58 Ways

58 ways to peel a mango

58 ways to count to one hundred

58 ways to paint my toe nails

58 ways to throw a rock

58 ways to speak an international language

58 ways to shoot a gun

58 ways to run

58 ways to write down how you feel

58 ways to pop bubble wrap

58 ways to procrastinate the inevitable

58 ways from Friday

58 ways to break a toothpick

58 ways to skin a cat

58 ways to draw yourself

58 ways to be an alien

58 ways to swim

58 ways to sink

58 ways to tie a bow

58 ways to sing a song

58 ways to wrap a present

58 ways to hold a baby

58 ways to smile

58 ways to over react

58 ways to regret

58 ways to screw it all up

58 ways to eat a muffin

58 ways to write your name

58 ways organize your music

58 ways to get across the country

58 ways to lose a race

58 ways wonder about life

58 ways raise a fish

58 ways to lose track of the time

58 ways chew gum

58 ways light a fire

58 ways enjoy the rain

58 ways to style your hair

58 ways to drink your juice

58 ways to attend a play

58 ways to lie to your friend

58 ways to burn a DVD

58 ways to make a scarf

58 ways to buy earrings

58 ways to hate someone

58 ways to shake a hand

58 ways to throw a snowball

58 ways to read a comic book

58 ways to put on a sock

58 ways to kill a spider

58 ways to kick your legs

58 ways to go to sleep

58 ways to ride a bike

58 ways to eat ice cream

58 ways to solve a math problem

58 ways to laugh

58 ways to be cold

58 ways to walk away

58 ways to feel confused.

Commonly unique

I am in love with a man who refuses to love me back. Who flirts with me, and alludes to wonderful, lovely things... But will not act. As if some unseen force holds him back with the chains of everlasting sorrow.

I wish that was a unique experience. That I was the first and only person to experience it. Then I'd feel special. But I'm not. I am, but I'm not. There is no experience that has no been experienced already. You can't live a unique life because someone somewhere at some time has experienced it. You can't say "no one understands me" because someone does. Or did. You are not special.

"I'm in love." Done that

"But he doesn't love me." Been there

"I hate my job." Who doesn't?

"I have no friends?" No one does.

"I got lost in the downtown yesterday even though I've lived here all my life. I ended up at my church and saw the man I love. He was happy to see me and we talked and flirted. But when someone came up and flirted with me, he walked away. He ignored me. I got lost, found my haven, and lost it again."

Someone has already had this! I can't have a single special, only-for-me experience!! WHY NOT!? Why can't I be special to someone?! Why can't I have someone just for me? Why why why why why why why why why why why!

I'm not special. No one is.

You

Your words are harsh and my life's not getting easier,
It's hard to see through tears, the world ends up as a blur.
But I'm so freezing as I lay here in my stone cold shell,
And I'd be happy if I could send you straight to Hell.

Let's cut the chat and get down to the very dregs of it.
You know I'd hate you if I knew that you had no wit.
You make it hard, though, cause you know what's always right for me.
Withholding love until I have the time for you and me.

Why can't you mess up everything so I can ignore you?
Where is the charm in this that keeps for you a day or two?
I am obnoxious and little immature for love.
So why are you so charming and fit like a glove?

Listening in

These quotes were taken from entirely seperate conversations. Having no relationship to each other, I arranged them in such a way that gave them a flow. No editing or dropping of phrases.

"I haven't seen anything recently."
"Get a whip or something."
"It'd be like saying, 'Now Wendy...'"
"She didn't know."
"I know how to drink, no? Drink Milk."
"Average from the friends I know."
"You know, I'm like 'ohhhh'"
"You gotta help me!!"
"If you got a hundred percent... Time to be someone."
"Help me out... I sure love you."
"Why do you want money?"
"Even with Tanya, that I explained the whole situation to!"
"Oh, go ahead."
"Are you going to marry him?"
"How do you know that?"
"Yeah, they were talking about someone tall."
"From the cities and stuff."
"Ben from your class. Math or econ class."
"Talk about what could be inevitable."
"Free Vacation..."
"That stupid meeting."
"My fiance has an email address."
"Why would you send me a template?"
"I didn't have any time sheets."
"No, that's stupid. You're stupid."
"I said, I'll turn down--"
"I explained how our plan was different!"
"I was trying."
"Yesterday was way--!"
"No, but see--"
"I provide the stuff!"
"I know, I'm just saying..."
"So, how are you sure?"
"I loved things I left behind..."

Cannot

What are you so afraid of that it keeps you down inside?
That it keeps you from moving when the bullets fly.

What am I so afraid of that it keeps me down inside?
I cannot seem to face myself in the mirror.
I see the ugly that I am and all that failures I have been.
I see the man who doesn't want me, never has and never will.
I see the lie that I am living.
I cannot bring myself to move when the bullets fly.

What is it that drives you in the morning when you wake?
That keeps you from turning in your bed from the life that you can't face.

What is it that drives me in the morning when I wake?
I walk the streets in hopes I'll see his face.
To see a stranger with the kindness of his eyes.
To see a child with the smile of the sun.
To see a sky that I know he can see too.
It keeps me from turning in my bed from the life that I can't face.

What is it that pulls you towards a man that never wanted you?
That keeps you from being loved by someone who can see you.

What is it that pulls me towards a man that never wanted me?
The chance that someday he might see me.
The hope of an outstretched hand.
The hope of that one phone call.
The hope of his love.
It keeps me from being loved by someone who can see me.

You cannot face yourself in the mirror.
I cannot face the girl that is not wanted.
You cannot bear to meet the days that come.
I cannot bear to meet the day alone.
You cannot make the man you want love you.
I cannot make the man forget me.

You cannot do anything.
I cannot do anything.

You cannot be anyone.
I cannot be anyone.

You cannot.
Or can I?

I Will

I will wake up tomorrow.
I will face my fears.
I will tell him I love him.
I will look straight ahead.

I won't veil myself.
I won't tell a lie.
I won't pretend to be you.
I won't kid myself.

I can walk forward.
I can lean against a wall.
I can walk into the wind.
I can face the dark.

I cannot be who I'm not.
I cannot pretend for you.
I cannot fake my way.
I cannot fail this time

I will go to sleep this night.
I will face my fears.
I will tell him I love him.
I will wake up tomorrow.

Scott Tyler

He came to my church one Sunday. He introduced himself as Scott Tyler. There was something in his eyes that had intrigued me when I had seen him from across the foyer, but after I could see him more closely, I saw that "something" was not right. Something about him frightened me, despite the fact that he was a whole head shorter than me. And he was talking to me and being so friendly. But his eyes narrowed maliciously all too often. I took the first chance to ask someone else's name, shake his hand, and then I excused myself off to Sunday school. He caught me at the doorway and, with a charming smile, handed me a birthday card.

The next week at church, I saw him again. But I scurried past him, only stopping for a moment to exchange a few words when he caught my hand. But I went straight into class and sat beside my best friend. I showed her what the card said, and then scribbled it down in my journal as class progressed. Another friend of mine, Leanna, had seen him and the card he had given me. She approached me after class, before we'd had a chance to even get up, and she snatched the journal. She wanted me to throw out that card and the paper with the copied message. And I had refused. But I took back my journal, and did tear out the copied paper. But the card remained in my bag.

In the next few weeks I went church, I saw him. But it wasn't until the Sunday I was teaching the lesson.

At the end, I asked a few people to remain behind to help me put the chairs away. I'm not sure what happened after that, though. Everything was fine one minute, and the next moment, my friends were trying to hold the doors closed. Scott had a group of men and they were trying to pull the doors open! I ran to hide in a corner, just as one of the doors opened. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small figure dash in.

And suddenly, all the turmoil and yelling stopped. And in front of me stood Scott. But not as I had known him. I had known him in a suit and tie. But this Scott was dressed in converses and skinny jeans. A studded belt, a colored shirt. His hair was bleached and styled. Had I not been so terrified of him, I would have thought he was sexy. And part of me did. That scared me the most.

The chairs and table I had used to barricade myself into my corner, he easily climbed over. I slouched onto the floor, trying to imagine him a millions miles away. But he crouched down beside me.

He pointed to the table beside him and he began to tell me what he was going to do with me. Pointing to a camera he had set up, he began, "First you'll kiss my cheek. That's for me. Then you and I will sit under this table as it burns, and you will kiss my lips. That's for my parents."

He pulled out a zippo lighter and began flicking it open and shut, the flame large and bright.

"I never gave them what they wanted when they were alive. And after all I did to them..." He flicked the lighter open and smirked at the flame. Then he snapped it shut. "They always wanted me to find a nice girl. Well, I did!" He threw the now open lighter on top of the table, where a fire started.

I began to feel so afraid that I could hardly hear him. Snatches of phrases, mostly. But I was jolted back when he dumped a clear fluid on me, from a water bottle. It reeked and was slick.

He leaned down into my face, "And then, I'll burn you up."

He grabbed my wrists, and as he sat fully onto the ground, he pulled me to my knees. Dropping one of my wrists, he used his free hand to tap his cheek lightly. Then he grinned, and turned his head expectantly. I froze. He tugged my wrist, forcefully, and fell forward. Catching myself on his shoulder, I hesitated. But I kissed his cheek. In the instant after I kissed him, he turned his head and kissed my cheek in return. There was a softness, and a kindness in it that, had I not known him to be insane, I would have found sweet.

He turned back to me, and threw me a huge smirk. Then he threw himself sideways onto his arm, lounging beneath the table, and patted the ground beside him. My stomach lurched, and I shook my head. His smile faded and his eyebrows flew up. Then reaching into his pocket, he retrieved another zippo. When I saw him throw the first zippo onto the table, I was relieved to see it gone. But when he pulled another out, I felt hollow inside. But then he held out the lighter to my arm--the one he still held in his hand. I shrieked, then, and tried to pull back. He lowered the lighter, and cocked his eyebrows in delight. I began to look around, and he spoke again. "Are you looking for a hero? There aren't any. Just you... and me."

Last night, I dreamed

I dreamed I was soldier,
I ran to save my life.
Through tunnels long and dark,
Where I carried just a knife.
Too scared to keep on running,
Afraid to remain still,
How could I keep from fighting when,
It was fight or just be killed?

My men and I approached a hill,
Our first night in the battle,
A grassy knoll against the dark,
We ran like herded cattle.
Up the hill, doused in fear,
Chain link fences on both sides,
Like running through a shooting range,
To falter was to die.
The worst was yet to come,
Though not even half way.
I could see the sparking bursts
From a flamethrowers hot flay.
The utmost focus I would need,
To make it through alive,
Whenever I was licked by flames,
I went in for a dive.
I slid through all the mud,
I rolled across the grass,
Smothering the fire was,
How to make it past.
But as crew ascended
Running in a race,
The enemy threw water down,
To hinder us our pace.
Relieved for cool comfort,
We relished in the soil.
But they tossed us water
Less fresh and more a-boil.

And now we're bunkered down,
Seven months from the day,
Fifteen remain in line,
The rest, down we lay.
Stranded in territory,
So cruelly not our own,
We plan one last strike,
To escape this battle zone.
But as our coup rose up,
And the enemy fought back,
I knew we'd never make it,
Not through this last attack.

I closed my eyes and charged,
Into the very fray,
A bullet pierced my arm and I,
Woke up to face the day.

Pretty Boy

Dear pretty boy,
I thought I’d ask you how
You are, pretty boy.
I miss the way you’d bow
To me. Pretty boy,
Tell me, do you miss me?
Pretty boy.
The things I wanted to be,
Were smashed
To pieces
The day
That you drove away.

Screw you, pretty boy
And all your pretty, pretty charms.
Screw you pretty boy,
Hold me in your arms.
All the things you said to me,
Lies and crap and blasphemy,
Screw you pretty boy,
You used to be so pretty,
To me.

Is this pretty boy?
I’m calling just for him.
Tell me, pretty boy,
Tell me how you’ve been.
And pretty boy?
As pleasant as you were,
Pretty boy,
You’re still the same old cur
Cause you lied
And I’d
Believe
That you’d never leave.

Screw you, pretty boy
And all your pretty, pretty charms.
Screw you pretty boy,
I used to love your arms.
All the things you said to me,
Lies and crap and blasphemy,
Screw you pretty boy,
You used to be so pretty,
To me.

Hello, pretty boy,
It’s good to see your face.
Tell me, pretty boy,
How did you find my place?
Oh pretty boy,
Why are you here?
Pretty boy,
Our time is gone, I fear.
Cause you
Told me that
We were done,
Then I looked up and
You were gone.

Screw you, pretty boy
And all your pretty, pretty charms.
Screw you pretty boy,
Don’t you take me in your arms.
All the things you said to me,
Lies and crap and blasphemy,
Screw you pretty boy,
You used to be so pretty,
To me.

Screw you, pretty boy
And all your pretty, pretty charms.
Screw you pretty boy,
Don’t you take me in your arms.
All the things you said to me,
Lies and crap and blasphemy,
Screw you pretty boy,
You’re not so pretty,
You see.

Riddles

Riddle me that, riddle me this,
I sell you a line, and you read the list.
Riddle me these, riddle me those,
Think with your brain, and see how it goes.

Though everyone has two, we're not all alike,
I move all around, and I absorb the light.

I'm not a man, so a woman I be,
But I'm not taken, but single as can be.

If ending in the alphabet, not skipping all around,
I'm am between two letters, that share a likened sound.

I am the first, repeated once again,
Though I have a twin, we are not the same.

Play tennis with fervor, but do not make a score,
If neither gets the points, you will see me more.

Please recall the alphabet, I rest between the rhymes,
But three behind is growling, latching on at times.

We are the selectors, mirrors of each other,
With ten obedient servants, you are not hard to smother.

I hope you understand it, it seems to be quite clear.
But I have been wrong you see, so I have much to fear.
Just read with all your sight and think with all your thought,
I am sure you'll get it done, just don't say you've forgot.

Snails

A woman is an animal.
Different every day.
Some days she is wild
A tiger
A lion
A fish
Going where she pleases to serve herself.
Some days she is quiet and tired
Taking it slow
A sloth
A snail.
A snail.
Today a woman is a snail.
She is slow.
She hides at the first sign of danger.
She wants the green grass.
She is small and fragile.
The salt will come
And burn her to her core.

Lightning

How many people can say they lived through a lightning strike? How many can say they survived two?

I was taking my girl home. We'd been out seeing a movie. She'd enjoyed it-- she laughed the whole time. It was pretty nice. I left her in her house and was in my car backing out, when she ran out and gave me a quick kiss. I love it when she does that. And when I drove away, I kept her in my sights in my rear view mirror. She looked pretty cute, standing in the street waving. The sky was purple and cloudy, but she loved the sky like that. She loved thunderstorms. They enthralled and thrilled her.

But as I watched her, the street exploded in white light and sound. I slammed my brakes down and waited until the light faded. And when I looked back to see her... she was lying in the middle of the street. I panicked. I threw myself out of my car and raced to her. She was unconscious. Her face had a huge cut down the side, and blood was everywhere. She wasn't breathing. I could hardly breath myself as I called 9-1-1. I tried to keep her there. I must have broken her ribs trying to keep her heart beating. The ambulance was near by, so it was just minutes before they arrived. But I feared the worst.

She was gone.

They got out the defibrillator to try to bring her back. They pushed me back, for room. I wanted to scream, but no sound. I just sat on the curb, dumbly. Then, the strangest thing happened. They charged the defibrillator and as it touched her chest, another blinding flash engulfed the street. I had been watching so closely now, I saw the lightning had struck the handles of the defibrillator itself. And, my dearest girl. In the painful instant before the street was visible, I feared that not only was she dead, but now the EMT's.

But the light faded and I saw the EMT's, though sprawled out and dazed, were unharmed. And even better, my girl, was sitting up holding her hand to her face and bleeding chest. We gathered around her, though I felt like she was the only one left in the world. The EMT's pulled her hands away to bandage her up, gaping at her the entire time. But when she opened her eyes, all the bustle froze. Her eyes, which had once been a dark sea green, were now startling. The green was still there, but it was like green ice, white and intense. It was amazing.

And though she is now perfectly fine, with not even a scar to show for the it, she still has the icy green eyes. People always give her double takes, and she laughs. I love them now. They're just proof that she must be watched over because my wife survived two lighting strikes.

Outlines

I have been vigorously writing my book. I got some sound advice from a sound writer who taught me some good lessons about the subject, and I'm putting it to good use. And the result is 38 pages, and the end of two chapters.

And there's so very much left to do. I'm excited!!!

But it keeps my brain entirely in one frame of mind. Rarely does it tangent now, it's so focused. But I'll try extra hard to produce something interesting.

Broken

I apologize for not writing here. I really do. My mind has been thoroughly distracted. My teacher told us never to make excuses for ourselves, but I feel the need to and since this is mine, I shall.

A good, very good, friend of mine went missing last weekend. And I spent the entire week worrying myself to exhaustion. Then this weekend, they found is his body in the lake they supposed him to have drowned in. I miss him terribly. He was such an excellent friend and a good, good man.

I've heard it said, that when one goes through something like this, writing is therapeutic. I believe that, but only to an certain extent. When something sad happens to me, I do want to write until I can't anymore. Express myself until I feel like I adequately got my feelings across, no matter how abstract they truly are. But there's only so torn up I can be before it becomes impossible for me to write. And this week... I've been too torn up.

Think of it as having a leg injury. When you strain your leg muscle, it hurts a lot. It's tight and painful and very distracting. But you're supposed to stretch your leg and exercise the leg and the muscle so get it to heal faster. But if you break your leg, they stick it in a plaster case, to forbid you from moving it, and tell you not to walk on it.

Usually, I have a mildly strained heart. But this week and today, I have a broken heart.

Baseball

Like a baseball game with no umpire
A one man team against
An endless number of opponents
Infinitely stronger and faster than they are
They throw fast balls
Curve balls
Curving fast balls which
will not be caught by the catcher
Nor will they make contact with the bat
Instead
They will smash into the batters face in
A sparkling display of bloody fireworks
The blood will ooze and pour from
The nose and the eyes will swell shut
And with eyes no longer able to see more
and more of this
Vicious pitches will grace the face of the one-man team
continuously
The stitched bombs pound into the flesh until
The batter collapses onto the plate
Wondering why no one ever called
the pitcher on their strategy and why
They never got the Walk they deserved
they will lay there
Wondering
Their eyes swollen shut and their face
covered in blood so
Thickly
They will hardly be able to breathe if at all and
Maybe
If they aren't careful
They will suffocate on their own misery
and end the game there
Instead of in the dugout

Daddy

I remember childhood,
How we shared things of good.
Cheeto puffs you hid away,
I prefer puff ones to this day.
And strawberries we would grow and eat,
Those strawberries were always quite a treat.
You always strumming your guitar,
Or driving me in your handsome car.
I also remember awful days,
We wish had been spent in better ways.
Through the ceiling on your birthday (dang),
When I hit a parked car with a bang.
I thought that you’d be mad with a fury,
But you helped me, fraught with worry.
For awesome things you always do,
For all the times that you came through,
I’m saying, “Daddy, I love you.”

Chairs

His heart beat, a line,
It bounces and beeps.
His breathing, forced,
A tube does the work.
I sit like a chair
In a chair, looking at
Him, in a chair.
Glazed eyes, curled fingers.
He is motionless.
Glazed eyes, open fingers,
I am shaking.

Smoked Ham

It was too hot to be real. Everything seemed to be melting. Waves of heat distorted even the hand in front of my face. It was just too hot.

Everyone was swimming. Or eating ice cream. Or hiding indoors. Not a soul was seen without some means of staying cool. It would have been suicide otherwise. My sister could be found in her room, asleep on her bed, stripped to her underwear. A fan attached to the wall above her blew cooler air down. For me, a soda and my own fan sufficed. I cowered in front of the TV, shirking the windows and keeping all the lights off. The news blared, but I only half listened, my eyes glazed over and my face shining.

"Traffic on 85 north is bumper to bumper due to a grass fire, which has blocked off almost half a mile of freeway..."

I was so glad to not be driving.

"The Giants game was postponed when half the Bay Area team and almost three-quarters of the Arizona Diamond Backs all suffered from heat stroke..."

Even the people from the desert can't take it? Sheesh.

"Farmers and scientists are baffled by the sudden, and almost complete decimation of domestic pigs. Earlier this afternoon, farmers across all of the west coast discovered entire herds of pigs dead in their pens. Only the herds kept outside were wiped out, and scientists say the cause of death... was from being burned alive."

Come again?

"Scientists believe all of the pigs kept outside of shaded areas were actually cooked by the extreme temperatures, and the direct uninterrupted exposure to the sunlight."

Oh my...

"So keep your pets and children indoors and cool, folks. And have some ham for dinner."

To Train a thief

My room mate wanted to become a cat burglar. That's kind of crazy, isn't it? I thought so too. She wanted to be one, so she "trained" herself. She had a house key, like all of us did, but she never used it. She always climbed through a window or somehow got the hinge off the door and inside. Once she got a screwdriver (I do not know from whence it came) and she unscrewed the wall attachment for a chain lock. Another time, she removed the screen from the smallest window in our bathroom and climbed in. I wonder if she still does.

Repeat: history

He decided to teach her how to skateboard. He wanted to spend time with her, and he liked to skateboard. So she needed to learn. In teaching her, she held onto his shoulders and hands. She clutched at them, actually, terrified to falling. But he always caught her and she was okay.

Interestingly, the last time they had been that close was when they were in a play together, back in high school. She played some girl who sprains her ankle and he played her boyfriend, who carried her off stage. And here they were again, months into summer vacation, close together.

She caught on pretty quickly. After a half hour, she was balancing well and pumping even better. She could steer and turn and stop. He was heartily impressed, he even took pictures. So, a test was in order, he felt.

He took her to a parking structure. Up to the top they went, and then they went all the way down the 5 stories. She was nervous, and jumped off every time she went "too fast". It was kind of ridiculous. Down they went, to the second floor. And as they neared the bottom, she stumbled and made to stop the board. But she caught her foot oddly, and fell, smashing against the concrete.

She howled in pain, stifling it moments later in shame. But he rushed to her side and helped her up. She couldn't stand on her leg and tried hard not to whimper, but the whimpers came all the same. He picked her up, then, and carried her to the elevator to return to the their cars. And as he carried her, her bruised arm around his neck, he realized he was carrying her as he once had for the play. And as he remembered what came next in the play, he looked down at her and kissed her.

Discotech

I haven't seen her for two years. I've been gone for two years and I come back to find... nothing. She's gone. No one knows where, and no one can really remember when she left. I could explode, I'm so angry at everyone. How could they not remember? She's unforgettable! But they seem to have forgotten. Curse them.

My friends-- my "crew" as they call themselves-- wants to go clubbing. I'm not really up for it. I used to before I left, but now I just don't want to. I want to find her. I want to FIND her. Facebook? MySpace? Will she be there? I emailed her. Is it the same one? I don't know! And I don't want to go dancing. But I'm going anyway.

I hate these club scenes tonight. It's too hot. Everyone is too close. The music is too loud. And I don't know anyone. My friends don't even seem the same. I feel like I've changed and they're the same. I feel older than them. Do they even care? Not at all.

She's back. I can feel it in the air. It's changed, shifted. I just know she's here. Where? WHERE? I'm frantic now. I'm pushing sweating, moving bodies away. They glimmer as they part-- a shining sea of flesh. I'm Moses, parting my Red Sea to the promised land. And, just like the bible, as the waters part, I see her.

In her group of friends. The same girls I know. The ones who didn't know where she went. They'll pay later. But there she is. Dancing with her hips. I'm drawn to her as she moves, her arms are perfectly moving to the beat. Her hair is curled and long, glinting in the colored lights. I'm behind her now, following her movements. I know she can sense me, her movements have changed. Slightly forced. She's nervous to know who's there, but not willing to stop dancing. I could laugh, she's so hardcore of a dancer.

But as the song continues to a sharp beat change, she turns suddenly and faces me. And then she stops dancing. I know her though, so I walk back. I hold out my hands, and as the song climaxes into the chorus, she follows my cues. And we dance. Our bodies were always meant to dance together, they always knew how to follow each other. And it's never changed and never will. Close, but not touching, knowing what will happen if we do. We're making it up, but it's fluid motion.

And the bridge comes, slowing and calming down. She slows with it, but I'm still moving too quickly and we collide. And when she jumped back, I grabbed her waist and pulled her to me.

Even after the bridge ended, and the last chorus was echoing, we still stood there giving each other a proper greeting.

Advantage of size

I took my normal route to school, that day, and noticed an unusual number of Semi-Trucks on the road. "Very strange", I thought after twenty minutes, "That there would be so many so close together."

It was true. There were so many, I didn't see any other cars. And they were insanely close together! Tighter and tighter they pulled, until I suddenly worried they'd dash me against the sides each other, so I scurried off the freeway and onto the normal roads. But there, things were no different.

Semi-trucks everywhere! I mean it, they were truly on every stretch of road I came near. They were the only cars there too! I realized I was the only non-semi-truck out here, and I became very nervous all of the sudden. I felt like a small infant trying to walk through a room of blind adults. I knew I'd get painfully messed up if I tried to venture out further. It was horrific to imagine.

Lemmings

Lemmings have a nasty
Nasty
tendency to follow the crowd.
So, could it be said that
in a world of lemmings, they're only
as good as their most famous people?

That,
were the most popular
teenage
lemming in the school to commit
suicide,
murder,
sin
all the students would too?
Teachers?
Families?
A chain reaction I think.

Could it be that
we live in this lemming world?
Sometimes it seems
that everyone follows the crowd.
"Fit in"
they say. I stand on the roof and sing
my favorite song to them.
"Don't do that, it's not acceptable"
they shout.

Well,
I'm not a lemming.

Humiliation

So humiliated. He was so insanely humiliated, it was unbelievable. All of his friends saw what happened, and all of them were talking about it. It was all they talked about. He wanted to kill her. But he couldn't blame her. What choice did she have? Did they have? They couldn't run away, there was nowhere to go! They had to do it. So why did he say that?

"I would never do that again with her."

And why did he have to hurt her?

She was just standing there, wet and dripping, looking pathetic. Her hair looked thin and stringy from the water, and she was shivering. And he... he said that to her. And in front of all of their friends. But she didn't yell at him. Her personality would have defended herself, so why didn't she? Why did she just stare at him?

"Why did you say that?"

"Jerk!"

"I hate you!"

"Same to you."

She didn't say anything though.

"Don't look at me like that."

He knew that his humiliation had ruined everything. Not that there was anything to ruin. They hardly spoke before all of this. They didn't even have each others numbers. But he knew her, didn't he? He just wanted her to stop looking at him in that painful way.

"Say something..."

Still nothing, she said nothing. She just cried quietly. He kept speaking to fill the silence that had followed. Even after all of their friends had left, he spoke.

"Stop running away from me!"

But she left too.

Sunblock

The grease on her hands was still fresh from the sunblock bottle. Her skin reflected the sun blindingly, and she prayed she'd tan and not burn. Her entire body smelled that familiar scent. The one from her memories of days at the beach.

She lived in Arizona, so these memories were rare for these parts. But there they were, settled and imprinted in her mind. Days in the sand, the grains leaving small dents in her skin. Trying to rub them off, laughing because the sunblock caused the sand to clump. She remembered running to the water, only to race back again screaming as the water nipped at her heels. Her brother used to grab her and hold her in the icy waters. She remembered her mother calling her over and rubbing the sunblock on her back and neck. Insisting she keep it on her ears too, forgetting and getting red ears the next day.

She sighed and rubbed more sunblock onto her long legs, now twice the length of her own child's. Setting down the bottle she made to get up, then paused. She reached down and took a smear. Then she rubbed her ears.

Bleeding fingers and not-problems

Her fingers are bleeding again, as they do from time to time. She is stressed out again, as she is from time to time. And, as it is from time to time, her fingers continue to tear at the skin around her cuticles. Even though it hurts, she'll tear. Even though it leaves her long, slender fingers broken and rough, she can't help it. She calls it a nervous habit, as it is. Part of it is her mild OCD, requiring her to make things smooth. But the rest of it is her stress and fear and worry. And she is very stressed, afraid, and worried.

She says her life isn't really complicated. It's not at all, she says. I'm just tired. But whether it's her exhaustion that stresses her out, or her stress that exhausts her doesn't matter much anymore. The stress makes her seek wildly for sources of release. She drives too fast to be safe, nearly crashing all too often. She reads constantly, anything she can get a hold of. She draws on everything, smudging and sketching. She drowns herself in music until her ears ache. And she won't go to bed at night. Even though she's exhausted. Even though her eyes are swollen and red. Even though she's been crying for the last hour. She won't sleep.

Being tired leads her down the same path until the next night comes and she still hasn't slept. And she cries in desperation. But she hates sleeping because she'll have to wake up and face everything again. But don't ask her what 'everything' is-- after all, nothing is really wrong. She's just tired.

Never mind the fact that she feels very alone. That she lives with room mates and can't even be herself for fear of their judging eyes. That's not a problem.

Nor is the problem that she still feels alone with her best friend because she realizes she'll always have her best friend, but never a boy friend. That's not the problem.

And still not the problem is the one man in her life she loves whole heartedly who can't even stand within four feet of her before walking away suddenly. Who won't call her. Who says no kind words, only teasing remarks. And she can't walk away from. That's not the problem.

Also not the problem is that she has so much to do. She attends school five days a week. She ensures 100 people get a magazine every month, despite their best efforts to avoid her. She has her leg exercised weekly for an hour. She does her homework. She spends about 4 hours a day driving. And on top of that is trying to write a book. That's not the problem.

The problem is not her failing body, either. She has learned to deal with the fact that her leg will never be the same and her stomach doesn't process food right. That's not the problem.

The problem is she won't admit that these are all problems. So her fingers continue to bleed.

Where did I go wrong?

I thought I was doing so well,
I did my very best,
Where did I go wrong?

I stayed as myself,
Didn't change at all,
Where did I go wrong?

I've failed this test,
Somehow I did something.
Where did I go wrong?

Thinking back now,
I wonder if it was me.
Where did it go wrong?

Maybe I didn't do anything.
Maybe it was you.
Where did you go wrong?

I stayed true to myself,
I accepted what happened.
Where did I go wrong?

Did you do what you wanted?
Did you know your path and stray?
Where did you go wrong?

Now we're apart and alone,
I see you but there's no tie.
Where did we go wrong?

Soda cans

I know I'm crazy. I can't throw away a single soda can. How crazy is that? I hold it over the garbage but can't drop it in. It's just too beautiful to waste. I'll carry it home and into my room and carefully place it on top of the other soda cans I have. Years and years worth of them. It's so beautiful, the shining sculpture of soda cans. Clean and stacked neatly. I stack them as interestingly as I can. There are all sorts of openings and windows. It's like a fortress. A castle. I wish I could live in it. Beautiful soda cans.

No, I don't dive into dumpsters after other peoples cans. That's disgusting. I would never use someone else's. Only my own. I only trust my own. My lips on the opening. My finger pulling that tab. I mean, what if I found a can but the tab was gone? What a waste! I keep the tabs on a silver key chain ring. One of those opening ones, like a big claw. I number them with a small sharpie. They hang above my light switch. Someday I'll show them to you. And the cans.

Every few months I reorganize them. I take them all down and categorize them by color. I count them too. If I don't, someone will throw one or two away. They think I don't notice... But they're down, on the ground.

The blue can of pepsi. Dr. pepper is red, unless it's diet then it's white. Ginger ale is green, as is 7-up and mountain dew. Rootbeer is brown, usually. The country time lemonade is yellow. Sometimes it's pink. All brands of orange soda in orange cans. All brands of grape soda is purple cans. Diet coke is gold, though the regular is silver.

Can you see it? The rainbow of colors? Can you see how pure and lovely they are? How versatile they can be together? Together, they can be anything. Shining and perfect.

Today, I will rearrange them into a castle. A castle with grass and a moat and bridge. I hope you come back and see it. It will be lovely.

Crashing

A car crash in a parking lot.
Going nowhere
And ending badly.
That's what we are.
We have direction,
But we don't go anywhere.
We have motion,
But it leads to our destruction.
So I wonder
Is the inevitable concussion
Worth it?

Relationships

I was driving to San Jose, the one in California. But I can't remember where I was driving from except that it took me 4 days to get there. Strange, because I live in Palo Alto. I was alone in my car, but not alone on the trip. Someone was in another car going there with me.
I stopped at a 7-11 for some reason. For a slurpee? Maybe a break? Who knows. But I parked in the empty lot. I walked past the incredibly tall, ivy covered brick walls which surrounded the small store like a fortress. The sky was pitch black, and even the air around me was dark. I slipped into the store, browsing for something yet nothing in particular. I eventually fell into conversation with the employees. But as we chatted, another car pulled in. I realize now, that I had been watching for that car. More importantly, the driver of said car. The driver being my life's complication. My boyfriend.
I didn't really want him to see me, which is odd because I know we were traveling together. HE was my traveling companion! Yet I skirted the light to avoid him. We did pass in the doorway, but I ignored him. I know he saw me. How stupid can you get?
Surprisingly, the parking lot was now full. But not with normal cars-- with huge, swollen, twenty foot pick up trucks, bulging like a fat uncle. It was hard to get out of my parking space in my now dwindled car. Hard not to hit the massive trucks. But I managed to back out and straighten out. But as I went to put my foot on the brake, to change gears into drive, I couldn't remember which of the five pedals at my feet was the brake. Habitually, I looked in my mirrors and, in horror, realized there was something behind me. I saw a bookshelf, placed in front of the ivy covered brick wall. Frantically, I fumbled for the brake, but it was too late. I crunched the bookshelf. I snapped the shelves and cried, realizing I was in trouble.
The dreadful owner of the 7-11 and the bookshelf took me forcefully inside and into a small concrete walled room. Lights blazed on my face, hot and white. He yelled meaningless words, filling me with guilt and self-hate.
And then, in a moment, I was forgiven. He spoke softly and patted my hand like a father. He left me there, telling me I could go. I was still upset, I wanted to go home. Why was I going to San Jose? Why was I taking the 4 day trip to San Jose? I couldn't remember! So I called my boyfriend, to ask why we were going there. But once he answered, his gentle voice sounding so pleased to hear from me, I couldn't bear to ask it. So I simply told him what happened.
Then I closed my eyes, and woke up.

A murder scene

His mind had been in a blurred fog when he had arrived. Terribly blurred. Even after the fact he could hardly remember what truly happened. He remembered the feeling he had. The itch. The terrible, blurry itch.
She stood in the kitchen, being her lovely self. Swaying slightly to the charming music on the small, crackling radio. Her hands were sudsy from the dishes and a towel carelessly tossed over her shoulder. Sweetly swaying to the charming music.
And he was behind her, his arms going around her gently. Kissing her hair softly, he had sighed. How wonderful she was.
Then the itch. It started in the small of his back. Restless, almost painful. Growing. No, spreading. Like a small creature. No trail or pattern, it just moved. Up his back. To his shoulder blades. It waited there. He felt the impending spread. Down his arms. Ugh, it was terrible now, driving him insane.
Trying to rid himself of the itch, he let go of her suddenly. He stepped back. Why was everything so blurry? Was she speaking? Yes…. She was speaking to him. He lovely hair had fallen in front of her face. He smiled at her and reached up to tuck the hair behind her ears.
Then the itch arrived. His hands exploded with the insane restless tingle. Uncontrollably so. They twitched—stiffened—tightened. Terror engulfed his heart. Terror that blinded his already blurred, foggy mind. But he knew what was happening. He knew and didn’t—couldn’t—stop it.
Those hands, terrible itching hands, moved suddenly to her beautiful throat. So suddenly, so swiftly. How could they be his? No! Stop! He couldn’t stop them! Fierce beasts, he loathed them. But they moved on, without his commands. To her throat. Tightening. Her screams filled the house. They filled his ears, choked his throat and suffocated him. He cried the whole time. The whole time her life was stifled and forced to extinguish. Forced by his own hands.
He remembered driving too. Her now lifeless, fragile shell lolling in the seat beside him. She looked as a sleeping child. Dead though. Her lips were pale. Her cheeks were pale. She was pale and dead. Flopping around. He tried not to look but the back of his head seemed to force his gaze there. To drink it in. Arsenic to his heart. Soul. Destruction. It killed him thoroughly to recall.
After that, all was dark. He woke up in the field. The grassy field. Empty and sunny, the sky was blue and icy. The sun was bland and empty of warmth. The grass was bright and green, but felt vicious against his skin. His skin? No. Not his skin anymore. Something had taken over and it was not his anymore. But as he moved those terrible hands… he knew “it” was gone. Whatever the itch had been, had left.
Fled the scene.
Those words filled his mind. In panic he turned wildly. And there, in a white box she lay. That same charming dancer. The same lifeless, lolling child-like lover. In the white box. Flimsy cardboard, it wouldn’t even hold her if he tried to carry it. The ugly, deforming bruises were formed and stained her perfect neck. That china doll skin was blemished and tarnished, no longer the flawless, smooth neck it was.
The cold skin was ugly and bruised now.
Terror seemed burned into her soft features.
The screams seemed to hang from her gray lips.
Her hands were limp, but he could see the way her muscles had flinched as her body’s muscles had writhed in suffocation.
His hands felt tainted. Stained. He thought he should be covered in her blood. But no. No blood. There never would be blood either. No blue, pulsating veins. No red flow. No blue, no red.
Blue, red. He could see it now, pulsing at it should have.

Hurricanes

Before tonight, kissing was not a big deal. Before tonight, I thought of it as nothing but two moist, slug-like features pressed against each other. An exchange of breath. It was something others obsessed over, and I turned away from--conceptually. Before tonight, all kisses had been heartfelt, yet cold.
But tonight, I kissed a man on stage; for a play. The two of us, barely friends, hardly knew one another. And we were to kiss. No big deal, really. Right? Yeah.
I was ready. Sitting in the chair, the spot light hot on my cheek. His face full of conjured expression and fake emotion. Our hands met in a practiced manner. A silence hung between us, growing until it filled the stage, and then the whole hall.
Wait-- What was this feeling? I felt it in my heart so strongly, that it made my heart beat with a velocity to match a hummingbird. My hand reached to my chest, my gaze broke his, and in that moment, the viper struck.
My eyes exploded with light and heat. Blinded beneath the lids, my eyes moved rapidly. My breath raced back into the inner depths of my lungs. My heart, beating so furiously only a moment before, now ripped itself free from the confines of my ribcage. Tore each artery and ventricle from its rightful place, and in one forceful movement, collided with my brain, sending gray matter and pumping blood rushing past my ears. I was cold-- no, hot. I felt like I was falling-- or was it flying? I felt nothing, but his hand electrifying my cheek.
Then I was falling--crashing--back into reality and character. I pushed his terrifying lips away and gave his cheek a slap. I watched as he was surprised, and then as he looked away in defeat. For a moment, I felt guilty. But, remembering my stage business, I smiled. And with a quiver in my voice, laughed. I reached my hands out, one cupping the back of his neck, the other tightly tugging on his upturned collar. They shook, anticipating. He turned his glittering black eyes to me, and a smile began to grow. And there, in that nanosecond, my spinning brain-heart mess came thundering down my spine and crashed into the small of my back. The collision propelled me forward and all the comfort flew from my skin as my lips, still burning, joined his and the two became one.
All the explosions and whirlwinds heightened to an internal hurricane. I was lost in the black tundra of my eyelids. And in the darkness, red splashed and burned against my pupils. And his revitalizing hands touched my waist, my neck, and my cheek all in one fluid movement.
All of this motion turmoiled within. But the two of us, barely friends, sat frozen in place, pretending to act.

Asphyxiation

It was just a kiss. And kissing is never a big deal to me. So why can I think of nothing else but that kiss? The feeling of his hand on my cheek? His hand on my waist? His lips against mine? Why am I so overcome by it that I cannot even stand to be away from him? That every moment apart I get restless and antsy? I want desperately for another kiss? Even now? Weeks after the fact? It was just a kiss! Kissing is never a big deal to me.

My first kiss was with a man 9 years older than me. I was just 19 and he was 28. He kissed me in my own car, in a church parking lot at that. He made out with me. It was awkward but I liked him. But afterwards, I didn't miss it. I thought kissing strange. Like kissing two slugs. It was not on my list of things I enjoy. So, to me, kissing was not a big deal. To me, hugging was bigger. Being close to them and feeling their heartbeat, the breath quicken or slow. Feeling their hand in yours. That was bigger and more important, bringing two people closer together. But after this kiss... I don't even know now.

It was for a play, after all. It shouldn't even be real. But it was easier for us to just kiss instead of choreographing a fake one. We just decided to go real. And we did. And he came in, not to quickly, not grinning, not to slow, nothing off0-- he came in, gently placed his hand on my cheek and jaw and kissed me gently. It was short and sweet. It was amazing. And I was so surprised I forgot to do my next piece of blocking, which was to slap him. Followed by my kissing him.

So I slapped him. And, being in character, I laughed and cupped my hand on the back of his neck. I plac my other hand on his neck and jaw and pulled him in. And I gave him a passionate, yet short, kiss. And after that? We had to do the scene again.

Anticipation was as plentiful as blood in my small frame. Adrenaline raced through me, hurrying as a race track. My heart sped so unbelievably, I felt everyone could see it making my chest pound. And he kissed me again, this time longer, more lovingly. It was precious. It was treasured. And I couldn't even breathe. And when I kissed him, I felt like I was telling him I loved him. It would have been strange if I hadn't known him for years already. If I hadn't already sort of maybe a little bit had feelings for him. But there were feelings. There were memories. And I was kissing him.

My heart never quite beat normally after that. The remainder of the night, I was in a daze, lost in a high spurred by kisses and gentle hands.

Even now, weeks later, the sight of him makes me spin. His touch drowns me. I can hardly breathe. But if breathing is being without him...

I'd choose asphyxiation.

The alphabet

After all allocate,
After all are awkward,
After all are anonymous,
All alight allowances.

Bear boring Blues.
Blaring bugles,
Boosted beats,
Blasting both between breaths.

Crystals cleave cleanly,
Collecting clastic corners,
Culminated carefully.
Clearly curious combinations.

Divide detached dears
Deeming devotion divine,
Distance decidedly damages,
Distance demonstrates.

Everyone echoes everything,
Even evil evolves.
Evict every ewe--
Enough empty eyes.

Forget fumbled footballs.
Forget failed flights.
Fear fiery flames
Flickering from foreign fingers.

Grand gothic galleries
Gather giving gentlemen.
Gorgeous girls gasp,
Getting grotesquely groped.

Humdrum, hoping heads
Here hailing hats,
Hack heartily, hoping,
Hearing hapless hellos.

I imagine introductions
If ignorance interceded...
"Incomparable innocent,
Introducing inconceivable idiot."

Jaunty jowls,
Jarring, jutting, jiggling.
Just joke juxtaposing
Jeering judiciously.

Keenly kilted
Kitchen keepers kill.
Kissing kooties keep kicking,
Killing knowledge.

Lingering liaisons,
Lasting little longer,
Leave leaning lips
Lisping, lusting, looking.

Many maids make mothers,
Meeting men moonside.
Mere memories, mindlessly made,
Make manifest my mood.

Nearby, neighbors nod?
No, new naughty nags
Never need naps.
Not nestled, named nick-knacks.

Open orifices obscure opportunities,
Omitting opulent openings,
Often operating obliquely,
Oddly overwhelmed.

Putrid perfumes permeate
Pleasant places.
Please, promise prose,
Perfect penned poetry.

'Questered queens quilt,
Quietly quoting Qur'an.
Qwirky quarterbacks,
Quest quite quietly.

Resting red rabbits,
Raw rank repulsive,
Roasting reverently, rolling.
Ready? Reach!

Silence suits soldiers,
Shouting suits siblings,
Still, starved souls,
Sing softly, seeking substance.

Too tired to tell,
Tangled, torrid teens
Talk telepathically,
Trembling tenderly.

Unless understood,
Ugly urchins unravel unruly
Until, unshakablyly unrivaled,
Uncles unattach untidily

Viral villains,
Vainly vocal,
Victimize vagabonds,
Veering vehicles.

Wait with wishing whispers,
Worried women will weep.
Willfully watch what wanders,
Wicked witches will wither.

X

Yesterday, you yelled,
Yanking young yearlings.
Yet, your yearning
Yawns "yellow? yes"

Zeroing zones zip,
Zapping zesty zeniths.

Unwelcome guest

At first it is a dark spot. It looms and darts from your view. Behind a painting. Onto the ceiling now. Your attention now gathered, you can see it clearly. Your entire being shudders. Your heart grows still and your chest fills with icy, cold dread. It has stopped, the unwelcome guest. Waiting motionless for you to turn your back. You will not turn your back though. Never turn your back on an unwelcome guest. How to drive it away? One does not touch an unwelcome guest. One does not encourage them. How to drive it away? Oh no, it's moving again. You jump from your outer skin, shedding it and your courage. You dive for the safety of the hallway. Looking back, it has stopped again. You are frightened. Shaking and terrified, it is almost ridiculous to be so frightened. You want to cry. Scream. Panic. Throw things. You must do something. This guest is done and needs eviction. Send it home, pathetic and crushed. Away and gone. Go, how to make it go? How to drive it away? Loathsome unwelcome guest. Leaving it's dirty footprints all over your home. Fumbling now, you are fumbling. Your hand rests upon your shoe. Ready now, your hand is ready. Where is the guest? Dreadful guest-- it has moved again! Gone? Never. It is above your window. Too faraway. But you cannot leave it there. A chair. You need a chair. A boost. Gain the higher ground. That's the Jedi way. Be one with the force. Your light saber ready. Above your head you raise your weapon. Above. Raised high. Ready? Ready?!

Thwack!

Heart beat

My
Heart
Is beating
So very hard
Maybe too
Hard for
It to
be
be...
Be good
So I should
Try to calm down
But I can't seem
To breathe
any more
calmly
gasp
It
is
Too
Much for
Me all I can
See is too close
To me too far away
To reach with
My hands
At all
For
I...
they
Are a little
Too short I keep
On trying it
Breathe
But it's
Very
Or
A
Little
Bit too
Hard for...
Me to...
Do...
...
.
.
.
.

Thoughts from a bench

The air is very nice today, I hear. The elderly woman said that this morning. And everyone has been thinking it all day. Lovely weather. The sun is shining through the clouds, apparently. Clouds have always sounded like something marvelous. I wonder what they are... Oh, who is this? "Why won't he call me?" Who is he? "Perhaps I've done something..." I'm sure you didn't! Yes, have a seat. Rest. "I'm so confused..." Don't let him get you down. "He can't keep doing this to me! I hate him! So many different messages. Oh I love the way his hand feels in mine... Stupid jerk. Call me! Ask me out! Do something! What a perfect smile.. He was so worried about me. 'Don't fall asleep, you need to drive home!' What a caring man... Just call me!" He sounds very nice, though... "Maybe he's just too busy.. No time to date. No, Mom said that if a guy really likes a girl, he'll find the time. My brothers have said it too. I can't be the one to keep asking him out. He should be doing it. Not me. Drat him." True, he should do it himself. Oh! The Sound? Is that The Sound? "Hello?" The Sound came for you, I see. "Oh! Jack! Hi. Stay calm... What's up?... I'm fine... Thursday? Not much Is he asking me out? He is! ... Um, I like Chinese food Dinner!!... Sure! I'd love to!... Yeah, okay! Bye! I love him so much! Hee hee hee hee! What will I wear.. That black shirt is really sexy on me. My blue skirt." Oh, good. I'm glad The Sound came for you. "I have to call Katie! I have to buy those earrings... Get a manicure... already 5?... Can't... here..." Hello?... Gone. Good luck with him...
I wonder if it'll go well. I hope it does. She seemed so nice. So worried about it. I hope he's worth it, all that frustration. "Money..." Oh! You startled me! "I only need 3 hundred more..." Not another one... "How will I get it? What will I do? I won't get paid until next week." Money again. Why do you all need this Money? "Hold on, Shelly..." Who is Shelly? "Don't let it win. You can beat it, sweetie... Oh God, please don't let her die..." It's all right. I'm sure she'll be okay.... "I'll get the money. I WILL. How... There's a bank. I don't have the money maybe a loan? Not a loan.... Maybe I could-- No! That's wrong. Never!" What? "But she needs it... Just three hundred... They don't need that. It wouldn't be that big of a deal. Just three hundred..." What are you going to do? I don't understand... Wait, come back! "... Walk in... I can't... this... Forgive... Use the pen..." The bus didn't come! Where did you go?
Where did he go? What will he do? A bank? What's a bank? Is that where money is? Tuesday, bus 51, woman said something about getting money from the bank. Banks have money... He will go the bank?
Where did he go... Where did she go... Where do they all go?

Drifting

After a storm, when boats have been dashed against the rocks, pieces of wood float on the waves. The water may seem so calm when you see the broken vessels, but if you really think about... it can be rather frightening. It's a piece of wood. As in, sliced up, hacked up tree. Once growing and stemming and changing; now dead, carved, and hacked to conform to a shape and size. And then, after it had been massacred... It was destroyed. It had served as a means of travel, carrying people safely about the dangerous waters, only to face terrible weather and misfortunes and to lose itself to the waters. And now, broken, it floats on the betraying water. Maybe it'll be found and used for warmth, but for now it's lost and dead.

What a question to ask!

"Oh well."

"Yeah, it happens."

"I never thought it would to me, though."

"You never see it coming, do you?"

"Shut up."

"Ha ha."

"How can you laugh?"

"Because you spent your entire life talking about how much you wanted it and now you can have it. Yet, you're hesitating."

"I didn't see it coming!"

"Really? It wasn't obvious?"

"No, it wasn't."

"I thought it was. Everything seemed clear."

"You think a lot of things."

"What about you? Are you going to say yes?"

"I don't know... I don't know who it is. What's a note, anyway? Faceless."

"Well, let's hope our note-giver has the courage to come out."

"I don't know. I'd probably only consider it if they were like..."

"Like who?"

"I don't know. No one really comes to mind!"

"Sucks to be them then."

"No, I mean... I need them to be my best friend. Someone who understands me. You know I'm crazy and kind of out there."

"It's true, I do know that very well."

"Well, there's no one out there who really knows that!"

"Other than me."

"Other than you."

"..."

"What?"

"Are you sure you're not in love with me?"

"Don't be an arrogant jerk!"

"I was kidding! Ha ha, it was a joke. Why are you so uptight?"

"I'm not! Crap, I dropped my books."

"I'll get them, you keep talking. What else does he need to have?"

"Thanks... He needs to be nice. And smart too."

"Yeah, you're too smart for your own good. Someone needs to keep you in line."

"Ha, yeah."

"So, what are you going to do about the note? You going to meet them?"

"I don't know. I really don't! What kind of person asks that kind of question in a note? Not outgoing enough, for sure."

"Maybe they want to be sure how you feel. Or they're a chicken. Or they're ugly. Oooh, the last one I think."

"Don't be dumb."

"Sorry."

"I think I'll ignore it. I can pretend I never saw it."

"But what if the person who sent you that note turns out to be understand you like that? And they're nice? And smart? What if they're everything you wanted and you lost them because you're too scared to do anything?"

"You don't think they should have the courage to ask me in person? I don't know them at all!"

"I think you do."

"You know who it is?"

"I do."

"Who?"

"One more question, then I'll tell you."

"What?"

"Will you marry me?"

Mistakes made

I am sorry, I can't help it
Mistakes made because I'm selfish
Everything I do is too much,
If I stop then I will lose touch.

One too many big mistakes,
How many heart breaks does it take?
I have lost all self control,
If I stop I'll never go.

I feel stupid, slow and dim,
I don't see where I have been.
My mistakes, shrouded in mist,
Why can't I just make a list.

Why can't I just get it right?
Make the right turns, act real bright?
Maybe I'm just not right at all,
Maybe I am meant to fall.

I remembered

I thought about you today. But mostly I remembered.
How we met at the pool at Josh's birthday. How you carried me around the pool and when we went into the deep end, you frightened me until I made you come back up again because I didn't want my new friend to die. I remembered our birthday. We share it, remember? It was a Friday. I was asleep when Justin called. He was speaking on your behalf and asked me to go to the beach with you guys. I remember hearing you laugh in the background when I told him it was my birthday. That was when we found out we were exactly two years apart. The first time we danced. It was the next day, in fact. A dance in Santa Cruz. The first time you let me wear your sunglasses. The tables had dum-dums all over them and you put some in your pocket. I kept looking for the mystery flavor. I picked one up and you stole it and pocketed it. So I unwrapped the next one, and you ate it out of my hand. I love dum-dums now. Our first dance together though. You taught me how to two-step. And when I looked up at you, your eyes were looking at me. I'll never forget how it felt the first time your arm reached around my back to pull me in for a closer dance. I've never danced with anyone else that way. It's always been that way with you, though. When the time came for everyone to leave, I ran away from you so I could hide with your sunglasses. I remember walking to the cars and seeing you suddenly come from nowhere on the wall. How you lunged at the glasses in my hair. How when I dodged behind a car, you flew to the ground but managed to stay up. I remember a dance at Morgan Hill. My ride didn't have room for me, so you offered to take me home even though you lived 20 minutes in the opposite direction. I remember listening to that song and watching your face light up with the roar of the engine. How you looked at me and forgot you were driving. I remember talking to you every night. I remember how comfortable you got in talking to me. I remember when you asked if I wanted to go bowling with you. How Olin didn't bring a date because he couldn't find one. How as we walked into Johnny Rockets, I gave you a box of Mike n' Ikes because they were your favorite candy. I remember how hard you hugged me. When you let your arm rest on the back of my chair. You laughed at me every time I fell to my knees because I messed up my bowl. I remember coming home and sitting on my front porch. How you held my hand so gently, and your tough fingers, long oil stained from working on Pudge, softly rubbing my hands to warm them up. How Olin came running up because he was lonely and we both rolled our eyes. I remember how you came over one day with a bunch of your friends (who soon became mine too) and roller-bladed in my neighborhood, saying we had the best hills for miles. The how you came over everyday just to see me, even though you lived all the way in San Jose, and I lived in Los Gatos. How we would sit in my backyard on my brick wall and you'd hold my hand. How you teased me and "fell" off the wall. When we sat on the rock wall in front of my house and you put your head on my shoulder and examined my hands. You let your wall down for me. And you bought a sketchpad and tried drawing the characters from your favorite movie, just for me. To show me. I remember you bringing Pudge over for the first time and telling me why you named him that. Your favorite movie. Then when I went to Utah and you emailed me every night even though you hated emailing. How you always signed your emails with "much love." And how you called me... angel...
Then I remembered the worst of it. How I thought you were becoming too close. How I told you to back off a little. Then how I told you to call before you came over. Then I did everything I could to push you away. I admit, I was hoping you'd go away. But you didn't understand that I always push those I care about away before I truly can spend time with them. You didn't understand and now the chance is gone.
I know you still love Mike n' Ikes. I wonder if Lilo and Stitch is still your favorite movie.

I thought about you today. But mostly... I remembered.

Charades

I am not myself.

It's like a sandbag is on my chest. Heavy and thick. Constant. Equally spread, yet oh so heavy.
It's like my lungs are full of some heavy gas. I cannot breathe through it, I cannot expel it from inside of me.
I feel empty though. Where is my heart? Is it beating? I cannot feel it. I can't tell.
It's like my stomach is made of putty and someone is pulling and stretching the bottom out. Pulling, pulling, stretching, yanking. Oh, it agitates me and leaves me restless.
It's like my eyes have been rubbed with glue. Wherever they move to, I cannot move them away from. My lids will not close. They will not open.
The world looks foggy. And I can't find the defroster. It's getting worse and worse. I can't tell if my exit is coming up or not. I think I may have missed it.
I feel like my muscles have been salted and hung out in a hollowed out hickory tree. The embers are burning, and the smoke leaves me stiff, dry and shriveled.
My neck seems to be made of rubber. Or jell-o. It cannot stay up and seems to have no desire to, for that matter.

I am not myself.