Unworthy

I feel unworthy of your hugs and doorstep. I'm especially not worthy of your kisses. When I think of kissing you I smile, then panic. If that were to ever happen you'd get so close to me you'd see the scars hidden on my lips. And you'd see how easy they were placed there and how quickly they made their bloody mark. You'd take one look and run like you've never ran before. And if you didn't run, you would roll your eyes and heave a deathly sigh. I can't decide which one would hurt more, but i do know that it wouldn't be my lips you'd scar. It'd be deep inside my chest, past the jagged rib cage, and through the black whole that's formed there. If you didn't get cut by the ribs as you reached your hand through that black hole, you would be repulsed by what you found. That pumping sensation wouldn't feel the way you thought it would. It's not warm and beautiful, it's cold and damaged. Shredded and torn hanging on by thin veins of hope wrapping around it. When humans see something bone rattling they can't look at it any other way. That image is engraved on their brain like some new way of tattooing. It's not like you can pretend you never saw it like you do when you see someone picking their nose in the car next to you, it's not going to disappear from your memory with the snap of your fingers. 

The image of my soul is bone rattling. The image of my soul is every ugly word you can think of, and yet it's every beautiful word you can think of. But we always focus on the ugly parts, the parts that are so horrifying they tell you to look away but you just can't. And why? Why do we let the bad outweigh the good? Shouldn't we look at that dessert and see the flowers that bloom and the plants that thrive off of it? Not the cracked surface or the evil tricks it plays with our sight. Those flowers are there for a reason, they're growing strong for our eyes. 

I've already shackled myself to the chains of those shadows. I am stuck in limbo, scratching my regrets over and over on the walls around me with my bleeding fingernails. Soon enough they will turn into scars. Everything for me turns into scars. And I'm foolish for hiding, for thinking it will all disappear. I need to step out in the open, let the targets land on me because you can't hurt someone with black holes for a heart. I'll take the bullet to the head, let my jagged ribs become thorns from a wilting flower.  I'll do whatever I have to so you never engrave that image of me in your brain. I don't want your eyes of horror and pity morphed into one. I won't let them scan me up and down, only seeing a cracked surface and bleeding lips. I think of you and bite my lip, I can't let you be a martyr from the wars inside my chest, even though every part of me considers is honorable to die trying. No, that's my destiny. But what if I'm terrified? 

My wrinkled heart can't handle strong hands. So let me breakdown. Allow me to collapse into my black holes. 

Honey Jars - Bryan John Appleby

You fill me with vexation to the point of giving up.

But something foolish always pulls me back.

Hope,

the drug you can never escape 

no matter what rehab you go to.

And for me, it's hold is tighter with you.

Some nights I am thankful, 

but other nights are too dark to see the gratitude.

"It's as if all my senses fed involuntarily on him 

and deprived for more than a few hours,

 I languish, 

wither,

 die to the world."

I sit and wonder what it would be like to be her,

to have your fingers intertwined with mine

like old friends finally catching up.

To look up at you and see that I'm not a nobody,

I'm a somebody, 

a somebody that matter to you.

To be the girl that has you running to catch up with in the halls, 

to see your bobbing head above the crowd turn around and smile. 

Making me melt into a puddle.

Maybe then I would know how soft the clouds are on number 9.

And what it's like to feel shooting stars collide,

maybe then I would be able to have a real reason

for those swarming butterflies.

But I'm not her.

My hand remains lost in a wandering crowd.

And no matter how many times I hear chasing footsteps they wont be for me.

So I remain the frozen icicle locked inside a tightening rib cage,

making it impossible to function the right way.

My faucet leaks

along with a chorus that sings without me.

She said that maybe I am in an impossible phase,

I guess that's true.

eternally internal

I want to capture moments in time I could never recreate, 

 like when my Finnosaurus Rex fell asleep to the beat of my heart.

And the moment dad hugged me tighter and tighter with every drop that escaped from it"s cage.

Or when Talley let out a snort in front of everyone

and couldn't control it from happening again.

And when grandma used to remember me 

and tell me I was what she pictured her Jenny to be like.

How grandpa shared a part of his life with me in that tiny closet space.

Or the time I sat on that waterfall with it's rushing waters and that silly ginger,

I wish I could capture the times in front of that couch grasping the pillow tightly

 awaiting my charging brother

 as he readied himself for the tackle.

And when I made a six footer crinkle his nose and squint his eyes as he genuinely laughed,

making that noise unbearably beautiful.

I wish I could capture these in a jar and keep them on my night stand to help remember

and drown out the days it appears all I ever do is mess up.

And help me cope when I'm feeling the strings of my guitar Saturday night 

instead of the rhythm pulsing in my veins and

the beat pushing it's way into the crevasse of  my chest

making me feel more alive than I ever have. 

It's not my year

not this time.

So I keep these memories ever so closely to me 

as I fall into unconsciousness for the night.

breath in the wildfires

The teacher asks if anyone is finished yet

and the noise from the other side of the room gets louder. 

Thunder crackling. 

The boy with curly hair draws disturbing figures. 

The known jock flashes his pearls to those that dare risk a life of wanting.

While the dumb blonde acts like she's lost her brain again 

because that's what gets the people laughing. 

All  eyes on phones. 

Glued to the bright light that mesmerizes us with it's media.

Everyone thinking they have the highest rank of cool from all their likes.

But in the corner no one looks at,

 a girl stares 

knowing the truth to it all.

Her brain hurts from all the numbers

but no one cares to help.

So the headache slams on. 

All she can do is breathe,

because teenagers are eye rollingly dramatic

and every boy is a boy.

Breathe because the jerseys are just gray...

and she just wants the stars to line up.

And breath because Addison's music taste is unbelievably on point.

She told me I only have a year left to figure myself out

but all I have is a water balloon for that wildfire

and all the firemen are out to lunch.

This roller coaster would make you throw up within 5 seconds.

Challenge not accepted.

Finally the bell rings. 

Rushing to chew with their mouths open, 

everyone walks past the girl in the corner.

everything is going to be okay

She's eighteen with a love life as messy as her hair. But her lips taste like sunshine. Some think they know her, but really no one truly know her. Not yet, at least. And she knows that. That's why she wears a clever little smirk on her lips. When she's frustrated, she throws on her comfiest clothes and dances about her empty house singing at the top of her lungs. When it rains, she lays on the cement and lets the little droplets of water spill across her body like getting thousands of kisses from the heavens. When she hurts, she runs to her car and drives to a quiet place. When she's happy, she lets tears escape. Mostly from laughing too hard but also because she's been stuck in the land of emptiness for too long. When she traces her lips, she's thinking of past kisses. To her, hot chocolate taste like happiness even though it makes her tummy hurt and fanny packs are what make the world go round and round. One day, she'll be forced to leave the man made bubble she formed. But don't worry, she'll be clinging to Jeff the Giraffe the entire time. She's cursed herself with the never-shutting-up spell. She thinks people are beautiful in their imperfections and awkward interactions. She wants to kiss someone beneath flurries of snowflakes drifting from above on a perfect winter night, and dance with someone while the heavens soak them with their crying clouds. She wears over sized sweaters because they make her happy. 

She's everything you'd never wish to 

yes, i am that girl

The girl that finds beauty in the imperfections of human interactions, who would rather watch people from far away instead of up close and personal. Because there is beauty in the way someone runs their fingers through their hair when it falls in their face, and when someone is so incredibly focused on the paper they are writing a crease forms between their eyebrows. I am the girl that falls a little bit more in love with people who don't think anyone is watching them, and I catch them in their little small moments of beauty. Like licking their thumb to turn the next page in a book or when they gets so deeply lost in the music their heart begins to beat to the same rhythm and their face shows it only for a split second. And when a strand of hair gets twirled between fingers, or someone scratches at a phantom itch on their arm. Those moments when a smile tickles the edge of lips as they remember unforgettable moments. I am the girl that can't get enough of these moments people unknowingly share.

I am that girl that you want to shush in the theater that she cries too hard because she relates her feelings so strongly to those in the film. And who isn't fond of those that are glued to their screens more than the exciting story their friend is telling them.
I am the girl that cant stand unpainted fingernails, a middle finger missing it's pearl ring, straight hair that just sits there, and when a moment passes and a Polaroid is not in hand.
The girl that gives her heart too quickly to music and those around her because she wants them to feel what she feels.
I am that girl that prefers hot coco and over sized sweaters over tight exercise clothes. And who sits in her car and listens to music while her heart leaks from her eyes.

I am the dramatic girl you roll your eyes at.
The foolish girl you say "I told you so" to.
The curious girl you wonder what she thinks about.
And that ...interesting... girl you ask where in the world she came from.
I am that girl people say is explosive.


I am this girl and I couldn't be happier to be.

i guess she built her house on the sand

She was on the trail again matching the beat of her heart with the rhythm of her legs. Too many thoughts stuck where she started, she didn't want to turn around and face them. So she kept moving; letting the drops of sweat slide their way down her forehead as Evening Acoustic playlist whispering in her ear making it possible to push forward. She turned the volume up every time those deadly thoughts crept their way back in. Her legs screamed, illustrating how she felt on the inside. Her worn legs gave out on her, too weak to continue. Stumbling on the hard cement she thought how often she has felt this way. This feeling has become apart of her.

She is determined to get up and walk forward.
But it's taking every last bit of effort to not turn her head and look back to all the happy things that made up this past summer.
Maybe soon she will be able to turn around and smile or even laugh at the memories created.

But for right now she feels used and just another number so she learns how to make people believe she is smiling, plays sad songs on her guitar, and how to get out of bed. Soon they will be happy songs and none of that will be a struggle.


She is just too foolish
too foolish with her heart.
Why is it she never learns?
There isn't going to be anything left to give if she keeps this up.


.



When will she do something right for once?