Maeve

“I want to fly with them. They look so free. Happy, even. I’ve never had that.”

            I replay her words over and over again, every day. Maybe, if I had reacted differently, everything would’ve been okay. Or it would have been delayed. Looking back, I think the problem might have been just that: everything was okay.

The day I met Maeve, she was wearing yellow. It was the beginning of sophomore year, and we were all idiots. Brainwashed zombies who quoted Shakespeare and spouted out random pop culture references. Maeve was new. Obviously new. This girl, with confidence that even scared politicians, strode (because there’s no other word for it) into Honors English II and broadly declared today was “a yellow day”.

            Her dress, long and flowing, screamed out in bright fire hydrant yellow that clashed terribly with the mustard moccasins adorning her feet. Maeve’s hair was a brilliant black, a startling contrast to her light beauty. She wore no makeup, and her fresh innocence cleared the cynicism out of our aged minds.

            Sometimes it was a color. Sometimes a motif or book or even a song. The themes could last a day, an hour, or a week. It should have become monotonous, but Maeve made it fun. We never knew what to expect. We should have told her that we loved it. We should have listened to what she was teaching. We didn’t. Now we can’t

....Loading....

I've said before that I feel lost, and list-making has not helped. I feel like "unrequited" is my middle name, I don't understand (or really care to understand) my peers, and I'm stuck in a rut of terrible reading. Today, I blame Jane Eyre.
Reasons I Blame Jane Eyre
1.  Out of all the classics I ever read, I loved Jane Eyre the most because it had an epilogue. Spoiler: the epilogue meant a happy ending, and I decided then and there that I loved happy endings.
          A. So now, I read books with happy endings for therapy, but they tend to be badly written.
          B. I get depressed when I read well written books without epilogues.
2. Jane changes her dude, and made me believe that true love can exist.
          A. I don't see life in the same carefree manner as my peers (and most of the world), so I don't relate and others have a hard time relating to me.


For more self-pitying, pathetic posts, come back next week. If this pissed you off, please comment a happily ever after that was well written, and I'll love you forever.

Laters.

Rosannah

There's this girl. Her name's Rosannah, and she's a bada**. She's a princess of Kaiorte with special powers gifted upon her by the High Light, and she will do whatever she must to fight the darkness and protect her family. And before you try anything with her friends, you should know that her family isn't defined by blood ties.

Mine- two

When I was nine, I thought life was moving too slowly. Nothing fun ever happened, I never got what I wanted. For some reason, being sixteen would fix this. High school sounded amazing! Meeting people I liked, reading for class, real history and not social studies; but now I'm freaked. Spring break is next week, I need to take driving lessons, the CAHSEE is tomorrow. What the Pushkin, dude? Where did the last six and a half years go?
Chief Concerns
1. DRIVING!!!! I may just ride a bike everywhere for the rest of my life.
2. College is scary. Too many options and personal choices must be made.
3. Running out of time. (Cue "Always Running Out of Time")

This all sounds utterly ridiculous, and worked much better in my head, but it's my blog right....so who cares.

Mine - part one

I imagine my life as very interesting. It’s like old pictures, how they go back and add color to them. I remember this picture from my eighth grade history textbook, with a bunch of suffragists protesting for the vote, and there was a baby in a stroller. They had added blue eyes and rosy cheeks, but it really just made the baby look feverish. Sometimes I do that to my life. For example, if I go to a restaurant and there’s a really cute waiter, I might create this story in my head, like he’s secretly in love with me or something. It’s quite pathetic really.

            So I suppose the point of this rambling explanation is this: know ahead of time that the majority of what I tell you probably didn’t happen. And it most definitely didn’t happen the way I think.

Baseness

I know that smile.
          A stretch of lips daring to hope.
I know that body.
          Stomach too soft, breasts too full, hips too wide.
I know that dream.
          Maybe he's looking at you.

You don't know.
That look.
          When someone really sees you.
That  touch.
          Gloriously base, promising immorality.
That awareness.
          An itch, a hunger deep inside begging relief.

They say it's like butterflies, the touch of silk. And warm, so much warmth
            I never felt any softness,
A whipping wind. A crashing tree. I could never escape.

Let me paint a picture. It will be harsh and vibrant.
            Your eyes cannot stay on it, but cannot look away. It hurts.
There is a smell. Thick and cloying, malodorous even.
                                    Breathe deep now, darling.
The colors, the scent, the screams and cries.
                                                It all belongs to you.

Swirls

“You’re a fucking whore Sasha! Every time I leave, it’s a new guy.” Bram’s lips thinned and he stared at Sasha, dark blue eyes brimming with hatred. From my hiding spot in the closet I saw her expression as Sasha tried to plead with him.

“Bram, you know I love you. Whoever’s telling you this is lying! Please, let me show you.” Sasha got down on her knees in front of Bram and started tugging at his belt.

“Stop!” he snarled, then, gentling his voice, “I don’t want you anymore, Sash. You make me feel guilty for nothing. Get out.” My eyes flickered between the two. Sasha’s pink bodice was heaving in frustration, matching the anger shining in her expression. The silent standoff stretched from one minute into five. Full, rosy lips pursed, Sasha broke, “You’ve never done anything for us Bram! You cause problems. Back there, hitting Trick might’ve made you feel better, but it only hurt me.” Her gray eyes filled with tears, and I felt myself weaken toward her cause, but Bram was unaffected. “Shut up, Sash.  I’m done. When will you understand?” his voice was calm and quiet, like he didn’t want to waste any emotion on her. Sasha left in a huff, pale taffeta dress swirling like the lives she disregarded in her selfishness.

            From inside the dark closet, surrounded by Bram’s scent, I watched his dark head fall into his hands. I wanted to help, but fear kept me hidden. I’m sorry. I'll try to help. I can fix it...I hope.

Wastrel Trees

“Welcome! Happy Holidays! I’m so glad you arrived safely!” she grins enthusiastically, charm bracelets clinking together over her bony wrists. We have the lights and the tree. Ornate decorations, hung with a meticulous fervor, adorn our house. Dozens of mirrors on the west wall reflect the brilliant colors of the tree. Artfully scattered presents, wrapped in red and gold with green ribbons perched atop, wait for Christmas morning. Embroidered stockings hang from a mantle above a crackling log in a marble fireplace. Store bought pinecones permeate the house with a fresh, woodsy scent, and baked cookies drench the air in hot, sugary layers. The signs on the wall, the songs on the radio, the books I read to my little brother; they all say Christmas revolves around peace, love, joy, and hope.

            In my house, the perfume of pinecones and cookies covers stale cigarettes. My mother’s quirky holiday sweaters overshoot her thin arms, perfectly hiding the needle marks. Empty tequila bottles cower behind overly excited snowmen and red nosed reindeer. At night, I wait up, not for Santa Claus and his magic reindeer, but for my mother to pass out, drunk. I clean, not wrapping paper, but vomit and used needles. All I want for Christmas is relief, but unlike Atlas, I cannot trick another into carrying the weight for me.

            She giggles, and I groan, aware of what follows. “You dog!” she shrieks playfully, “You shouldn’t have!” Her vibrant smile flashes on me. “Look Aimee! A new necklace! See how gorgeous? The steely blue eyes of her new boyfriend linger over my body. “Hello.” he leers

            “Oh, Jim,” she blushes, “I forgot to introduce you to my daughter Aimee.” Her eyes shine too brightly and her hands shake in anticipation as she chatters about everything and nothing.

            Jim slides away from my mother, ever so subtly inching near me. His candy apple red tie screams out at some unknown instinct inside, and I want to run.

            Sometimes, while driving to school, my little brother mumbles to himself in the backseat, and I watch the exits pass by. I wonder if I could leave and not come back, just take the baby, and run away. But Jim creeps closer, and I break out of my reverie. “Aimee,” my mother simpers, “I need to fix Jim some dinner. You can entertain him, right sweetheart?”

            “Yes.” I murmur, ignoring the pain in her mistletoe green eyes. “I know what to do.”