emily.

For a while, I've had two Emily's.

One is a fox and the other a girl.

It took five years to get here

and we've passed all the things of the past,

when you'd leave me for parties,

when you begged for the love of 

those who disappeared.

I was always the fallback,

because I didn't much care,

because I'm more calm and easygoing than some,

and I understood when plans changed

or someone else was more exciting than me.

But this time I'm the one ready to let you go.

Because 

I don't think I can take 

your opinions,

your shit,

anymore!

I've changed a lot.

I don't like guns

or men

or god,

and you make jokes

and sideways critical comments about it,

but that all is as much my core

as your self-righteousness is yours.

My fox is

crimson,

passion and art

and sweetness from

nose to chocolate-dipped tail tip.

-- I guess you were right

when you feared she would 

replace you.

But she hasn't really!

She's entirely different.

Not a replacement, but a supplement,

to fill your holes,

to ease the loneliness you've always left

when you tell me you love me.

And she's made me feel new things.

Sure some things hurt but

it's alright.

She's not perfect,

she's just great,

and she's just made me

happy.

Happier.

And she's been the second person

to accept all of me.

That means a lot.

Because sometimes even I

just barely accept me.

I don't think I can bear your constant 

insistence that you won't judge me!

Nothing is normal anymore.

Nothing is okay.

I haven't told you a secret for over a year.

I'm sorry that I've outgrown our

"forever." 

It's scary!

And it was so comfortable! 

In our easy silence,

where we've run out of things to say.

Well I've finally found my words,
but they'll never reach you.

is this romance

i will breathe softly

softly against your skin

all the words i'm too afraid to say out loud

because i am a coward with expectations and

without promises

"stay" and 

"today i love you with all my heart"

they will not reach your ears

but i will mumble them past your lips

and growl them against the arch of your spine

and let them settle into the dips made by your collar bones

if i whisper
if i'm silent
if i scream it

will you hear me

and will you understand

?

when i think about them it hurts.

and so drops my heart down into the space between my hipbones

like a plummeting in an elevator shaft, stomach-flipping gravity
until it hits the basement with a dull resounding thud, all things
skeleton shrapnel and
dead silent.

memorized.

I wake up from a dream, 

it smells like summer,

like you 

and lake water 

and 

--two cigarettes. 

Like my sunblock 

and your deodorant. 

Like tea.

Like the middle of the night,

melon, the beach,

and navy blue.

even i don't want to see myself like this.

He's worried and careful, and he's always been around. He's talked me out of my worst places, when I couldn't see things clearly. He treated me like feather light, rice paper thin things; he saw through the styrofoam walls I'd painted to look steel. He never fell for my bullshit--he rarely even got mad about it.

"I'm fine." I repeat it just like that and he always calls the lie. But I never try harder to pretend.

Of course he yelled at me when he found out what I keep inside the tin box on my shelf. Sure nothing happened, but of course he would worry.

He's worried but I'll never listen, because I'm not invisible to him.

I most like the ones who don't see me, so I can live in perpetual misery.

-------------------------------------

I have never wanted to find someone before, so badly.

Maybe that was because I'd rather be with nobody than with a boy. Maybe I didn't realize how gay and feminist I am. Maybe the power dynamics of gender roles are the biggest turnoff in existence to me.

Maybe I thought friendship was more than enough. Well, maybe it would be, if I could meet other people who thought that way. But realistically, a lot of people want families, especially people I know. Real life blood-related marriage-tied traditional dysfunctional families.

-- But I don't ever want to risk becoming my mom. I don't care much for cooking fancy things or being ladylike or any of that. Cranky in the morning and miserable at night, despite all I've done just the way they told me to. No thanks.

It's not like I can forget, my actually pretty decent family messed me up enough to let me know it's harder to be healthy than it looks. Everyone is screwed, gonna end up with complexes and scars, no matter how hard we try. And in the end blood doesn't fix everything or heal the wounds it left.

Maybe it's because I know she'll go away and I don't have the courage to be any more alone than I am now. Maybe I'm just jealous and scared of that feeling. Or maybe I want to be the first to leave.

Maybe I figured I'd be dead already.

Yup, maybe lots of things. But mostly I guess I want someone to kiss and I want someone who cares and I want to be even, equal with someone.

I'm not tough. I'm lonely and tired and so sick of liking her and worrying him.

Then again I like the despair I've fed for so long. I cling to it a little bit, sometimes. Like when I read Bukowski or make art.

I think maybe I just want to be someone's favorite, too. Instead of always feeling things alone.

I'm not sure what I want, I'm a mess of contradictions.

You know how mothers and boyfriends get disappointed when a girl decides to cut her beautiful hair short?

I get disappointed when she decides to grow it back out long.

Every girl in my grade had long hair and I didn't like hardly any of them.

Emily, remember when you cut it all off the first time? I know you were a bit upset and Clare didn't like it much, but I thought you were the coolest. It was different. I thought it was great.

Yesterday I was listening to the radio and the men were talking about women cutting their hair, as if it were a sin. They made a joke, like, "Now it's like I'm gonna be sleeping with a dude for eight months." And all I wanted to say was "eff you."

Women can be whatever they want to be. They can have short hair or unshaved legs or wear men's clothes and still be women, if that's what they feel like identifying as.

They can have long hair too and there's nothing wrong with that!

But I just think short hair is the best. Maybe it's a queer thing.

plans.

I just want a friend and a cat.
Simple, sounds good.
Everything else is the adventure.

Want to come along?

i think i'll make them into a sweater.

It's not as simple as willing the feelings away.

You're a thread wrapped up in all of me, coiled about my organs and woven between my rib bones, tied on each finger as a reminder of why I fell for you in the first place, when this thread bound my ankles together, caught me by surprise.

I always believed that sexuality and attraction and things were fluid because they are for me. Girls, boys, androgynous people, queer folk. Beards, button-ups, nail polish, sweaters, suspenders, collar bones, undercuts, you. Lots of things slip in and out of my closet of aesthetic interest.

I mean, I used to identify as straight. Things change, right?

Short answer, no.

I have no right to expect that or wish for that, that was really wrong of me. Your identity was never my business to question. It could change one day or it could never change; either way it's YOUR'S, not mine, to worry about and consider.

In reality very few straight-identified (sober) people "experiment." Very few straight-identified people change their minds. Very few people aren't straight-identified. (Tumblr was never an accurate reflection of the reality of things.)

I held onto something impossible for unbelievably long. Partly because I'd hoped that you'd emerge from the cocoon of junior year as a glorious rainbow colored butterfly, like I did. (Actually you're still younger than I was when I decided boys were mostly pretty dull.) And partly because there's never been anyone who's fit into my life and at my side as well as you do, and I thought if I were good enough, I could be the same for you. And I guess also partly because my queer crush on you is just really fucking big and I'm not good at managing my feelings.

But you've found someone you seem to like as much as I like you. And it's not my place to object or interfere or wish or theorize or anything. In order to stop doing those things, it's best to stop liking you that way, in a way that makes me wish for more.

So I'll carefully unwind this thread.

It's not going to be instantaneous, though that would be most convenient. But I realize now that if I tried to tug it all out at once, it would unwind me along with it. I don't want to make a mess of me or become bitter about things or lose my platonic friend-love feelings for you in the process.

I don't have to ruin myself or beat myself up over any of this. We've all got feelings, it's okay. You're nice, and you won't rush me or shove me. Thank you.

ah, dang.

I feel vaguely upset, but I can't cry (I think that's the side effects again.) I don't have a right to even feel anything about it but happy. I should have known--!

I mean, I did know. But I'd hoped--!

It's just--...

I want you to be happy. I do.

I want to be happy, too. I'm figuring that part out.

And I don't want to be alone. More specifically, I don't want to be without you. I've had to walk away from people before, I've had people walk away from me, but this is different. You're different.

You're my good friend. You were the first person I came out to, the only person to ask me questions. You help me do things I wouldn't normally do. You've been sweet to me while I've been a mess; I really appreciate that. And I enjoy every moment we're around each other. More than I enjoy moments with anyone else I've met so far.

So of course I don't want to lose you.

But I don't want to be in love with you, either, I never meant for that to happen.

I'm so sorry about it, too, it's really silly. I mean it's not silly that I could fall for you, you're wonderful. But it's a bit silly that I could stay in like this long for something hopeless, considering it's made me a worse person at times.

I care that you're not totally happy in that relationship. I want you to have all the happiness possible. You deserve it. But it's also true I'm jealous and kind of a jerk because of it. If I weren't jealous, maybe I could shut up and let it be, no matter how I felt about it all. That's the kind of friend I need to be, my chill self. Not my infatuated, judgmental, whiny self.

Feeeeeelings... Don't worry, I'll get rid of them. I held them tight all this time, thinking that was enough or that was noble or something stupid. But they make me act bitter and that makes me feel icky. They're not worth it, and it's time I grow up and realize you're not queer.

It's weird because my emotions feel different on this medicine, I guess because I'm just getting used to it. And maybe I feel better because I can't cry, too. I guess I can't understand how I feel without the usual clear signs. Normally I think I'd assume I should kick myself out of your life or something awful and sad like that. I'd probably cry a while and feel sorry for myself because I'm a selfish bastard. And then I'd send you a nine page text message about how sorry I am for being shitty.

I totally don't feel like that now, though. I have no desire to do any of those things. (Except text you I guess, but that's because you're my friend, not because I want to be a sad flopping fish of feels.)

Nothing's wrong with me, I'm just a normal person and you're just lovely. This is how life goes.

I hope your relationship can be better and be all you want it to be.

I hope I can be better.

We all deserve to be happy. Woo.

it's day three and I'm okay.

My head is clear for a bit so let's write some things down.

I don't even have the capacity to feel sad right now, this medicine hits me like a beehive, flossing the space between my ears with white noise.

I go in a room to get something or I open a tab to look something up and almost immediately forget what I was doing; I get distracted. I can't form coherent sentences, and I stutter sometimes. When I turn my head, it feels like my neck is the part of the trunk left after a beaver has chewed all around, a tiny spindly toothpick supporting the weight of the tree. I feel twitchy and odd.

It's interesting?

But probably a good thing side effects only last a couple weeks.

i'm actually not, though.

I figure if this isn't real and if I talked myself into this place, I should be able to talk myself out. (Then again there's the chance that this is just who I am. That I'm just slow and lazy and cynical and sad. What if I'm just generally terrible and that's all there is to it?)

"You don't want to die today. You're happy. You can do this. You can make it. You're happy. Smile. Dress up. Talk more. Because you're happy. You don't want to go to sleep yet. Do your homework. You're happy. Chat. Eye contact. You're happy. You're happy."

Maybe the magic of eighteen birthdays, a couple dozen fountain coins, and a handful of stardust will finally count for something; maybe this will be the one wish that will come true. So I repeat it again and again and again and again.

But tomorrow I go to the doctor and wishes won't count for anything anyway. 

I'm afraid of medicine. If I take the medicine and nothing changes, it will just prove how awful I am at life and how shitty I am for convincing myself I was sick when there are people in the world who have real problems.

Then again, I'm also afraid that if I take it, everything will change. She says I shouldn't let the blue define me, and I'm not saying it should. I'm just saying it's there and it's real to me. What will I be without it? And then again, what if the medicine takes away too much of my blue? What if I can't create things anymore?

I'm just scared and lonely and sad and tired and--

"I'm happy."

Mister Porcupine,
she only ever cared for you,
but you filled her nose with quills.

Put away your f-words,
and your arguments,
sure nobody knows everything
but neither do you.
(And that's okay.)

Mister Porcupine, you chase them away,
but you're still not alright.

well this will be a bare thanksgiving.

I threw up my guts twelve times, or something close to that, it's really easy to lose count, and I was so thirsty I got a little too excited when they finally let me drink--added one more time onto there, but it was worth it.

I pleaded with God to make it stop, and really prayed for the first time in months. I thought He was punishing me for something; in my defense I was running a low grade fever and my tongue was getting dry. But, well, it didn't stop anyway, not for nearly nine hours, I think. (And that's just the throwing up.)

I'm glad that I have short hair and a mom.

I slept in bursts of fifteen minutes, but each time I woke up I assumed I'd been dead for at least a day.

I've never been so sick in my life. I didn't even have time to be lonely and sad.

birds; part II.

All he wanted was a mane to prove his roar--

so he cut it all off this morning,

scissor-snipped

the long gold his mother'd grown

and filled with flowers all his life.

He left it as a grave-marker

for that flower-haired little girl,

the one they mistook him for.

insult to injury, you ended it with telling me to pray.

We tried to talk about depression.

But you only told me I need to try, to start taking steps. I know that much, I didn't need you to tell me that. Logically, I know all of that. I've tried. I sit down to do the things I need to do, but I can't.

It's hard. I'm worried and scared and I feel vulnerable and confused.

It would be nice to never wake up.

God, I sound so fucking dramatic and stupid, shut up.

When I lost a concrete conception of what god is, I most lost the ability to settle for being unhappy.

I have no passion for a real job and that's probably a problem.

i guess it still hurts.

I suppose it was a poor choice, commenting about homosexuality in such a public forum, when most of the ghosts in my graveyard and the skeletons in my closet have already told me by accident that they hate me or that I'm disgusting or that I deserve hell for it.

(Well, friends, it looks like you were right, if hell's a place and jesus is how I avoid it, I'm certainly going there now. Not that I'm blaming you, but your self-righteous bullshit and homophobic slurs and comments didn't really guide me down a landing strip to any sort of spiritual salvation.)

Why'd you have to write your ugly words for my closest cousins to see them, why'd you have to shove your view down my throat, going on and on, assuming you were invalidating my every point with your single flimsy cry of "morals!" and a bible-verse? We weren't even talking about the same things, kid.

If you actually cared about me, I guess I could understand sending a private message worried over "my soul." My mom does as much. But she loves me, or tries to.

Like all the ghosts in my secondary education graveyard and all the skeletons in my bible class closet, you condemned me.

And I'd be lying if I said it didn't sting in the slightest, to remember how a majority of the people I've spent eighteen years trying to fit in with... Wouldn't wholly accept me if they knew true things.

And after that, to see love compared to rape and murder, the way my pastor compared it to pedophilia...

Well, I guess I cried a little bit.

But that's a secret.

the perks of being a wallflower.

So, if this does end up being my last letter, please believe that things are good with me, and even when they’re not, they will be soon enough.

And I will believe the same about you.

Love always, Charlie

i used to think so too.

I feel that it's important to note, we don't all wear our scars on our skin.

We all battle dragons, and they come in all sizes and they leave all sorts of messes. We rot inside with our built-up bitterness. We hold tight to our warped mirror images, our wishes for ribs and collar bones and leg gaps and shadowless existence. We tell ourselves we'll never be good enough for love, or healthier love at least. We're left with what they did to us, how they broke our bodies or our spirits, with abusive hands and lips. We wonder why our feelings flutter the way they do, why we're different, why that's wrong. We have bad nights and days and showers and car rides home. We stare at the ruins of our temples and wonder what to do next, wonder why we burned them out in the first place. We're sick, or sad, or both. We have mistakes and aches and all of them mean as much as the others; we're all just people, connected, in the end.

We have scars on our hearts.

But it's not the scars that matter, it's where we go from there, and whether or not we let them keep us from happiness.

birds; part I.

She wears a circus-tent, striped yellow and red,

oversized from her collar to her barefeet,

an abandoned circus tent--

the animals have been long set free,

and the empty rings

without a ringmaster

rest against her anklebones.

He runs like drumbeats, hair yellow, cheeks red,

all stretch and half stumble,

to abandoned playgrounds--

the children all hide from the rain,

and his breath paints

the air with fog,

inside the tunnel slide like a waterfall.

aw whatever.

Don't whine to me about self-control.

(Not that I know anything of kisses or who I'd want them with anymore, really. I'm just saying. You're not even trying.)

i just like fox metaphors.

It started with a whisper then a touch by the window in the cabin in the forest in the skull of a tiny speck on this reality. 

The fox swiped its tail under the mask-creature's chin, orange fur lighting crimson-cheeked fire beneath the wooden face--a spark and then a supernova's glaring heat, catching like disease in a body-piled gutter.

The creature's toes are blistered now, curled against the hardwood and pointed inward with its knees. Leathery skin peels from its shoulders and molten flesh melts from its thighs, mock-body shedding paint and coarse hair and meat and costume. Scars encircle its fingers and cross its sweaty palms. Desperate words leave red chapped lips, evanesce, all smoke, slipping up the chimney and out the cracks beneath the doors. 

The fox set the creature ablaze by innocent accident or knowing acceptance, but either way the creature's no phoenix suited to taking the abuse, neither another fox who can match the temperature in turn. It's a conflict of passions; or rather the presence and absence of such.

The mask is nothing now but charcoal, we'll soon see the creature's gnarled face. And the fox will devour the perfectly blood-boiled heart.

It will be fine, this is how things go.

the 4'o'clock.

You and I, two trains,
we run on
parallel
tracks
from here to there

or there to here.

We are the same,
the same beasts-- Trains
like two metal tigers
with billboard stripes
and tunnel roars.

We will never meet,
unless Catastrophe
plays our matchmaker.
... But selfishly I still hope
for a
crashing.

polls.

That picture bothered me the first time that I saw it, even before I had turned eighteen and even before I was registered to vote.

I'm not crazy about patriotism. I'm not gung-ho AMERICA.
... But there are things that matter to me. Things I need to protect. Things that affect me.
And that's why I'm voting.

I suppose men and women have fought
for your right to not vote, as well.
It's a free country.

I don't like fireworks, they're too loud and every Fourth of July I can't stop imagining my house as a burned-black hull painted with the ashes of my tangible treasures, charred, fire-hose-soaked remains of everything I've always known.
But that's my melodramatic mental haunt; the colors are pretty.

I don't know why I thought you were level-headed,
dictionaries hit the floor!

The birdhouse outside my window is swinging, swinging, and I feel awful--I keep forgetting to fill the feeder with food; I miss the sounds of their beaks and feathers and little clawed feet tapping at my window, sometimes they'd just sit there and let me look at them, sometimes they were my friends. I hope they found somewhere else to eat, I hope they come back when I finally fill it up.

And flashbacks to back when we talked! I still have false confidence in my charms to this day, but I think now that maybe you were just bored and I was just there (it's the classic relationship of the teenage years). Oh well, I'd rather believe I'm dashing. 

I've got a girly name, girly voice when I get excited, and even though I shove my hands into my pockets and hunch my shoulders forward, I can't hide my chest. I haven't shaved my legs in a while, to be honest. You can think what you want of that, I don't care. And I haven't worn a dress in longer. I just don't want to be stuck with "female," even on the days when it would be alright. Maybe if I try hard enough, I'll fool them; maybe I'll be handsome. (Unlike the pants and genderless clothing, the leg hair isn't necessarily for sake of my manliness; I just give zero fucks. And I'm lazy.) 

I don't think of my wedding day, ever. I just want someone to sleep with, mostly in the innocent sense of the phrase. I just want someone around. I don't care about dresses and flowers, I don't care about grooms. Even when I was little, I never saw myself in white. (Maybe in a tux.) This isn't sad, why do people act like this is sad? I don't much like weddings.

... I should fill the bird-feeder. 

important and relevant and intelligent.

she says to keep it down.

Can you manage yourself? It's a fact of life that I'm queer, you've known for about a year that this was going to be something you'd have to deal with eventually. I'd really like to just be OUT. To everyone. In one fell facebook swoop just. End all this nonsense. But I have to worry about your feelings, you need more time, this is all new to you.

If people don't like me, oh well.

If they don't like you? Well this isn't about you, now, is it?

Stop making it about you. STOP. 

i changed a lot.

In all those movies, you've got all those straight couples

and all those straight people cheering for them in the seats.

I said it was okay for you to be uncomfortable with queer kisses,

but I think I might've lied.

People ask us why we need to wear it on our sleeves,

why we need parades or days dedicated to us,

while their beer commercials and R-rated films

proudly scream their hetero-sexuality.

If I'm relying on your vote 

to allow me my civil rights...

No, no I will not shut up about it.

hangman.

There's a little man of pipe-cleaners in my closet, neck wrapped with a little noose of silver string.

On the bad days I drop him off the shelf and let him dangle.
On the better ones, I pick him up and set him on the ledge.

How morbid.

the nice people vs the best people.

It's just that I could listen to you talk forever, I could sit in silence with you forever...

The words they  say on repeat, repeat, offer never a new thought, never an adjusted view, the same stories, the same beliefs, same, again and again and again. Never bare feet. Never laughing. Never adventure. Never true. "That's cool, that's nice, that's great, that sucks." GENERIC. No advice, not even an engaging comment. And then they talk forever, a million words a minute! Always on repeat. The silence is only ever awkward.

I guess that's how things work, though. There are some we'll like more than others.

And I suppose normally it's just nice to have anyone around.

But right now, right here, I don't want them.

I don't like being lied to.
I don't like it.

I don't like to feel stupid.
And being played makes me feel stupid.

If in the end, I'll be the fool,
I'd rather begin not trusting you now.

i'm not exactly cross-dressing.

I came out to my other Emily. She was the last person I wanted to tell on my own, personally, in private. I feel better.

Also my mom asked me if I could not dress like a boy and I said, "... No?" And she is going to be okay with it I guess. She raised me to be confident, and I am, and I like dude clothes. The conversation was mostly joking, so it was fine. I know she doesn't like the clothes I do, but that doesn't matter to me.

Oh but she sideways told me I couldn't have a relationship with someone anything but cis-gendered male. Because, well, "She's still raising a child." It's not like I could turn him gay. I don't know, maybe that'd just be another bump for her to get over in all of this.

Life is nice and I am pretty happy. And I got a new shirt, it's great.

i apologize.

I still want to be a fix-it, like Dad.
(But I catch misery like the common cold!)

Sometimes my words are clumsy,
they come insensitive
and harsh.

I'm not a fix-it--
I'm just a huge wad.

I can't be like Clare.
They won't want to hear my voice,
they won't call me to tell me their troubles,
they won't miss me when they're upset or lonely.
Because I'm no comfort, everyone knows it.

I sat and watched her cry for ten minutes.

It makes me feel small and sad.
I hate it.
I want to be big enough to make everything okay.

I want to fix you, fix things, make it all alright, but...

All I've got are bandaids and knee-kisses!
No, all I've got are bandaids
and scared lips.
I've got warm arms and warm hands!
But I just hug my legs,
I just gesticulate like a madman,
as I try to motivate you or change your view.
All I've got are bandaids.

Fuck I'm terrible at this.

I'm just sorry, alright?

But I'm trying to be better, bit by bit.
Thanks for being patient.

(We've fought a lot, haven't we?
It always makes my ribs hurt
and my throat tight
and I wait for your words.)

first week.

I met a person, a new person, a nice person, a person who seeks out my company, a person who likes me. I can't spell his name, but he's my friend, my new friend, my nice friend. He has tattoos, just a few. He used the word beautiful. He got beaten up this week by his ex-girlfriend's boyfriend. He takes the bus to school. He loves his siblings a lot, he showed me a picture of his little brother. Also, he talks a lot, but that's alright; I think we all need someone to listen.

I like college.

I want to learn things and meet people and grow into a beautiful deciduous tree, changing with the seasons, twisting branches, hidden bird's nests.

I want to be everyone's friend. I want to get to know everyone. 

good things.

Cheer up, sweetheart, the clouds are back and we'll fall a little more out of love each day.

we're all small.

Self-centered! All our tiny worlds revolve in a decaying orbit around our whims. Eventually these small planets will be shot off into space, into irrelevancy. Petty. Temporary.

You can't see past your eyelids. Yes, certainly your vision is "unique;" you're blind! It's your way of seeing things, and it's left you selfish. Nothing's left but meteor-pocks and ash, as your atmosphere starts to dissipate, and you clutch your throat, seeking air so you can fill your lungs and spout out your vanities once more.

When it comes to people, you are tiny and your understanding is lacking. You've learned all about yourself, but nothing much about the others.

You are small.

some people's kids.

Gender?

And I lose my breath, overexcited,

Wind knocked out of me,

Words shoved out of me.

Unjust!

You with your strong hands

With your excuses, 

You can't control your desire!

It's in your nature!!

They warned me to cover up

They told me not to walk alone

(But they never taught me how to fight.)

They never told you, "Listen!"

NO.

What's wrong with feminism anyway?

Scared of something?

Go home.

i like you people.

I held my knees,
my palms smelled like dandelions,
and a tiny bug crawled across my toes.

alone alike.

He inhales dust, the desert in a breath. We are so similar, both drowning without a drop of water. Miles between. The weight of the world in two halves of a scale, one balanced on each of our backs, a chunk of Earth added to his side, then mine. The songs we sing are soft, whispered through mouthfuls of sand, strange and foreign and weird to those who hear. The couple who sometimes understand don't listen anymore. Shy from metaphors applied by strangers, afraid of those who analyze us, we built walls. Our sandcastles contain everything raw, everything sad and wounded and real. We grimace at the thought of letting you in! But we want so badly to have it all torn down, violated, broken. Then again, we get along fine with the sand-dwelling creatures, with the scorpions and their acid-prick poison words that hardly graze our skin. We just want to sleep through it, sleep-walk, day-dream, alone alone alone in a crowd too thick to let us breathe. We inhale.

Update:

I didn't tell her.
It's not that  important, is it?

things i'm thinking of this morning.

I'm so confused about college. I wish someone would tell me what to do. Too many choices, and I've no idea what choices are the right ones.

Fionna and Cake are coming back!

As far as relationships go, I don't believe that exclusivity or permanence is perfect for everyone. I don't think everyone needs to get married. I don't think identical, cookie-cuttered relationships work for us all. Some people just want a cuddle buddy, a lay, a long-term friend, a housemate. And sure lots of people want a husband or a wife. But to just assume that that's the perfect relationship and look down on people who don't choose it is just sort of rude.

There have been about twenty moments I've come so close to telling her I'm queer... But then she takes her shirt off in front of me and I figure it's probably not a good time. It's complicated, I'm not attracted to her, but I don't want her to over-think things. She leaves tomorrow, will I tell her tonight or let it be...?

I don't want to go to the fair, urgh, why did I make this promise, I'm tired and driving sucks.

Mom seems to have accepted the idea that I'm not straight. But she cried, she's sad that I might be treated poorly in life. It sucks that it's hard for her. It's obviously kind of hard for me, too. I still can't openly discuss the topic with her, but I guess this is better than being scolded or belittled.

On the other hand, she attacks everything else that I am--the way I dress, the way I think, the person I've become. She says I seem more bitter and miserable than I used to be. I told her I used to be sad, all the time. She told me I'm imagining things. I'm still irritated about that whole conversation.

i want to go for a walk, barefoot, like you taught me.

I couldn't even act like a person, like a responsible adult person.

I couldn't get out an un-mumbled word or say anything I wanted to say.
And my mom was there, and she makes me feel smaller than I am.
(I'm pretty small already.)
I really just want to curl up and take a nap.
They all exhaust me a lot more than they used to. 

You're the only one who doesn't make me want to sleep.

Can I like, keep you in my pocket or something?

Because I'm afraid of everyone else.
And you always make me feel alright.

I wore a sweater today, but it was a waste.

i'm only human, and i like to cuddle.

Dear hypothetical, non-existent you,

I just want to bring you wildflowers and peace tea. 

I want to kiss your knees through the holes in your jeans. 

I want to use your lap as a pillow as you brush your fingers through my hair. When I get a headache, that's all I want. When all the people make me want to sleep, can you just brush your fingers through my hair? Or if that's not socially acceptable at the moment, hold my hand.

I want to smell the smoke on your clothes and wonder at where it came from, what adventure brought it there. I like it. But sometimes I want to smell the dryer sheets. Oh and sometimes we won't need clothes (particularly pants, who needs pants), I'll just bring my nose to your collar and breathe you in.

I want to taste your lips, to memorize how they feel, pressed against mine.

I want to wear something that you picked out, just for me. I don't like shopping all that much, but maybe you'll make it alright. I think I could find some motivation, seeing you all excited about what I should get. Or maybe you don't like shopping either. That's alright, we'll just drag each other out to the mall every now and then. We'll make an adventure of it and reward ourselves afterwards with pretzels or ice cream. Oh and you should borrow my clothes, I like that.

I want to hold your body on cold nights and your fingers on warm ones. 

I want to play you songs on my guitar, listen to you play. I want to share playlists and pandora stations and nights at shows. Show me the things you like, the sounds that make you excited or the songs that perfectly express how you feel. 

I want to see animated movies with you--and maybe scary ones too, if you let me sit close and sometimes hide my face against you. 

I want to give you gifts that are warm, like handmade things or a nice sweater. 

I want to be the little spoon sometimes and the big spoon sometimes; it's fine to trade off, I think. (I'm probably best-suited to big spoon, so that's okay, too.) I'll hold you when you're sad, and I won't tell you to cheer up, I'll just hold you.

I want us to smell similar but different. Well, as long as we smell nice. 

I want to laugh, play, simply enjoy things with you. Little things, huge things, unimportant things, colorful things, quiet things, everythings. 

I want to confuse people, make people uncomfortable, break rules with you. 

I want to get to know you before you go, if you decide to go someday. I can't really tie you to me, and I don't feel that I should. But let's enjoy this very moment. Let's enjoy each other right now. We won't use labels that make things uncomfortable or too high-school. I freak out at commitment, so just be my best friend.

It's not that I desperately need you, and I absolutely won't find someone only for the sake of having someone. But it would be nice to have a hand to hold and to hear a few more excited "see you tomorrow's."

sacrilegious nonsense, and also swearing. (the usual.)

I was raised right. My parents set me up, first class tickets to Heaven, bought at their expense and handed to me on a silver platter; I didn't know suffering! I thought God was beautiful, my beautiful friend. I never heard his voice, but they told me he loved me. What kid doesn't believe in the love of those who seem so much bigger than them? 

But now that I'm big, too, I realize how small we are. I realize that sometimes, love is just a word we use to make ourselves feel better. 

Now I see what this religion has bred. Misogyny, racism, prejudice, hatred, bloodshed, pain. It's not God's fault though, right? "It's the fault of this human sin!"

God made humans, God made everything, God made it imperfect. It was good? Good enough. But not perfect. How could it not be his fault? Surely the ALL-POWERFUL GOD OF THE UNIVERSE was capable of making something that wouldn't shatter after a few days of running around naked and wonderful.

I am small! I am tiny! And the tragedies of this world are strapped onto my back?

Following God never made me happy. I realize the point isn't to be happy. But if it feels all wrong, how can it be right? What about conscience, what about our natural compass? I feel one way, they tell me I'm wrong.

The needle spins and spins and spins!

But I have no conscience, I guess. My queer lust and confusion threw it off a year ago, right? I'm just too gay to see straight. I'm just too liberal to be intelligent. 

I'm just so fucking fucked up and it's all my fucking fault!

... Honestly, I don't want someone to blame for that, for how fucked up I am. I don't think I'm all that bad, definitely not evil. Sure, I've got my flaws but I also like myself a lot and I'm alright.

I am small and I am tiny but I've tried to fit the universe inside my skull. And no matter how hard I look, I see no Christian God, I see no place for him, or his holy book, or his preachers, or his pretend perfection, or his claims to justice. 

I'm not saying it's wrong to believe in things, I just don't like it when your beliefs try to force me into compliance as well.

I like girls and profanity and Panic! at the Disco.

Stop telling me to pray, I'd rather go to Hell.

i wrote this a while ago, it's still hard sometimes.

smoke and colours filled our sky. and light! and noise so loud, i couldn't feel my heartbeat like i usually do; i couldn't feel the bass of our bodies, the dissonance we create when we almost touch. i curled my toes into the grass.
i'm all powder, shoved into cardboard, lit on fire, and shot into the dark.
and something chokes off my words and my breath and i'm left burnt out and empty and tired, trash on the lawn in the morning, crumpled and charred, paper tubes and ashy rings on the asphalt.
likes me not, likes me not--
all the daisies echo.
but i only wanted to scoot closer and touch your fingers.
just to see how it'd feel.

my how you've grown.

How much longer
Until we're all fixed up?
Until we're right?
All together
With our normality
Or scarless bodies
Or thoughtlessness
Or contentment
Or tiny universes
Or mature relationships.
Adults!
For benefit of the illustration,
I'm an aged man, unable to change,
Covered in my old wounds,
And set in my stubborn ways.
There are graves waiting for people like me.
I'm a child who refuses to understand,
Certain that this world is centered at my feet,
Not bothering with conventional things.
There are long-winded lectures waiting for people like me.
I don't know if I'm capable of fitting between,
I don't know if I want to be.
... Though sometimes it gets lonesome.

sort of objectively speaking.

"Alright, so I've finished letting this set in, here's my final word. He was kind of harsh and you're kind of sensitive. Neither of you was entirely right or entirely wrong. But that's the thing--a lot of shit is grey. His opinion, your opinion, my opinion of something is only a part of the truth. And a part of the lies. Both. None of us can see everything... So what if you don't agree? You don't need to. If he's so angry, he can choose to get over it or go. If you don't like things about him, same to you."

On an emotional and personal level, dropping my attempt to be unbiased (Which, note, is impossible, we all believe things, we all have bias, everything I said was biased towards my opinions that everything I said was true. Complicated, hm?), I still side with her original stance.

I just feel sort of sad that she feels stupid or would doubt her opinions just because he's ranting, same as she was. The entirety of "them" as in them together just makes me bothered and annoyed more often than anything else.

no to normalcy, really.

I am perfectly happy, I am perfectly sad. I desperately want things I can't have. I talk back too much, I keep my mouth shut too often. I want to be boyish today, I don't care tomorrow. I'm always over-thinking, I don't take anything seriously enough.

Again, I am contradictions. I no longer make sense to mother.

I will change bits by bits, inevitably, but I think I'm fine like this. Imperfect, of course. But alright.

And I can't change too much and still feel like me. I won't let things pass me by for the sake of a "secure life." I'll examine the little things, like sketches and kittens, and the big things, like the universe and abstract thinking. I can't be a wife or mom, I'm most certainly unfit. And I don't want that, anyway, could everyone kindly stop trying to convince me that they know better?

Exploration, stillness, imagination, observation, creation, dissection, cacophony, silence, colors, greyscale, everything, nothing.

I'm a product of opposing forces! I want to be a cynic, scream "eff it all!" but I want to be a lover and hold onto you all. I want to keep the ones I like around to join me in my solitude. I want to bleed colors and see greys.

Hey, I'm not the first to despise the average, and I'm not the only one.

My friend from jr. high is going shopping for a wedding dress tomorrow. And my pretentious attitude is creeping up again! Because face it, I think I know best, for some reason. I just feel like they'd get it if they could see things the way we see them... Stop!

It's difficult to explain it, the words aren't working well right now. Or I'm just as confused as the rest. Both. Neither. Everything. Nothing.

Nights like these. (These rare nights where I can't find sleep, I curl up pantsless in my nest, my hair a wreck, my thoughts on everything unimportant...) Nights like these, I just want to be honest. Honestly, I want to cuddle the crap out of everyone. I want to cuddle them so hard. And also show them some sense/nonsense/whatever.

This is a dumb post. Go to sleep.

bluntly put, the anxiety is going to get me killed.

And cliches tickle my nose-- 

thin, dusty, beautiful, 

butterfly-winged cliches,

that have swirled about my stomach

and brushed my heart 

with hurried, unbearable flitting.

See, this is a stupid metaphor. 

And I'd really like to sneeze all these fucked up feelings out.

I'd just really like to feel steady again.

target won't take me seriously.

No, but, lady. Listen. You don't understand. I've bled morals from the age of five, I've never stolen a thing in my life, I've never even considered it. These are conveniently circle shaped earrings, I'm not even allowed to stretch my ears. My jacket has a hood, but that doesn't mean I'm a hoodlum. Look. Look at me, I'm so awkward and socially inept, it's hardly funny. I just. I just want to try on this cardigan, alright? It's-- Fine. Fine, I'll leave my bag out here. Don't try to tell me it's protocol though. You don't make me do it when I'm with my mom. That's right, I still shop with my mother sometimes.

Couldn't you at least be suspicious with a smile?

just shut up.

I know I say too many words for my own good.
I'm sorry, okay?

There are often times a lot of things in my head,
A million thoughts that want to escape,
And never anyone who's willing to listen to them.

Other times, I'm just lonely,
Maybe need a distraction from something that sucks.

I used to be alright by myself.

there's that one saying.

I've thought about it a lot, and though I'm not really like, "Woo, perfect, girl, you go for it!!" about the whole couple thing (like i talk like that ever), I'm always going to tell you to do what you want. It's your life and you should do what you want with it, same as I would. All of us have our own responsibility to find our happiness. Nobody can really predict what that will look like, so we need to try things, search, learn, and grow into happy.

I wish you two luck, like I'd wish any couple. Honestly, you probably shouldn't take my opinion to heart too greatly, because I don't really believe in love; I mean, I do but my beliefs about it are kind of weird and skewed. I don't believe in the traditional equation of man+woman and idea of them vs. the world. I believe love has been made small and boxed up to fit into a society that desires separation, distance, cold shells. And, if lots of marriages end up broken, could it possibly not be the highest form of relationship? I don't know.

But I believe in community. In group. In finding the people you like and sticking with them. I believe in our house with "fuck you" stenciled on the wall and warm people sprawled out on the mismatched couches. I'd like someone to cuddle with and talk to, just the same as you do, but I don't believe that a man is the only one who can fit that spot. I believe in platonic partnership, friendship, fluffy dogs, too. I believe in comfortable. In "John, rawr!" kinds of kisses. In sharing. In sticking together. I believe in love, I guess, in my own backwards way.

You guys are doing what normal people are supposed to do, I'm the one who's kind of crazy and off.

... This post wasn't really supposed to be about me, I swear.

Anyway, I don't know if I think you two are great together or anything like that, but he's nice and average and even, so it couldn't really go bad, like terribly, right? Sure, there's always potential for a broken heart or loneliness, but I hear people get those things a lot; the common cold of emotions, people walking around with them on any street, any day. It's fine as long as you remember happy is waiting, as long as you remember how to be fine as "I," as "me," instead of "we." Does that make sense? 

Well, it's not my business anyway!

Let's be friends, I'm working on being sweeter.

stargirl.

leo, why.
no.
fuck.
what is this.
too tired.
to finish tonight.
eyes.
not.
opening.
enough.
alkdglakf;sagfj;l.

i can feel a bad day coming. someone, get the crayons and fruit.

i liked someone once.

It's my fault it hurts, my fault it ever hurts, my fault.

To them, I'm a girl, I was born a girl, I look like a girl. On the days that I wake up and hate those facts, I'm still a girl. I hate gender, you know that! For more reasons than my affections and the inequality of it all. I hate it because it binds itself to me, heavy and smothering and restraining. Some days are fine but some days are bad, some days it's as if everything wants to remind me of my limitations and ties.

My brother called me "he" a couple of days ago; I know it was just a tongue-fumble, but I kind of liked it when he did it again and said he knew I wouldn't care anyway. Well, I wish I fit neatly between male and female and we could just all be okay with that.

Chances are that more often than not, if I start to like a girl I won't be able to tell her or to try. I won't even get a chance to prove what a gentleman I can be, to hold her hand, to bring her flowers, to take her on adventures, to kiss her cheek, to write her notes, to sing her songs, to be the best friend. A boy doing those things is cute and sweet, but I'm pathetic, pitiable, and odd at best. I'll have to do absolutely nothing and happily watch that girl walk on into life with someone else at her side, a real boy, and I can't do a thing about it, I'm not even supposed to feel anything about it.

I'm a girl, I'm a girl and that's all. I'm not allowed to just be savanna. I'm a girl. No matter how much I like someone, I'm a girl.

I guess I get that, my gender is bound to my chest. It affects how you see me and how you value me. I look like a girl, that's all I can be. I get it, but god, it's fucking painful. It's my fault it hurts, my fault for being oversensitive, but it still hurts.

I liked someone once, but oh well.

My fault.

leaves.

I liked autumn, I always liked autumn the best, just like my mom did.

The house smells different. The air is crisp. There's the (short-lived) excitement over the start of a new school term. Holidays. Stews. Sweaters. 

This autumn I just want some new shoes, I want to learn things, I want to figure out how to enjoy tea, I want to meet people who believe differently, I want to adventure with my friend.

But as my "final" summer (one I wasn't actually supposed to have) comes to a close, I kind of miss it. Hot night walks, bare feet, short shorts, lake swims, sleeping on the couch, watermelon, spontaneity, dry ground. 

This has been my favorite summer.

I know things will change, no matter how much I would rather they not. I will grow older, we could grow apart, responsibilities, people, classes, parents, life. I don't want to go back to how it used to be, to how lonely it was. I can only hope the future will be even better than the present.

Soon it will be autumn, and I can't stop it.

we're all the unwanted, all the desired.

It's complicated, we're chasing the tails of the ones we can't have, the ones who don't need us, the ones who won't keep us. Lovers and friends and crushes and acquaintances; we shine on them a glowing light and expect them to take the heat! It's only a matter of time until we fall too far behind and we move on to the next intriguing flash in the brush, leaving our well-deserved wounds un-licked.

They want me and we want you and you want him and he wants them.

And we all grow infected. And we all grow lonely.

Why are we never satisfied by the ones who actually like us?

But we more-so wonder why the ones we want to like us are never the ones who do.

Words stuck, swollen in my throat; my tongue traces the backs of my teeth, like it always does when the sounds can't get through. Fingers scraping at my arm, nervous habit. That's gross, I saw this commercial once about how scratching makes dead skin go all up under your fingernails and--that's not important, why am I thinking of that. Eyes on the ground, don't let it be seen that I don't understand. Nod and make that sound, "Mm," or even better, "I get that," or, "Yah." I hate the sensation of ignorance! But I'm stepping into a  much wider landscape where it's likely all I'll feel. I know very little.

real and actual parental interactions.

"I know, I'm sorry."

"I'm starting to get mad!"

"I know, I'm sorry!"

"... GOOD!!"

It's like she doesn't know how to handle me when I don't fight it.

I know I'm irresponsible.

But mostly I'm just scared and small.

I know, I'm sorry.

you're right, i'm right, he's right, they're right, we're all right.

I think it's been understood that I'm not that great! We all know it.

I'm pretentious. I started thinking of myself as something more than I am in order to stop thinking of myself as nothing. I'm not sure which is worse.

I'm clumsy. Especially with people and words and feelings. Especially with you. I'm sorry. I want so badly to be someone who can make things better, but my thoughts get too loud and I can only be disagreeable and abrasive.

I know you don't need me, just like you believe he doesn't need you.

I'm not sure anyone needs anyone, but I'm fairly certain everyone needs everyone. Or everyone needs someone. Or everyone wants someone but maybe that someone doesn't want them. Or everyone wants nobody but needs everyone or someone. Something like that.

...

 Fact is, people exist and we are not alone. And we are not as big or great or important as we like to believe. But we also aren't as small or useless or unwanted as we tend to think.

I'm just going to try to be a little bit better, a little bit happier today.

red-head.

So let me try to explain this. I'm really glad you like stuff about me. I'm glad I can be around for now. It's cool that a male version of me would be acceptable to have a super nice indie life with.

But in my mind, that's the equivalent of someone not wanting to keep me because I'm not a natural red-head.

I pull very little from my gender. I don't actually care about being a girl. I'm fine with who I am, and no matter what, I hope I would be this person, despite what societal definition of gender was imposed on me. I like to think I'd be exactly the same if I had dude parts. I'd like to think you'd see me in exactly the same way.

Being with you isn't an option, which is fine, I'd rather have a temporary you than a never you. I'm not looking for anything more and I have no romantic feelings towards you.

I'm pretty happy. With how we are and the things we do and the present.

But it's still kind of off-putting. Especially when things seem to be going not-so-hot with these guys who's greatest qualification is their male-ness. I'm just sitting here like, "I won't mean as much because... I can't believe in anything long-term because... Why ? Because I'm not as great as they are?"

I could go on about this for a while, but I know I'm pretty wrong.

In the end, I get it, I'm glad you're honest. It makes me feel fairly good most of the time, like it's a compliment of my existence in a general sense and stuff.

I'm just not as understanding as I'd like to be.

Fuck feelings
and texting
and gender
and him
and me.
Fuck everything, I'm eating soup.

"my blood's still red and I'm just fine."

And that, kids, is why I've always been a rule follower. Oh well, we're alright and we probably learned a lesson or something! This is life, and we're okay. It was my goal to try making more questionable choices, anyway(?)

You'd make a good cheerleader, I'm sorry. Gender is stupid, I don't like it.

Pastor! I'm a pretty good kid and happier than I've ever been. The idea that you want to have my best friend somehow guide me back towards spirituality is kind of offensive. I mean, it shouldn't be, I've gone to Christian school my whole life, you think I'd be used to this. But seriously, man. I liked you. Maybe I'm just oversensitive, used to people knowing me as the kid who does no wrong. It could be a good thing to be more honest, I guess. I just wish it wasn't your job to try to "fix me," and that you didn't have to bring her into it. I understand, I just don't like it.

You're such a nice dude, I like you, I'm glad you came back! My night began to improve as we talked about gauges and guitars. You're pleasant company.

Thanks for the burrito curb date. Also, the beverage suggestion. And also also, your face! There is nobody I more like spending time with.

That was an excellent hug.
It didn't feel cheap,
like hi-fives
or teenage girl hugs.
And it had exuberance.
Like, "John, rawr!"
Anyway. It was nice.

age is a number, i don't like math.

Hold up!
I still like swimming and sidewalk chalk and Adventure Time and going barefoot and doing dumb things. And I hate formalities and politics and wearing "professional dress."
And I also like deep theoretical thinking and good metaphors and driving a car. I hate Spaghetti O's and being treated like I'm not old enough.

I don't think the things you do make you a kid or too young or immature.
I also don't think the things you do make you grown up or mature or adult.
The things you do
just make you you.
And that is perfectly alright.
Better than alright, even.
I quite like you.

I don't expect you to try to be a kid or to try to be a grown up.
I just expect you to be you.
And I think you're pretty good at that.

I'm going to admit it; I'm afraid of commitment.

What if I discover all there is to you? 

And when I reach the end of the novel and there are no more pages to read, nothing more being written, what if you're not a book I want to read again? 

Every morning I wake up and forget something that I once liked!

I guess I do act like a Sagittarius sometimes. 

(I guess.)

bro.

Sometimes I need to be alone, to breath. Your knocking on my door only irritates me and I show something ugly as I shove you away. Snarling teeth and swiping claws, us bear-faced panthers really aren't cute.

Kid, you're softer than you are rough, but when you fight, it's dirty and sharp. Oh, it's not as if I'll just give in; we'll both stalk away bloodied. I'm not afraid of you or your now-broad shoulders. 

We all know you're self-centered, but I know it's just so you can guard yourself! I know beneath threatening muscles and veiling stripes, you're a big huge kitten.

I owe you a lot; you were the first person to hear my secrets and not much care. 

I don't want to ruin our brotherhood. We were the best of friends. I know even if we choose different paths now, as full grown cats, we've still got that. 

Don't look down on those of us who aren't as ambitious. We just want to be happy, same as you, though we might find our happiness in different places. I'll try not to look down on you either; I'm working hard to cut it out with my habit of haughty pretention.

love: revisited.

I don't know if it really matters what it is. And whatever people may think it is, I don't know if it needs a word to bind it. I don't think four letters should jail the things we feel. I still don't know anything; I just think sometimes.

i don't know anything though.

"What is love?"

Her question prompts singing, but as the tired joke subsides, I hold a breath inside my lungs along with her query.

My hands cover my eyes, like a mask, like the hunters' mud paint in Lord of the Flies. This is how I say anything important, with my gaze drawn away from the glances of others; I stare at the ground, I talk through a phone, I hide my face. Today, I'm just blocking the sun, though. The grass pricks at the back of my neck and I press my tongue to my teeth for several seconds.

The truth is, I have no solid personal concept of conventional love. I think I love her. But that doesn't seem to be the right answer this time. That's probably never the right answer. It wouldn't come across properly anyway. I love her like I love a kitten. That's not what we're talking about. I'm not even sure if that's love. I don't know what that is, but I'm pretty certain that's just not the right thing to say here.

I mumble something about love being defined by one's own experiences and concepts, like it can't be restricted to one, simple definition. For some, love is not simple. I don't know though. I love kittens. That's pretty simple. I guess that's not love love. Like loooove. Is that what we're talking about?

Sex, kissing, holding hands? Are those important parts of love? I mean, I don't see why they should be. I don't think people need to do those things to love someone. And people can do those things without having any love in them. Friends can-- Wait, I'm getting weird again. I keep my mouth shut. I'm cool with losing personal bubbles, it doesn't really make a difference to me. But that's just because it's me, I think. Yah, that's definitely a me thing.

I've told people I loved them. I think I meant it sometimes... But I don't really know what I meant to mean. I doubt our loves ever mean the same exact thing. I love him like ice cream, and her like summer nights, and him like fictional characters, and you like kittens. 

I feel like there are ants on me, so I shift. There aren't ants on me. I'm looking up at the tree branches through the holes I've opened in my mask. The conversation is over, but the question doesn't go away.

I dwell on it further and think of the people I've deceived with my fluctuating definitions of love. Romantic love and platonic love... Everything feels the same to me. I just want to... Yknow, snuggle everyone. Is that okay, too? That's love too. I think so. 

Aw man, I don't even know anymore. This question is hard.

But if love is the sensation and feeling I get on days like these, I guess it's okay.

I dunno.

Hm.

if we ordered our futures from catalogs:

Beneath his fingertips the paper slides, thin and smooth. He peruses the pictures of respectable looking folks. They've got Rolex timepieces and purebred dogs, proper looking preschoolers and french-door refrigerators. They possess style, the paradoxically subtle panache delivered by their soft smirks, slick hair, scarcely-seen charcoal socks. He too, possesses style.

He's all class, a man with a subdued and sensible taste in neckties. And a nice little spinning rack to keep them on, too, his personal color-coded rainbow twirling greyish-scarlet to greyish-aubergine. He's a man who knows where his shoe-polish is. In the morning, he drinks espresso at his bistro table. Ironic mugs with snappy phrases on them? Not for this guy. Tacky. That's not how he rolls. He's all about class. Upper middle class.

As a businessman, he takes pride in his trade. He's overqualified and still in debt to his alma mater. But he's got a briefcase. It's classy. Lots of classy men are businessmen, just look at the catalog.

Back when he was young and foolish, he might have been drawn to the photos tucked away in the back, hidden between advertisements. That's where they put the "alternative lifestyles." Starving artist? Not him. He was fit and healthy. He wasted no time on pursuits of frivolous creativity. He was a businessman. He was a classy businessman with a Rolex timepiece and an expensive espresso maker.

He was happy.

He was happy, right?

and also my pants are lame.

My life is kind of this cycle of me being sort of cool and then making a fool out of myself.
I am a merry-go-round to fun-town.
That's a lie.
I'm pretty much awful.

What even happened.

I don't think you understand; you make me feel like I'm going to barf up my heart.

obviously this has been eating at me.

You always tell me it will be okay. You tell me that when I'm worried about you or when I'm sad. You tell me it'll be okay. I'll be okay. The world will be okay. That's always your cure-all phrase. "You'll be okay." I'm trying to tell you the same thing now, so you can't actually be upset with me. Well you can be. But don't be.

Actually. It's not even that it will be okay.

It is  okay. Already. Presently. Nothing is not okay except for your emotions over the seeming un-okay-ness of things that seem pretty okay to me. I can't see what seems to be wrong, and you can't put into words what seems to be wrong. So what's wrong? Is anything wrong? Because it all looks pretty okay. I mean. I don't know. Isn't it?

I was even being nice. Like really nice, I think. I really was trying. Trying to understand or help. Assist. Listen. Anything.

It's not like I'm gonna be like "OH YAH YOU ARE FAIL." Because that's not even close to true. At all. So far from truth. LIES. That would be mean and rude and terrible to say!!

So. Just. I was trying to cheer you up by saying true, nice things, okay? I like you and you're great and it's sad that you're sad. I'm sad that you're sad and I can't do anything.

I'm a bit lost, because, well... You tell me it's all sucky but not why it's all sucky. So I'm confused and guessing.

Or maybe you don't want to even talk about it. I guess that makes sense too. And I just. Cues. I'm. Slow. And dumb. I'm like. A big, happy, dumb bear. Who wants to give you ice cream. And make things okay. I'm like "Roar?" In my friendly dumb bear voice. And I sit on a mossy log with my pint of cake ice cream and wait for you to spin your yarns. But maybe you don't want to knit an expositional sweater for my dumb bear ears. And I'm just like "Roarawr?" all the same.

You know, like, you could've asked me to like, fuck off, or just something. Or come over if you didn't want me to fuck off. I can't understand this middle-of-the-road thing. I can't tell what you want. Or need. Or wish you had. I don't know anything. I don't understand people. I'm not good. With the social. And the words.

But.

Well.

Whatever.

I'm sorry.

aslkdgkjf;jglkad

Roar?

ugh i was over that.

Sometimes when you text me, there might maybe be some butterflies.

I'll just stick with the original theory that I'm like a really excitable puppy, and I've been left home alone all day, and now look!! FRIENDS!!!!1!!

silly, i know.

She's got sweaters to keep her warm when she's alone, but a den full of boots and cloth will not be called home. 

We don't need to tie ourselves together with words like "I do" to avoid being alone, do we? Husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends, wives... Things aren't fitting together like they should; why is everyone so sure that's the only way it can be? Can you just relax, stop trying so hard? You're not going to be alone.

Can't we all hold hands, share beds, whisper secrets, borrow shirts, strum guitars, kiss cheeks, drink tea, find happiness together? Maybe it's not conventional, but... We aren't all conventional sorts of people. Isn't it fine just to like each other and stick around? Collect friends, roommates, bros, companions, good times?

Let's make a band and lots of bad decisions. I most like nights like yesterday's night. 

adslgdjkls;dffkdj.

I don't know how I'm supposed to respond to this. I'm mostly just mad at myself. For not being understanding, mostly. I'm being a bad person, I know that.

It feels like my stomach and heart and everything inside wants to escape up my throat.

... I hate feelings. So do my guts.

I'm afraid that one day, feelings are gonna ruin everything. I wish I could be more tactful when I'm upset, but instead I'm kind of just flailing here. It's sort of unattractive, I know.

Bluh! I don't understand what... people... how... Moo. 

humility and i.

Oh. Ouch, took that one right in the pride.

I respectfully disagree with the idea that I should feel morally obligated to support or boycott the entirety of a business because of a CEO's comments on an issue entirely unrelated to chicken sandwiches.

I don't eat there anyway. But still. ... It just seems childish.

Chances are, wherever you eat/go/spend money/whatever you're probably supporting someone against gay marriage and someone for marriage equality and someone who believes in more than one god and someone who believes in no god and someone who has tattoos of naked ladies and someone who's a vegetarian because they believe animals have souls...

Point is, not everyone on Earth will fit in your belief box, alright? That should have very little to do with Oreos or chicken sandwiches or how you treat people. Overreacting, ganging up, freaking out only turns real issues to bandwagons. And also makes everyone look like assholes dumb-butts.

I just. Jksl;afdkljgf;lkfjs. I don't get it.

And then she figured she probably shouldn't say something like that on Facebook, despite her mounting desire to do so.


And then after that, she noticed she had feet and considered the immense value of that reality.

I'm sorry, I wish I could fix the sad.
... *pets your face*
...
I don't know.

i'm not actually better than you, I'm just full of it.

I've been pretentious. It's kind of how I overcame the self-loathing. 
But that's no excuse for being a big huge butt.
I'm sorry.
And sure, I've got this thing against "normal. " But that doesn't mean I'm right.

i don't like it.

I've spent so long not caring about this sort of thing. But now that I realize everyone I like will leave if I don't tie them to me somehow, I want permanence and security. Now that I've realized she'll get married and settle down, he'll get married and run away, everyone will go? I want to beat them to it. I want to be the one to leave behind a void for once. I want to be the one who moves on to something better for once. I don't want the hurt of lost friends who forget my unimpressionable existence. I want to be the one who forgets.

I want someone I can keep and someone who will keep me.

And this realization of my desires and dependence makes me kind of ill.

guard dogs bare your teeth and claws.

i would split my knuckles to defend you
and your pride
because i know how much it means to you!
some days you few are the only reasons i'm still here.
and i would give up the life you help me value
to make you feel alright again.

in a word:

Fuck.
In several:
Sometimes it's best not to be honest.
Okay, most of the time it's best not to be honest.
But we'll do it anyway!
Because we all matter to each other.
And all of our shit is worth it.


We're all still scared, confused kids, aren't we?

a metaphor for emily.

I wish you would believe you could be with someone deserving of you. Micah Clare is a nice kid, we should all be friends. I have nothing against him! I only have something against the mathematical equation you seem to be trying so hard to create for the sake of feeling lovely, for the sake of hiding from lonely. "You+Him."

I never even liked math. 

You deserve a guy that fits your list! At least some of it. At least any of it. You deserve that.

You deserve everything. You're Emily-fucking-Garinger! In my eyes, you deserve the world!

In my eyes, you are the ocean. And Clare is a lukewarm cup of tap water.

You are crashing waves and rolling tides; you draw in the world and spit out your refuse, and sink the things you like inside. He is contained within his paper cup, he cannot hold the great wreck of a ship within his confines! If he tries to do what the ocean does, all he is will be shoved out and there will be nothing of him left, nothing left in his crumpling shell. 

Neither may you comfortably crawl, possibly fit, into a container like his. Your salty waters are not suited to stillness, to smallness. And if he were to try to join you instead, he would be swept away; he would become a shipwrecked sailor, decaying and mixing with the sea.

You are the ocean!

You reflect back the traits and faces of those you admire, you reflect the endless expanse of the sky. You ripple your surface and make the images your own, a part of you unique. Nobody can ever see a whole reflection in the circular surface of a cup of water. And the bit seen will only be a still, undistorted copy. He is not big enough!

You are the fucking ocean!

You move. You swirl and shiver and tumble. He will not move. He may vibrate slightly with the bass or footsteps nearby. But it is nearly imperceptible! It is thin and only because of a stronger influence.

You are the ocean. 

You hug the world! You touch everything all at once and you give it life and you drown it. You love everything and you hate everything.


He will never reach the other continents. He will never give enough life, he will never take enough breath.

You are beautiful and great! He is on every fucking  average counter in every shitty  average home, where every sad mother and father pray for the hell-bound  souls of their children, and every no-longer-child tries to hide from/find themselves. Our stories are all the same, but we managed to grow differently.

You managed to become as huge and full and real as the ocean.

And we need cups of water, I suppose. Sometimes we need cups of water. 

But not to admire, not to love, like we love the ocean!

And hell, half the time I drink straight out of the faucet.

This is my metaphor.

It is about water instead of fire. But if you want a metaphor for that, he is a match and you are the sun. He is a breath and you are the sky. He is a blade of grass and you are the dandelion puff that defies all standard methods of taming a lawn!

Metaphors can be ridiculous. But the point is, you are the fucking ocean.

all of the closets!!

I think I've finally decided what my beliefs are. God is in all of us, God is something bigger than what we can bind by books or rituals. I think God is sort of magic. And I really don't care if this is kind of crazy. Because everything is a little crazy anyway, and it's lonely to think that there's nothing bigger. It's also lonely to think that something bigger might be exclusive, like I have to earn my way into the "heaven club." So. I am not a Christian, I am not an Atheist. I just believe, you know?

I am queer. I am okay with that. Really, that's all there is to it. I think everyone would be happier if they were queer; this is silly maybe. But it's just a thing I think. Anyway, I'm queer. That's an umbrella term that basically means "fuck off, I will love who I love, I will live how I like." All I want is respect. And for my mom to never again say that it's just a phase. (Because that makes me scared her love will eventually go away if my feelings don't.) My queer-ness/gender/sexuality/etc. does not define me entirely. Still, these things are real parts of me, parts of who I am; and I am happy with that. 

I am not always a super-cool person. I get lonely. Because even though I am often self-aggrandizing, I can also be mean to myself, sometimes. And I need people. We all need people. Let's need each other.

I've tried so hard to avoid hurting people or making other people suffer, but then I suffer and become a worse person for it. In the end, it's all a mess. I will work less on apologizing for every little thing. I will make my actions meaningful, every one of them, especially my apologies. I will try to love with all my heart, because anything less is pointless. It is okay to take risks. I need to learn to take risks. I do not want to be timid and half-hearted any longer.

When I leave home, I think I might stretch my ears and get tattooed. And maybe get my lip pierced? (Tattoos if I can man up and face the needles. Either way, tattoos are nice.) For now, I'm gonna work up the courage to buy a couple men's shirts. So mom, your plan to force your idealist opinions on me failed. I'm sorry I'm not the perfect little girl parents wish for. I love you.

And you, Emily. You're beautiful and I'm not ashamed for saying so. I guess it sucks if my words make you uncomfortable. But like Augustus Waters, I will not deny myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. You are cute and your brain is amazing and I like you a lot as well as respect you, and these things are facts of life that I will not just ignore. I don't care if you'd rather boys say all this stuff; I have a mouth and eyes and I am your friend and I think these things sort of give me a right to say it too. Try to understand me a little more, and maybe you can feel more comfortable about it. 

The end, I guess, because I feel really nice, and this is all I want to say right now.

Oh and also, I think that everyone needs to try harder to be happy. It's possible to be happy.

 Okay? Okay. 

if you're so sick of them and yourself

why don't you try?

Maybe my mom is right. Maybe I'm trying to understand everyone but straight people.
... For some reason I feel like they already get enough understanding from like, 98 percent of the population.
So excuse me.

Secretly, i just believe everyone is somewhat queer. Except you, mr loyal husband who likes all your blond friends' facebook photos. You're just a douche-bag.

we're all dumb.

Yes parents are a pain, but you know nothing of the world and it could be so much worse.
Settle down, stop trying to act like such a bad-ass.
I don't like you.
Today is Thursday and it is stupid.

the eye of the beholder.

I think I'm just so turned off by muscular guys because they perpetuate the idea that men are the strong ones, the protectors, in charge. They reinforce the misogyny of a patriarchal society that belittles the abilities of women and has done so since the beginning of time. Men do not have to compete for women or win them like prizes by beating the shit out of each other with their big meat-heads the way rams do. This isn't animal planet. I do not need an alpha-male. So calm your pecs.

And I'm not all that attracted to "sexy" girls because "sexy" perpetuates the idea that females are made to be first and foremost visually appealing, objects to get off to. But women are more than breasts and skinny waists and carefully lined eyes. They do not need to lure me in with their appearance. I am not a female bird, attracted to bright, puffed-up plumage.

Not that there's anything wrong with being buff or hot. I just mentally connect those things to social stereotypes that bother me. And I don't mind if people want to look like this; I'm just not attracted to those types, personally.

In a relationship, I want things to be equal. I think that's why long-term, I only imagine myself with girls. It just seems more... "even," I guess, in my mind. I hate the thought of being seen by others as the weaker half of a relationship. I am aware that this is probably mostly in my head.

I definitely prefer the middle ground though, when we're talking looks and types. I like cute people and queer people. I like skinny jeans. I like cargo shorts. I like tank tops and sweatshirts and gauges and bare feet.

I guess I don't like gender or what it means in this society and I wish it didn't exist.

once upon a time.

Nobody tells love stories for people like me, so I thought I might try. 

But I know so very little of love. I know very little of anything, really, and my every emotion is dulled by its opposite, as I feel all things at once; love and hate and sadness and happiness. Everything I feel comes from one half of my heart, and the other half holds the first half back, waters it down. 

The negative half usually wins over my mouth, while the positive steals my mind. My lips part not for kisses but for accusations and desperate words. 

Still, the tender and sweet things make little homes inside my skull, homes woven out of daisy stems, dens in the riverbank. 

All of us live in there, and we're really happy, and that's all I know of love.