These tickets weren't cheap

My mouth is wider than the Savannah sky,
I think I could Swallow the world whole without as much as a whisper From the universe.
Everyone says that you need a plan. Everyone says you need to Have your life figured out.
But everyone also says that now is the time to Mess up.
I have never felt as Whole as I did the Moment I tipped that glass bottle up against my lips.

I remember when I wasn't Afraid to get too close to the Mirror.
But now I don't know the girl that's staring Back at me and I don't know what she will do if I accidentally Touch her glassy skin. So I keep my distance. I don't even Lean in when I'm putting on My mascara.
Just in Case, You know.

Everything in my closet is from the Gap and I wish there Was only one kind of Gap and I sure as hell wish it Stayed inside that suffocating mall.
But it leaks out of the doors and it Separates us. the gap. it separates all of us.

I used to know why I believed these things. I used to have a purpose on Sunday mornings, and my prayers used to Be for others but now I am lucky if my prayers are about anything but myself.
but that's Why I don't pray.

Now I just get drunk on your Smile, but your lips haven't spoken my name in ages. I remember your kiss, but I have never felt It.
My parents still haven't checked on me In years.

I get high off of words, and the Letters become spilled coffee, but the words still sing. The black curves on paper still make my blood rush And My soul burns almost as much as it did when the whiskey Torched my throat.

My dad told me that he would Come visit me, since my mom flew all the way out to Boston for my sister. She bought her doc martens, but I'll be lucky if my dad remembers what city I live in. I had cereal for thanksgiving dinner While my best friend who now hates me sat upstairs. My kitchen counters were freezing and by the time I remembered I had a heart, the Skies were already black.

My mouth is as wide as the Savannah sky but I have never even been to Savannah.

permenantly temporary (long live the bean bags)

The cardboard boxes should be painted better colors.
They make the already bleak walls look like Arizona soil.
The more the boxes are moved, the emptier they get.
They become harder to shut though.

The strings become thinner, and easier to break.
Most of them we don't even bother tying, just for convenience when our time is done.
We flash those smiles in the refrigerator light, and for the flickering screens.
When the doors shut and the showers turn on, the smiles melt and drip onto our toes along with the scalding water.

The mud and berries are temporary thrills, just embellishments, like the gold frame you hung to hide the crack in the drywall.

The tilt-a-whirl doesn't stop spinning until it's time is up.
And surely every tilt-a-whirl is on it's own schedule.
(the schedules are not, however, available for viewing)

So we wait, and we run and we play hide and seek.
We crack and we fall, and we cover it up.
We sing and we paint, but the paint never chips.
 
And the schedules are still not available for viewing. 


 

Run by me

I couldn't make eye contact with you that day because as soon as I pulled up to your house and saw the clothes you were wearing I felt like I couldn't breathe.
Your polo and colored shorts made you look like an east coast boy, and if you were an east coast boy then you weren't anywhere close to me.
You got in the car and I tried to play it cool, but every time I tried to look into your eyes those shorts just screamed at me and I remembered how far away that silly college was from Oregon and from Utah.
I knew that you would notice my eyes hadn't met yours because you notice everything and you analyze everything but I liked that, so don't think I am complaining.
You bought me my chai tea latte because I picked you up since your car stopped working because you didn't pay enough attention to it. I didn't mind picking you up though because it meant I got to see you.
I just really wasn't expecting those east coast shorts.

I am sorry that I got mad at you, and I am sorry that I forgave you, and I am sorry that I don't know anything about my brain, but I am glad that you do.

You asked me why I couldn't look at you, and you thought it was because I was embarrassed since I wasn't wearing makeup.
Of course that seemed silly to me because you have seen me a million times without makeup, plus who cares about makeup anyways? Also you told me that I was decently attractive, so I wasn't very worried.

It's just that those east coast shorts made my breath turn into tomatoes in my throat, and you know how I am so allergic to tomatoes.
But now you really are an east coast boy, and you really are far away from Oregon and from Utah.

And you have a new best friend, and you say that she is great, but you also say that she's not like me at all.

I hope that she likes your east coast shorts and I hope that she has nice ankles, and I hope that she isn't allergic to the tomatoes that make breath get caught in peoples throats.

I hope she is merry and I hope she is graceful and I hope that she appreciates your rants and your speeches and how much you won't stop talking because I appreciate that and I appreciate you.

You're alright, i suppose.

I hope that when you look in the mirror you see the fire in your eyes. The same fire that makes my chest burn every time you laugh.
I wish that you could see the way your lips turn up when you smile, and hear the way your voice gradually gets higher when you're getting excited.
You spend so much of your time making sure that the rest of the world is okay, sometimes I think you forget to check your own pulse, and make sure that you are still beating.
You are always beating though, that's the beauty of you.
Maybe not to the same rhythm as most everyone else, but you still manage to keep up with the melody.
You've saved my life. More than once actually.
Sometimes it's your voice that I hear when I'm lost in the thickest part of the forest.
You never tell me which way to go, but you remind me that it doesn't matter which way.
Whichever way I feel like going, will lead to the right way eventually.
At least I think that's what your words are saying.
Other times I just see you, there's never any sound, but when you've got a soul that speaks as loud as yours, sound is just an afterthought.
Those moments of salvation mean more to me than this entire galaxy, and you do know how much I love the galaxy.

And you'll tell me that these words are great, and that I'm your favorite writer, but I still won't think of these words as mine, and my name will never be associated with Edgar Allen Poe's.

None of that matters though, because we get to lay in the grass at the elementary school where you had your first crush, and you met your best friends. We get to talk about that blonde girl that stole your heart once, but I think she might have given it back now. As long as there are more nights where you drive too fast around corners, and I pretend that I don't care about anything but the stars, then we will be okay. and I will be okay. and you will always, be more than okay.

Grey Matter

There's this large mass of tissue located directly behind my eyeballs and sometimes I let it get the best of me.
Sometimes I let it convince my eyes that I'm not pretty, and sometimes I let it tell my body that it's too big.
Sometimes I let it scream at my cells that there is something wrong with them, and sometimes it whispers to my heart and says there isn't any love left in there.

Other people have this weird tissue behind their eyeballs too, but their tissue is nicer.
Their tissue tells my eyes that I am pretty, and it tells my body that its the right size no matter what.
Their tissue is infatuated with the way my cells work, and it even thinks their might be some love left somewhere in my right atrium.

I think I like their tissue better than my own.
but I think that's what started this problem in the first place. 

weather

It's the first day of September and Lydia hasn't decided what she wants to wear to school.
The weather is getting colder so she might be able to pull off a big sweater, but it could be risky if it gets hot later because Austin always gets mad when she wears big sweaters in the heat.

Classes were long and just like Lydia figured, it got hot in the afternoon so now she is sitting in Austin's truck trying to air herself out before he has a chance to touch her sweaty torso. It doesn't take long before his hand is on the inside of her thigh and she is wrapping her legs around his, her shirt  is coming off and the perspiration on her skin starts to gleam in the evening light.

"Why do you always do this, baby? You know I hate touching you when you're all sweaty"
All she can hear is "You know I hate touching you" so she pushes her pelvis closer to his, her lips sliding down his neck and along his collar bone.

"I'm sorry, I was running late."
She whispered the words in his ear, trying to guide his hands to her chest, but he starts to resist.

She can feel the annoyance in his breathing and she knows in a matter of seconds she will have to slide off of his lap and reclaim her spot near the window. She can feel his hands on her waist already pushing her body away from his, but she gives it one last try.

She runs her fingers through his hair and tells him she needs him. She kisses his mouth, hard. She inches her fingers along the inside of his waistband, sliding her hand underneath the elastic of his Hanes.

His fingers grab hold of her wrists, gently, but with a purpose.

"It's time for you to go home. I have practice in the morning."

The truck engine rumbles and he twists the radio dial all the way up, eliminating any chance of a conversation. She places her hand on his leg and closes her eyes.
Maybe tomorrow the weather will be colder.

Complementary

You can call me pretty all you want, but that doesn't mean a thing. 

I know I am pretty. 

That may sound conceded or slightly pretentious but I have heard the same phrase my entire life. 

People comment on my photos, they tell my mom and grandparents, boys send me texts.

I have been called pretty over a hundred times iand at this point I don't want to hear it anymore. 

"Thank you" I reply. "You're pretty attractive yourself" 

The words have no weight because they carry no meaning.

The knowledge that someone is physically attracted to me is about as important as the ant that was just squished by a hello kitty shoe on an elementary school playground somewhere in Northern Nebraska. 

The other day a boy told me that I knew how to think. 

A few weeks ago a boy told me that I am going to have a great marriage once I find the right guy. 

Last year a boy told me that I am going to be an amazing mother and wife. 

I couldn't tell you the name of the last person that commented in my appearance, but I can tell you the name and birthdate of each boy that gave me those compliments. I can tell you what the sky looked like and what position I was sitting in. I can describe the feeling I got deep in my chest when I heard the words and I can tell you the color of each boys socks. 

Those words left imprints on my soul. 

I don't know if I have an extraordinary mind. 

I don't know if I will have a good marriage. 

I don't know if I will make a great mother or be an adequate wife.  

But somebody else does know that, and they felt that it was important enough to tell me.

That is affection and those are words I yearn to hear.