steps. All your fucking missteps. Blame it on the faith you lack. Blame it on your parents who never taught you. Blame it on your friends who didn't believe in you. Blame it on the lovers that left you. Blame it on the mirror that reflects you're bloodshot eyes.
It's lack of sleep and an obsessive mind. It's worn out ideals and a heart that can't tell right from wrong. It's blocking the light out and keeping strangers in your bed. It's mascara tears and vices. It's prescribed pills from enemies. It's the food you don't eat.
Scream, and blame, and climb. Keep running. Run until you've lost it. Look down on this town, these people, these lessons. Let the sun blind you. Breathe. Let the wind take you.


Learn to regret.


Jump.

For Katie, but not about her.

It's funny because it's not really a scar. The only way myself or anyone else could tell that anything happened is because it dug deep enough to tear through the layer of ink on my skin. It's smooth to the touch like the rest, but when someone asks to see it I get nervous. I assume they'll see it and I'll want to explain what happened, but I don't get a chance. 


It's the same with all the rest of the scars I guess. Most of mine don't show. Most of mine are only known if you've stayed quiet long enough to let me tell you how they got there. And while they still hurt so much, every day, every minute of waking and sleeping I wouldn't give them up. 


I've grown to appreciate them, mostly because I've accumulated so many of my own. I think that's the only way to really understand what I'm trying to say. Because if you can't comprehend what I'm saying it's not any fault of my own. It's because you haven't been cut deep enough yet. You're time will come, and the thing that wounds you might not seem that sharp to me, but you'll bleed, you'll fall to the ground, your knees weak, that place between your heart and your stomach so hollow you forget you should breathe.


And maybe you'll talk to me about it because I promise I will listen like I always do, but I might not be able to give you all of me. Because I'm still looking for sutures to tie together the broken bits I carry around through all of these cities. And I will tell you that it's going to be ok because you're not really living if you're not hurting, I think. And if you haven't been suffocated with hopelessness, been afraid to tell your best friend your dad is in jail, had a parent abandon you, had a lover lie to your face, watched your family members fall apart when they think no one is watching, driven for hours without a destination, been afraid to wake up in the morning, then you might not believe the words I speak.


But I promise life will break you. And you'll start to notice those invisible scars in people, without the words to prove them. And you'll finally understand. 

Dream, Dream, Dream

I used to have this daydream of my life where I'd be sitting in my own living room, drinking tea, writing while my dog was curled up next to me on the couch, listening to the rain outside my window.


It's happening. 


Granted, I hoped I'd be getting paid for the writing, but you can't have it all. Today I realized that perhaps, without me noticing, my dreams are all slowing becoming realities. I think I didn't notice that I am happier, that I am calm, that I am coming to peace with so many things I keep categorizing as tragedies. 
Because finally, all the things I am lacking are made up for by all the conversations I've had on various porches around this city.


It's all happening. 

Inspiration-less

I've been staring at pictures of a girl I don't know for over an hour. She's essentially me, but younger, and thinner, and probably easier to talk to. Easier to get close to. She must smile more. She must laugh louder than I do. And she's probably perfect for you. And I think I knew from the day we met that I wasn't, that it would never last past Sunday morning. 


Maybe I'm breaking my own heart. Because honestly, I don't think I'd know what to do with contentment if I had it. It doesn't suit me. And honestly, I have an uncanny ability to be disappointed.    


So, please forget. I won't look at you with the same eyes. I won't look at you at all. I will look away, from everything, because I'm still the mess they all made me. The mess I'm too tired to clean up. 








I wish a different sentiment would come out of my stupid mouth, or my antsy fingertips. In time...

These poems I wrote for school and for life...

I Quit Smoking Again (Revision)

I think I’ve heard this before,

whatever story you’re reciting,

again.

Intrigued by those wisps of smoke

dancing around your face.

The curtain you exhale blurs your dull, green eyes,

that familiar gap between your teeth,

the red hue of your tired eyelids,

your dry lips,

your smooth tongue

forming inconsequential words.

Does it ever occur to you that

we’re repeating?

But I listen,

again.

I watch you blow smoke.

Riot (Revision)

You catch crows on your tongue,

pilfer hearts from shirt pockets,

tell me to eat marginalia

because the book is too hard to digest.

I’ll rummage betwixt lines and letters,

powder my nose with an ax,

chop eyelashes to refine my perception

if you’ll pretend my tail isn’t mine.

You’ll level me

like a screwdriver molests screws.

My pockets vacant.

Black plumage stuck to my tongue.

Things I Won’t Think About Before Bed (I didn't even like that guy)

That stupid black beanie

pulled down over your ears.

It would have looked ridiculous if you weren’t so damn beautiful.

The comment I made about our matching aviator sunglasses,

and how I looked so small in the reflection.

My chest void of breath when you took them off to stare at me

with that translucent blue

that sees right through my opaque brown.

Your lips, parted in that crooked smile.

The woman’s name, etched on a banner, wrapped

around a rose.

Those classic Chuck Taylors.

Your hand on the small of my back

Or the way you didn’t look back when you finally left.

Some dream in October...

We were attached at the eyes. Held together by what felt like a string, from cornea to cornea. But it had to be some elastic membrane. It felt like a glob of mascara that gets left behind after washing off the night's makeup, poorly. 


He didn't seem to realize we were bound together this way. He didn't notice the pain it caused me when he began to tear at the fiber, using his finger tips to sever our tie. It was so effortless. My eyes watered, they didn't cry. It felt as though he was ripping the smallest piece of skin from a cuticle, only it didn't feel like that at all. 


We were separated. He walked away. I stared at myself in the mirror that was a good four inches too high. I glared at the reflection of my forehead.


I panicked. Why wasn't this an emergency to anyone else?


I blinked. 
Something changed. 


I felt as if pulling off a layer of tissue was the answer. Somehow I knew this to be the cure, and it was, for a second. 


Until the world dimmed, the colors muted. 


I screamed. 


"It's fine," someone said 


I didn't speak. I didn't cry. 

Title. Tidal.

Wake up.
Snooze.
Wake up.
Snooze.
Brush your teeth, keep brushing.
Go to work. Make small talk with your boss. Don't make a sound. Stay quiet. Watch him play solitaire. Make a mental list about how your old boss was so much more fun than this guy. Long for conversation. Miss home.
Remember how you don't miss home, how it doesn't feel like home, how nowhere feels like home...yet.
Leave.
See a movie you've already seen. Quote all the lines. Wish it was real. Wish the last time you saw this you weren't so disctracted by that one guy. What was his phone number again? You probably shouldn't call. You won't call.
Shower instead, for the third or fourth time today.
Let the water burn.
Lay your hands heavily against your chest while the water runs down, burning your pink skin.
Let your finger tips wander.
Try to feel your heart, remind yourself that it's still there, beating furiously.
Smear the eyeliner across your face.
Try to extinguish the fire.
Keep burning.
Wrap yourself if the shower curtain and take a nap.
Wake up shivering.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Quit your bad habits.
Stop thinking so much.
Stop quoting old lovers. Stop day dreaming about the lost ones.
Breathe.
This is normal, this is too normal.

Solitaire

I try to hold all the cards and never show them. Because if you saw them they'd be scattered, out of order. I keep them facing inward because it always seems easier to know I'm if winning or losing in private. It's a secret I tell to just about anyone who will listen, but I keep my lips locked tight while we're playing.
My hands are too small to hold them all. I can't do it anymore. I'm working up the courage to lay some on the table before you.


I hope that you can make them add up into some combination that makes sense to us both.

The sun is out,

I had a lot written down in poorly formed metaphors I thought might hide the things I'm feeling well enough for me not to feel self conscious,

but fuck it.

I've been smiling more lately than I have in the past 4 years. That's not an exaggeration. I am excited about things. I'm in love with all of this.

...but

After every fit of giggles or quiet smiles to myself there is a familiar heaviness. And I hate you for that.

I think

everything is exactly what it seems

Portrait

     She thought she'd carry his picture around, if people carried photographs anymore. The edges would be yellow from wear. She'd carry it in a pocket where she could rest her hand on it  from time to time, imagining it closed the distance between them.
     She'd lay in her old bed. She'd be afraid for it's much darker here. She'd wonder if the music she heard existed somewhere deep in the surrounding woods, or if it is just her imagination trying hard to save her from the solitude she was buried in. Eyes shut tight against the night, she'd press his picture to her chest, tracing his shape with her fingertips; imagining his blue eyes locked on hers. She'd never been so intrigued with blue. These eyes were new, these eyes felt easy, safe. 
     She'd long to tell him of her travels. Her "adventures." She'd make them sound that way. She'd try to make him meet her, somewhere in between. She knew through the thick darkness and the heat of the day she'd never see him again.  Never hear his distinct voice settle her shaky one. She knew she wasn't the traveling type. It was all just a pretty picture on someone else's wall, or a nice idea in a book she'd read, or a friend had read, or she always wanted to read. 
     The truth is she is lost. And not a map or a compass could lead her back home. 

Update. I guess.

So, I have internet...
A guy about my age angrily came to my door to perform what would become a 2 and half hour service that would eventually consist of killing various bugs outside of my house, a sing along, story time, 3 cigarette breaks, and finally plugging in the right cable so that I can blog like a normal person. 


This is Nashville. 


I have seen fireflies and lightning bolts. Real ones. 
Real nature. 
Real beauty.
I've felt real fear. 
I've lost and then found myself at least 5 times daily. 
I've done more loads of laundry than I can count. 
I've painted my nails 7 different colors. 
I've wash the same glass every day for 2 weeks. 
I have had some of the best conversations on a porch with people close to me,
and on the phone with those that are far away. 


I want to be in two places at once all of the time. 
But only so I can let the people I miss know that I miss them. 
There are nights that should have lasted longer. 
Beds I wish I'd never left. 
Eyes whose gaze I wish I could hold. Because I would. I fucking would.


But this is distance. 


And it's real. 

Boys and Bug Bites.

I didn't think I had it in me. 


I thought I'd lost my capacity to daydream myself into complete oblivion. Hoping I'd see a familiar car pull up in my unfamiliar drive way. And there would be kisses through tears and a dog barking and we'd laugh and fall into bed like we never had before, because we never had a chance. 


I didn't think I would actually get here. To this coffee shop, or this state, or this city. 


Right now I don't think I can deal with the distance, and the bug bites, and the quiet. And all I left behind. And how what I left is probably leaving me as I write these words. 


I accidentally gave a bit of myself away. Left it in the golden state, and the freeways, and a bed, and a porch. 

It Was Never About Independence

I hate this holiday. The 4th of July. Independence Day. Whatever.

It's my least favorite. I'm not very patriotic. Fireworks make me feel sad, nostalgic, and lonely. It's been that way since I was 5, or earlier, but I can't remember too many emotions before I was 5 so that's a good estimation I guess. (I just thought "guess-timation" and how I fucking hate when people say that.)

The 4th of July is...

Sitting in the drive way of my grandparent's house that doubled as my aunt and uncle's house for a while. Watching the fireworks show across the desert at Palmdale High. I sat down right on the cement. My sister wasn't born yet and the other kids were little. The adults "Oh'ed" and "Awed" which made everything seem dramatic. The fireworks ended. I was sad. There were sparklers. There were always sparklers.

Another aunt's house. Different cousins. No firework show. Sparklers. Fireworks in the middle of the street my dad wouldn't let me get too close to. I got burned. I was wearing uncomfortable shoes. I wanted to look pretty. Those people always made me feel pressure to look pretty, and thin. More alcohol. Too much alcohol and strangers. My aunt was stumbling and it didn't seem like they used to get mad then, but they must have. I noticed that my mom and dad never hold hands.

Katie and I sat in my front yard. We had ditched the lamest party ever (because it was an adult party and they served tri-tip, not even hamburgers or hot dogs). We sat for hours. No sparklers. Alone. We laid in the grass with the cordless phone next to us hoping the guys we liked (I think I was dating one) would call like they said they would. They didn't. We waited, forever. We never got any hot dogs.

It's an ex-boyfriend's birthday. I don't hate it because of that, but it is and I feel like it should be counted. Because I think of him, yes, and it's all so much different now, but there were surprise parties, and a time when I thought the fireworks weren't so bad. But they're never that bad when you're in some one's arms. He'll be in Florida this year. With his new girl. And I don't belong there. And it's ok.

I met someone who hates this holiday as much as I do. But I think, I felt like it was a similar sort of uncomfortable memory thing that bound us. The sentiment felt familiar. But it breaks my heart to think about him and he does not think about me. And that should be ok, but I'm sentimental and fireworks still make me sad.

Someone went to jail. Someone set the desert on fire and went to jail. And it was weird that it never seemed like that big of a deal, until he brought it up tonight and we laughed about it.

So fuck it. No sparklers. No flags. No party.
I drove around the desert listening to get this, Explosions in the Sky, and accidentally caught a private fireworks show. The window was down, it was too hot, and it was sad, but it's familiar. I shouldn't complain. All I ever wanted was consistency.

Take it down. Gently take the posters off the walls, the doors, the walls of your brain. Be careful not to rip them. Bend the tape back, tuck them away somewhere they'll be safe. They'll be hung up in a new home. Or scattered on the highway during the drive. You choose. Drop those thoughts. The one's you called friends about too late at night. The thoughts they knew you'd have. The ones that are both rational and insane. The ones that comfort and ache. Drop them. Leave them here. In the desert, or in a box, or in storage, or in the trash. YOU CAN'T TAKE IT WITH YOU. There are miles between us. And you say they are good. And I say they are terrifying. And you inhale and agree. And I close my eyes and remember that night in the snow. I promise to write about it. I promise to write. I promise to go. I promise to stay, away.

I will miss this backyard...

     One winter the power went out. There were candles and attempts at ghost stories. Katie was over like always. She backed me into the corner of my bedroom and spoke in that scary voice she uses while I talked on my parent's cell phone to the boy I would later fall in love with. Maybe fell in love with, I don't really know now if you can fall in love with someone when you're 15. I don't really know if you can fall in love with someone when you're 24. 
     The power is out tonight so I'm thinking of that night back in 2000-whatever. I remember thinking then that Katie is the only person who could make that night memorable. And how she's done that for so many nights since then. I don't remember what I talked to so and so on that phone about. I don't remember what I talked to any of the so and so's I thought I loved about. I remember that I thought it was really important at the time, and that I cried about it later, and that I sometimes try to hold on to all the so and so's and words, and nights and that it just doesn't matter sometimes. 
     It doesn't matter now. Oliver and I have a home in Nashville. We will be far away from all the people I keep saying I need to forget and remembering in my dreams. I will be far from my family and the few friends I'll remember on nights like these. I will miss my sister, and my Katie, and these chairs in the backyard, and the dry California air, but I won't miss the so and so's. I already don't. I'm just prone to weeping about the past. And it hasn't made me weep in a while, which confuses me.  
     It's the future my eyes tear for. The possibility. The way this is so natural. The way it's working.
     The battery is draining on this thing. The house it still dark. I'm still alone. So I'll sit, one last time, and remember the one's worth remembering, who coincidentally have stuck around long enough to still be relevant. 
     

I don't write because it's trendy...

There was a cat in the bar last night.


It kept rubbing against my legs, 
and hers. 
More her legs than mine. 
I hate cats. 
Because I am allergic, 
or because I make myself believe I am allergic,
because I hate cats. 


No one spoke to us this time,
and this night felt better, 
until we saw them, 
and panicked,
and peeked around the corner
before running to my car,
and giggled nervously at our nerves. 


Please come visit me 
in that romantic city 
in the south.  

Little Moments That Are Bigger In Retrospect

Sometimes
you fee like
you've lost yourself
or, everyone else has lost you
and then you run into
your ex-boyfriend
and he notices your pony tail
and doesn't have to be told 
how excited you are to have it,
he congratulates you. 
You remember
that at least you were loved once
and some people remember
who
and what
you are. 

"Stay What You Are"

Sometimes I get this feeling right before I fall asleep that I need to silently weep until I drift into whatever semi-unconscious state my body accepts as sleep. I get a lump in my throat, I choke on each breath.


But there's nothing to weep for anymore. No tears come to soak my pillow. It's just habit. A bad one. And I've spent the last few months breaking some bad habits I recognized a little bit too late. The trees are showing their leaves again. There are plans. There are roughly 3,000 miles between where I am and where I'll be. I am in love again, but in a new way. A better way. The most honest way.


There's much to smile about these days and smiling has always been foreign to me. I've saved them, but I've started to give them more freely. Not because anyone asked, but because they are deserving.


I don't know what to do with happiness, but I'm learning.
My hands are full and my grasp is just right. 

It's been a little while...

     Oliver and I were at the vet this morning. He's almost a year overdue for his shots. I sat in the waiting room trying to think of a good excuse to give the receptionist because I was sure she was going to scold me for being such a horrible parent. It's bad enough he hasn't had a haircut in a month and has to crane his neck upward in order to see anything since his hair is covering his eyes. I've had somewhat of  a rough year, give me a break. 
     So, I'm sitting on a seat I'm sure had been recently peed on, and subsequently disinfected, looking down into Oliver's sad little shaky face when I became aware of the loudest woman in the entire world. Of course she had three small dogs with her. Of course they all had horrible ailments, that of course I wanted to know all about. And yes, she was wearing a zebra print hoodie with what are commonly known as "yoga pants," but couldn't possibly have been what she needed them for since she was wearing a knee brace and I'll just leave out the part about her being shockingly overweight. I have a feeling her knee brace was from some sort of injury she was trying to get workman's comp to cover. She just seemed like the type. 
     Oliver and I remained quiet in the corner observing the other patients, and let's face it, if he's anything like me, making silent jokes about them, and judging the dog who peed on the scale, twice. I was trying to will Oliver to stop shaking with my mind because the voice I talk to him in is inappropriate for public and makes me look just as bad as zebra lady, who, I should add, had been talking about Sally's diabetes for close to 20 minutes. The topic soon changed to a tsunami in Japan, which I had no idea about because if I'm going to be honest I rarely know what's going on in the world and I have no excuse for it. Concern for Japan quickly turned to a concern for Palmdale.
     "What the fuck?" you say.
      Right. I have no idea why zebra lady and the lady with the chihuahua/poodle hybrid would suddenly get a sentimental look in their eyes when expressing their gratitude that this desert is so dry and disgusting, but they did. "That's why I love it here," Zebra said shifting a sleepy dog on her lap, "there's no drama." Because a tsunami is drama. Because I wake up and thank God every day that there are no tsunami's in the Antelope Valley. Give me a break. 
     It should be noted that a woke up in a nostalgic, bitter mood this morning. Whether it was the bad dreams I've been having or just impatience I started to feel a little bit lost. But, at the moment this horrid conversation was taking place, while Oliver huddled next to me in the corner I remembered all my plans and felt good, no, great even. And when zebra lady blew out the door, making an awful ruckus everything made perfect sense, except the Antelope Valley with it's abundance of dog wielding ladies in tight pants. 
     

No Title.

     It's funny that in the static between song changes on the car radio, the Jesus channel, for lack of a better name, comes through clearly with bits of sermon I always feel guilty about silencing. It's funny because it's me, and so many people seem to associate my idea of religion as a joke. (Note to self: make sure people know that just because I joke about religion doesn't mean I consider it a joke.) 
     Tonight while selecting songs the deep voice of some preacher was speaking a truth I should be grasping for while I tumble rage around like ice in an empty glass. Pointless. It was about enemies, forgiveness, and the lack of validation for their wrongdoings. I'm not sure I can believe with the faith some possess so strongly. I'll remember it though, write it down. Maybe it'll feel right some day. 
     I've never been one to need guidance from an entity I've considered more as looming than nurturing. I can't trust it. I can't trust anything. But I'm not sure if all these feelings in the pit of my stomach are just chemical. I'm not sure when I'll stop thinking about God when the streetlights go out. There's still some hope it's not just malfunction, that we're not all just flickering on and off. 
     I am sure that tonight, on a Sunday, my decisions feel different. They feel true. They aren't burdened by insecurity, wonder, or the thick pessimism that coats most of my days. Maybe I've shed some skin. Maybe the company I'm in currently is just long overdue. Maybe I should always keep the streetlights a mystery.
     But I think I'm on my way to grasping something I lost last summer, or the one before. Or  maybe it's always been missing. 

Poker Face

I was going to write something down about how much I miss you, but then I realized I didn't mean any of it. I'm just sad because I had to go to the dentist today. I haven't meant most of what I've thought or said this month, so I haven't been talking to anyone for fear of being a hypocrite. 
I'm not sorry. 
Today looks like summer, but it feels like November. I don't like the weather to be so deceptive. There's a root canal, a Full Collapse, a long night at work, a plane, a layover, and some people I've never met on the squares of my calendar. I'll feel better when they're all tomorrows. 
Maybe.
Maybe, I don't really mean that. 

Summer, Divorce, Water, etc.

My professors would have termed it intersitial. A point between the surface and the depths, catching my breath as it escaped its chambers forming a burst of bubbles that stung more than the chlorine. I dove right in today. I didn’t hesitate, for the shock of the cold or the wind threatening my bare, wet skin. I didn’t hesitate.

I braced my feet on the rocks and pushed, shoved myself forward. I thought I’d be moving faster, but that’s always the case. I wasn’t falling, or flailing, or breathing even. I was floating. My tangled hair suspended in a crown around my head.  There was silence, I felt beautiful. My eyelids closed, but not tightly. I let every limb go limp, numb, like I’ve only felt a few nights in my life. My arms raised above my head like an involuntary surrender. Something tight wrapped itself around my throat. I’d have to breathe soon, and I dreaded it. I dread choosing sides these days. I knew it was from the volume of cigarettes that have been accumulating in gutters and freeways. I haven’t breathed easily in years.

With my feet on the rough floor I pushed toward the sun, which should’ve felt more dramatic. I choked on the air. The quiet beauty stuck in the space between the bottom and me. This home will be a broken one soon.  Drops of water slide down my back, making maps someone will use their finger tips to trace. And I’ll let them, because between the bottom and where I stand there’s that place where my breath doesn’t matter, and I don’t have to choose which side to take. And it feels like the worst pain and most intense pleasure I’ve ever felt. Nicotine burning holes in my lungs, and a pair of eyes burning their way into mine. 

W is for Withdrawal

I had this whole thing written about honesty, grey areas, and southern gentlemen. 
But the only thing of worth was this...


Please, think, think hard, and tell me what is original about you?


What's original about me, right? Because you're defensive as shit. Well, let me tell you...
I am not playing a part. 
I think through every word I say.
I listen.


Now, push your seat back. Breathe. 

February in Advance

     I've had these diamonds in my back pocket for what feels like a decade. I've moved them from my jeans, to my breast pocket, and now I clutch them in my left hand. They are tarnished and worn. I can't remember them ever looking as dazzling as everyone tells me they were, they are, or they should. My knuckles are white from the force I use to hold them steady in my palm. If you know me at all, you know I've been dying to give them away, but am dying too frequently to give them up. 

     I know of more diamonds in southern states. One in particular, that with any luck (you know I don't believe in luck) will soon be my home. I plan to wash these diamonds in a pond, near a new tree, with leaves that change color because it's their nature not their burden. I will lay them with the other diamonds that have been dragged across the country to regain their shine, their luster.

     I am happier than I have ever been in this last decade knowing that my gems are welcome in a new state. I am sure that within new borders and new company I can show the world their worth that has been overlooked in my hiding places. If you know me at all you may have seen a few of my diamonds, or at least a glimmer when I wasn't holding on so tightly, but the timing wasn't right, the words were always on the tip of my tongue, and you never asked to see.

     I have to get them far away from here. Closer to a home. Closer to the things that make them sparkle. I promise to send pictures, write letters, and stories. I promise I'll show you, if the timing is right.