Ripped Flannels and Colder Weather

10/22/18 12:03 a.m
(For a fully immersive experience listen to Passenger by Hippo Campus)

I’ve become what I swore
I wouldn’t
You
In your too big flannels
Those patches untouchable
For me
But only at your request
Your jet black falsely foreign sixes of trees
Attempt to surf
On over
To
Perhaps not

Let the numbers return
The colors fading like
Blues
In skies
When the sun decides I’m worthy that day
When she peaks her nose into the corners of the shadowed mind
Dusts catching
Will I ever

Don’t pretend you don’t
You must
I’m certain
Or perhaps
I just wish it to be true
So true it shall
Don’t bite at my skin
Creep into the pores on my nose
Don’t seep
Essential Oil burns like sun bitten patches

Did the world stop for you too
When you saw
Me, Standing
Surrounded by those we loved
That knew us as us
As the girl in the tree
Begging to be pulled down
The spider bite on her forearm
The choruses of rights and wrongs
And warm sunny days locked out of cars singing birthday songs

Pain begs for words
We beg for life to make sense
For someone to explain to us
We wish to remain children
For as long as we can
Have someone explain all the wrongs
Blend them with red crayons
Tell us the drawing was beautiful all along
Trust the child with the checkered eye lashes
The lollypop of her youth
Trust the ones who know nothing of wrong
To tell us of goodness

But she liked crouching in the hallway, hands over head
She liked it
How absurd
Perhaps we all enjoy the preparation for disaster
Before we know of the reality of what the tortures will bring
We enjoy the preparation to get hurt
It’s more fun, when you pretend it will happen
One of these days
But not now
Not ever

I’m sorry I think of you so often
Because at this point I know I ought to stop
But here we are
Me, as you, on the only bed I can claim as mine today
You, somewhere
I wouldn’t know, Pretending like one of these days you’ll read this poem, and send kisses down my spine
Every lip imprint
An apology
You’ll squeeze my hand
Say,
This time I won’t let go
Hey , you got to do it once, so I took my turn
I’ll play all these songs for you — so you can hear what I heard right at the moment of its conception
You’ll swear you won’t do it again
Kiss my neck
Just kiss my neck so I won’t think About this again

Pressure, and heat, slept through the white
Oils on the canvas, creating something worth thousands
Perhaps less, but it will return
The sigh, the small gesture of a smile,
A half-attempt at a cheek kiss,
A warm chest, a worn-out smile
But from my lips,
A surprise.
Yes, it will be. A pleasant reluctant surprise where I shall utter the word
Finally.

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An Attempt To Dissect Pain

I want to write. Desperately. But have hit a severe road block in the form of a brick wall, so I’m not entirely sure what this will be quite yet.

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sunset outside my suite home

There are a few things I’ve been asking myself lately: Why do we hurt? Could I potentially sneak a fully grown cat into my dorm? How do you fall out of love with someone? Let’s take these bad boys one by one.

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Why do we Hurt?

Which great Ship on the Milky Way decided she ought to shoot a cannon ball Down
TO those tragic beings believing they are the one and only.

I’d like to think Pain helps us build armor, and one day we will be invisible to the hurt. But I am aware of the childish nature of that belief. (Not nearly as childish as my featured drawings)

That feeling of hurt and emptiness never entirely goes away. It doesn’t come in waves either; it runs through our blood, pumping at varying degrees as time goes on, but always present. It takes practically nothing to be reminded of that detestable buzz, the one we often become too used to.

Last night I sat in my car, for close to an hour, listening to a very sad playlist made by a very sad situation. It was around the half hour mark when 6 called me, look 6 you’ve made a reappearance in the blog, he told me it seemed like I needed a friend. I hated how right he was. As much as I like to appear strong and confident, I recognize that I absolutely cannot do it all. He told me to stop listening to sad music, but the music isn’t all sad. It is beautifully melancholic. It makes the sadness seem worth it, in order to feel the true depth of the song.

Public Apology To Whoever I Have Hurt In This World: Now that I know what that is truly like, I am so terribly sorry. I would never want to cause this electricity to run through someone’s veins. I hope some day you find it in you to forgive me, but I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.

For the sake of not freaking out any of my suitemates, I will leave my question of the sneaking-cat-complications up to the readers for answering. 

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How Do You Fall out of Love With Someone?

This is a truly tricky one. I have not, and doubt I will, find the answer. I’m not asking for myself, every person I’ve ever loved, I continue to love. It’s exhaustingly glorious, so I’m not planning on changing my nature anytime in the near future.

I’m asking more so from an outside perspective, mostly because I don’t understand how others fall out of love. I never understood how anyone could fall in love with someone – put themselves through the absolute wreckage of loving – and somehow manage to stop. It’s odd to think about. How can one go from loving something so much to pretending as if said thing no longer has a place on one’s bookshelf. What an absolutely wild concept.

As someone quite young and unexperienced in this realm, I will continue to search for answers. Shall keep you updated on my adventure. Hoping this heart grows bigger with each one I love, instead of shrinking with each one I give pieces to.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

YOU CUT MY HEART
10/16/18 2:48 a.m

My bed smells of kissing you
One and Two
Three and Two

It dances around this messy room
One and Two
Thoughts of you

And the other ones just don’t get me
One, Two, Three
Four to Three

But they’ll still spill their hearts on the balcony
One, Two, Three
Does he think of me

Perhaps I’m in love with broken charts
Five till Start
Three till Start

Maybe one day love’ll tear my soul apart
Five till Start
Already broke my heart

An off step waltz for the offset soul
You’re all alone
Brain made of foam

Don’t dare pick the book that makes him Whole
You’re all alone
He’s on his phone

Three and Two
Thoughts of you
Four to Three
Does he think of me
Three till start
Already broke my heart
Brain made of foam
Get off your phone.

The Truth Of Being 16

The key rests in your hands and you can finally unlock a new door in your life, mostly just the car door, but a door all the same!

The truth of being 16 is that it sucks. Junior year, arguably the hardest year of high school, is stealing ‘free-time’ from your vocabulary. Saying hi to friends in the school hallway has become the extent of a social life and pretending to be well rested is just one cup of coffee away.

The truth of being 16 is that no one really knows what they’re doing. The title of upperclassmen creates a false sense of security that you are an experienced high-schooler who can navigate any and all situations. And even those who feel comfortable have yet to prepare for the zooming “what do you want to do with your life”s and “where do you want to go to college”s .

The truth of being 16 is that you wish you were in college, because after one taste of freedom you’ve only been left wanting more.

The truth of being 16 is that you really don’t want to deal with the side effects of being 16. Heartache, confusion, and exhaustion are appetizers on that menu.

The truth of being 16 is that you miss being a freshmen. Despite the endless torture you put each new class through, you know how much simpler things were and you wish you could go back.

The truth of being 16 is that no one will take you seriously. You will always have to prove being young does not make you ignorant or incompetent. You’ve done your research, you know your stuff, now prove their assumptions are wrong.

The truth of being 16 is that you’re not sure what the truth of being 16 should be.

Where I’m From

I am from Coffee,
From plucked strings and calloused fingers
I am from the Campbell sense of humor
(Crude, corny,
it stings like river water)
I am from the Wizarding World of Harry Potter
The third book, but never the sixth movie
Fuzzy socks in the kitchen and
“You can’t marry a man if he can’t dance”

I am from biscuits and lotion
From “oh boy” and accidental indoor boats
I’m from the Tarzan soundtrack
And the Magic Kingdom
From Ricky-Bobby in the rain and thanking the Phoenicians
I’m from riding with the windows down
And harmonized belting
When lyrics aren’t necessary

I’m from McKenna and Stroud
Clay courts and acrylic paints
From “whatcha thinking about”
To the Old Line State
The grandparents I never met

The shelf in my closet holds my childhood
The scrapbook I begged to be completed
The dolls from my Grandfather,
Collected by one he never knew.
I am a medley of mixed harmonies
The key ever changing
A McKenna-Campbell kind of composition

Leo

Written on 3/1/16 in Italy

Leo da Vinci
How do you feel
The thousands of people flocking to see your art
How must you feel

Fairly arrogant I’d imagine
Of course you know your work is good
You’ve been told so many times

It must come as no surprise that I love it too
It would maybe shock you, if you knew,
That a peasant such as me, with such cheap taste, found someone’s work, as elegant and delightful as your own, appealing

Others eyes glaze over
“Yes. Leonardo da Vinci. His work, brilliant, you’re just like the rest.
Basic art lover
We understand.
No need to drag on the details of the way he contours the human face
No need to discuss the manner of which the red is brushed onto the cheeks
We understand.”

What can I say
A basic art show
Me and the adoration for Leo
Would he know?
Would he care?

Does he know he could appease any one?
Yet I wonder
Would he choose anyone at all?

Leo
Leo
Leo
The artist, the art, and me…oh

How I wish.
But the wishes of the observer are rarely granted.

But could the artist even pretend to care about the way I fawn over each painting as if it were mine to fawn over
Would the compliments quickly make an artist numb
Would he stop believing in his work
Or would he be even more boastful
And braggadocios

I guess I won’t know
Till I ask my dear friend, Leo

SHE TALKS A MILE A MINUTE

She talks a mile a minute
And she’s 170 miles away

We exchange hellos quickly in-between spurts of laughter
She says it’s been too long since we talked
I make a joke
She’s 160 miles away

She asks me about that thing I wanted to tell her
There are a lot of things I wanted to tell her
I color in the pages of my past with caricatures
And we laugh together at my idiocies
She’s 140 miles away

I ask her about her life, what’s new, what’s not new, I don’t really care what she talks about
I just want her to talk
She’s never been good at telling stories, but I can tell she’s gotten better
Probably from practice
I feel nostalgic for the times I heard the rough draft of her tales
She’s 120 miles away

She has to go
But goodbyes are just hyper retellings of whatever last minute thoughts we possess
Matching tattoos
Birthday wishes
Mixed drinks
Muffled laughter
She’s 115 miles away

She talks a mile a minute
But she’s still 110 miles away

To: Mom

In the beginning;

You taught me how to speak

You taught me how to say my name, even though it sounded like ‘Ewibabeth’

You taught me how to tie my shoes, how to ride a bike, how to laugh

You showed me how to be a good friend, even when the other first graders weren’t as nice

You taught me how to be strong, even when the monsters of my  middle school memories were too much

You showed me patience, when I had none

You showed me grace, when I deserved none

You taught me how to love myself

You taught me how to love

Now;

You’re teaching me how to drive, even when I don’t know which way to turn the steering wheel

You’re teaching me how to be an independant woman, (who don’t need no man)

You’re showing me trust

You’re showing me that a love for coffee is worth the inordinate amount of money you let me spend

You’re teaching me how to pick my battles, because some things are not worth arguing over, (no matter how badly I try to make them)

In the end;

You’ve taught me how to be me

The Weeks

There are good weeks and there are bad

The good come tumbling through the door, unafraid of making a grand entrance

They take a seat at the head of the table, serving themselves the largest portion.

They make amiable conversation with the ones sitting beside them; there’s the bad weeks, the ok weeks, and the weeks she can’t seem to remember, but the good weeks make conversation with them all the same.

The bad weeks tend to mope in the corner, making their entrance subtly, in a failed attempt of trying to stay out of focus, but she always seems to notice them

They take their petite portion, even though it seems larger than the one of the good, and eat it silently while the good carries on the conversation

The bad weeks will attempt to say something, just trying to fit into cordial dinner conversation, but will always seem to say the wrong thing

When the good weeks bring up a joyous occasion, the bad weeks almost always seem to sneak in with an equally depressing one

The ok weeks get by.

They don’t partake in much table-talk, but listen respectfully all the same

The ok weeks remember everything, the good and the bad, but never seem to speak up about either.

The weeks sit together all the same; laughing, moping, remembering

She invites them all to the table, hoping at least one will stay.