Clocks

The yellow lined clock on her stark white bedroom wall went tick-tock softly. The gray, evil eyed clock at school growled out the time every three minutes. "Eight oh six!" it barked.
In the mornings, the clocks spoke to her softly, whispering endearments and caressing her ears with kind announcements. At night, the clocks grew abrasive, angrily marching around and demanding attention.

At one in the morning, when monsters haunted her bloody eyes, and screams died unheard in her dry mouth, the clocks echoed the fierceness of her nightmares.

"Nobody wants you! You're running out of time!" they laughed gruesomely

The clocks stood, jeering, and watched as he took her dreams away. "Look at that! The girl doesn't even know..." they loved to taunt her. She was watching the clocks the day she met him.

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

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.

Bipolarity in Love...Like...Crush???

Every day, we stand side by side, only feet apart. When I ruminate on the subject, I realize how humiliating the situation appears. For four years I have liked him, crushed on him, dreamt of him. Sometimes, he walks to his mom’s car and pauses for a moment, hesitates, and I swear he looks back, I swear it! Maybe, I can talk to him. Work up the courage to dare a flirtatious glance or come hither smile. He appreciated my “sparkling wit” before; I can charm him with my words. But…is he staring or am I over-analyzing and imagining things that my brain desperately needs to be true to function. The pragmatic side of me takes over, hushes my inner romantic with a fierce scolding, and I retreat, waiting for the car to pick me up. I wonder if I even truly like him, or just the idea of the musical bad boy who doesn’t care what anyone thinks. Oh the despair in my heart! Darling, I suffer from a severe case of indecisiveness.

More than the Banana Car

Our grimy, “antique” lemon yellow car never reaches sixty. We travel on back roads, side roads, losing ourselves in the journey and loving every moment. A cracked window, loosely hanging door, and ripped leather seats bound by duct tape epitomize our thrifty teenage years. Fuzzy black dice and Mardi gras necklaces hang from a mirror permanently smudged by make-up application. The radio can be a faint murmur, white noise in the background of our vicious arguments and heartfelt apologies or the music can blare out, rattling the windows and bursting our eardrums as we shriek along to All Time Low. My very soul lies embedded in that jalopy, a part of me forever missing.

Bubble-Gum Lips and Bruises

                  Syrupy sweet, her drawling, “Oh honey!” rotted through my teeth. Taking it upon herself, as an unqualified psychologist, to make me feel better, Mrs. Green began extolling the virtues of life. Bleach blonde curls bobbing, she pursed bubble-gum pink lips in judgment. “Why, you’ve got your momma and school, and why, almost everything!” In the window behind her, my supposed peers frolicked about, full of innocence and life. Nobody sullied them, their mothers protected them; this I knew, as all children do, good mothers protect you. Mrs. Green tried, but this woman, this Southern Belle, could not understand. She had never seen what I had seen, or been where I had been. A part of me knew she didn’t have answers or solutions. Her cornflower blue eyes shined with naïveté and hope, I refused to destroy her innocence. So I sat silent, in thrift store hand-me-downs, with a bruise on my belly and two more on my back, watching her diamonds gleam.

The Bride

I felt the cold white satin against my skin, a slithering mist around my body. With every movement, my legs, enclosed in a long white skirt, stiffened. My hands shook, the frosty air tickling my exposed wrists with tiny pinpricks of ice. At the musical cue, I stumbled forward; the heavy tiara and diamond pins digging deeper at my scalp with each jarring step. Virginal lilies filled my hands, thorns stabbing me through the stiff lace of his mother’s antique gloves. When the procession ended, the heavy weight of smug gazes fell on me. Under the thick netting, sweat beaded on my upper lip, a tangible sign of my role in this sacrilege. Buzzing bees filled my ears and stained glass wavered in front of me as the world tilted, like a rocking ship. A sharp elbow gored my back, jolting me into reality. Greasy hands grasped mine, and I swallowed, fighting the tight collar of pearls choking my neck. A lifetime of future restrictions bound in jewelry, the promise of restitution for my sacrifice. In that moment, the droning preacher murdered my freedom and I defined my character.