Vague Excuses and Vogue Disguises

I absolutely HATE cooked vegetables, i have no idea why i just can’t stand the way they taste.

Ask me anything

it’s getting late

please let this be just a twist of fate

i never thought i’d speak the word hate, but

i’m really not a fan of the situation we’re in

the words keep replaying in my head

god how i wish they would just fade out

but they’re surrounding me in a cloud of doubt

so thick it’s getting hard to see

oh how i wish this was all a dream

I can’t help but feel like all I can do is scream

and as loud as i am i won’t be heard

it’s getting late

it feels like my heart’s been ripped from my chest

i’m not really looking my best

but somehow i know you wouldn’t really care

just how messy i wear my hair

lord how i miss your loving stare

but you’re not there

scream as i might no difference is made

because i’m just a teenager

no one listens to me

…fuck

it’s getting late.

Are you a morning or night person?

It honestly depends on the day, but I’ve never really been a morning person in truth.

Ask me anything

It’s not that easy, pretending you’re not there

We used to be such good friends, it truly isn’t fair

It’s disgusting what you did, I wish I could show someone

But you know too much, if you told I’d be done

They look at you differently when they know

Of the immense turmoil which hides below

It’s hard for me to hear people talk about how nice you are

I’ve been moved to tears more than once

There’s no one I can talk to, You ruined the part of me that can trust

Inspired by Joe Brainerd

I remember the pain
I remember each biting word
I remember the insecurities, on all sides
I remember the look on your face when you told me I had stopped trying, I hadn’t
I remember the look on my face when you told me you had stopped trying as well
I remember going home
I remember healing
I remember being happy
I remember laughing
I remember seeing movies
I remember love
I remember letting go
I remember sharing countless jokes with my cousin
I remember not being too sad to see him go
I remember every goodbye
I remember the smell of your car
I remember writing you to say that I hoped our friendship could be saved
I don’t remember you responding
I remember you not reading the message he sent me
I don’t remember you telling me you disagreed
I remember it was all I wanted to hear
I remember you not saying he was wrong, he was your boyfriend after all
I remember proving him wrong, proving us all wrong
I remember your help
I remember your patience
I remember your countless facts about that one band
I remember falling up the stairs
I remember you saying you just wanted a hug when you really wanted to pull me into the pool, twice
I remember the water was freezing
I remember the lake
I remember the sun reflecting off the water
I remember the blisters from rowing the boat
I remember the giant hole in your shirt, and how you were right about it being amazingly comfortable
I remember when things were good
I remember when things were not so good
I remember when you were nice
I remember when you weren’t
I remember, I promise.

For the first year I knew you, I couldn’t stand you. I thought you were obnoxious and lame. But as time passed, slowly but surely, you grew on me.

Acceptance, easy word, hard concept. I try to be accepting of others’ choices mostly because there isn’t much else to choose from. What am I going to do? Tell her to stop? A lot of good that would do. And what happens if she gets caught? Or arrested? What do I do then? Do an “I told you so” dance? No. I sit there and tell her what pigs police are. I indulge her. Encourage the behavior. I am an awful friend to her. But I fear she finds me expendable, that if I cross her she wouldn’t mind getting rid of our friendship, even after all of this time. I’m the only one who looks out for her anymore. So I have to indulge her. Because without me who will she have left?

It was Friday, I was mostly indifferent to the weekend. It’s not like I had any plans. My “friends” had long since abandoned me. Some friends. They said I’d become too much of a burden on them. I can’t tell you how many times I put them back together. I’ve chosen not to care at this point. I pretend to read my book when you enter the library, willing you not to see me, but at the same time hoping you do. I don’t know why, though. I would love nothing more than to spit in your face, call you a pig, and ask how you could do what you did to me. I’ve been observing you from a distance all year. you scared me at first. Every time I would have flashbacks to that night. But as I watched you, the visions changed. They became more happy. I decided I was happy you did what you did. I fell in love with you. I lost, you saw me. You walk over and whisper in my ear.
“I’ve seen you watching me.” I nod. “So you’re not gonna talk? Are you scared?” I shake my head no. “You know you wanted it, right?” “Yeah I did,” I reply. A shocked expression crosses your face. You were not expecting this. “And I want it again,” A pleased expression replaces the shocked one. We proceed to make plans to begin seeing each other. I will ignore the cheating. I will never tell anyone that the broken arm or eye socket is from anything more than a spill down the stairs. Or that the fractured leg and shattered ankle are from anything other than a skiing accident. When our children ask how we met I will not tell them it was because you raped me. I’ll say you asked me out in the library.

There are some things no one can control. When inspiration hits. When it rains. When an accident happens. When someone dies. But you just can’t let that get you down, because when something bad happens something good should be just around the corner. Shouldn’t it? I mean if I were to crash my car I shouldn’t have my favorite pair of Steve Madden’s ruined on the same day, should I? So why is it that bad things come in three’s, or even more for some people? Good people. Undeserving people. And why is it that complete jerks never get their comeuppance? I try my best to be a good person, I really do. And yet whenever I’m happy people around me aren’t. And as good of a person as I am I can have things said to me like “I hate Jews.” “Stupid Jew bitch!” and “Dirty fucking kike.” on the same day that my grandmother should happen to be diagnosed with brain cancer. Or die. But I do my best to take it in stride. I have people who need me to be strong for them. But what should happen if one day I should start to break? If all these little things start to cause fissures beneath the surface of my well-established, emotionally-stable, supporting-rock facade and I should crack? What then? Should I be responsible for putting myself back together, even if a few pieces are missing? What if my heart should break beyond repair and no one has time to help me even try to mend it? What then? How can I be expected to be able to not only love myself, but others too? “If you don’t love yourself, how the hell you gonna love somebody else?” I don’t know! But the question remains. How am I supposed to learn to love myself so late in the game?

Have you ever really seen the rain? The kind of absolute torrential downpour that makes you want to put on “Yesterday” by The Beatles on repeat and sip some chai with a blanket and a book of some good Poe or T.S. Elliot. That’s what it was like that day. We were good before that day. For a year we’d exchanged glances in class never actually speaking until a mutual friend introduced us at an end of the school year party. We hit it off right away talking about our shared love of good music, obscure 1960’s pop art, classic films, and ultimately each other. We were inseparable after that. Best of friends until that one weekend we took the train out to the beach just to see the sunset and look at the stars. You had turned and looked at me and I hadn’t noticed. Looking out on the stars I said it’s all just so perfect. Before you kissed me you responded, not as perfect as you. I slept with you that night. You weren’t the first, we both knew the truth, but I said you were anyway. I was 12 the first time I had sex. It was not consensual, but a far cry from rape, if only because I had no idea what was happening until it was over. I decided I liked it and found a whole bunch of people who would sleep with me, mostly friends of my older brother. I think it made us both feel better to ignore the past and believe the lie. We were fools in love, so much so that the scars, visible and not, didn’t phase you. You tried to get me to stop the cutting, and I wanted to for you, but I just couldn’t. Until one day I was home alone and I cut too deep. I would have died if you hadn’t showed up. You saw me on the kitchen floor so you broke the window and carried me the few blocks to the hospital, ignoring your pain all the time. When you knew I would be fine you went back to my house, patched up the window, cleaned up the blood, and called my familly even though they knew. You were my hero, you were everyone’s hero. I was finally able to stop for you. The day I was discharged you were the only one would could come get me, no one in my family was in town. That was the day I got pregnant. You wanted me to tell someone, anyone, so I could get help. I convinced myself it wasn’t happening. I miscarried. No one ever found out, until we broke up. I remember the day exactly how it happened. Your dad was hitting you again. I hated him for it, hated that you never hit him back, and I hated that you wouldn’t tell anyone, so I did for you. I called the police and told them what I knew, they asked my name and I hung up. About four hours later you showed up at my house, your nose broken and one eye swollen shut. I cried at how broken you looked. You yelled, I cried harder, and you broke up with me. Four months later at the same party we met at two years earlier a mutual friend, who didn’t know of our past re-introduced us. We reconnected and were better than ever, until the day the rain came. You were on your way over, the road was slick but I made you come anyway. You crashed into another car. I didn’t give myself a chance to find out if you lived, which you didn’t.