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.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, December 5, 2011
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.
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.
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