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Thursday, 04 June 2009

Question

When we were still together, the boy with farmer's hands and I, talking about our two friends making out, we laughed. Neither of those two had ever been to Con before, and no one makes out their first time, so we found it funny. I'd been once before, and this was Ethan's third year. He bemoaned that neither of us had had a Con makeout session yet, and I jokingly agreed.
But then he asked a casual question, not overly exaggerated, but sincerely casual, like he actually felt comfortable saying this. He looked over at me with contemplation in his Kansas wheat field eyes, and asked me, "Care to change that?"
At the time, scared and unsure, I answered no. But now, the question haunts my brain, scattering my thoughts like a magnet to iron, confused. And not only that, but my imagination has conjured up a whole new question, after he's gone: What would he have done if I'd said yes?
I want to know, although it's far too late. He offered, I refused. There's nothing left to do but wonder why the hell I said no.
How could I have done something so stupid? Was I afraid he'd take advantage of me? No. I'd slept in the same bed as this guy the night before, his arm around me, my back against his stomach, my head pillowed on his arm. I had proof that he would be nothing but a gentleman.
That's my favorite kind of guy - the respectful ones, the ones who aren't afraid to say they're sensitive with women. Here he was, offering to make out like I wanted to... Why was the word "no" even part of my vocabulary?
Was I feeling guilty about an oblivious boyfriend back home? Probably. But that's just what he was - oblivious. I loved them both, and that was treachery enough, so how could it have been worse to kiss them both?
I was scared, and by the time I would have answered yes, he was already gone. He slipped away from me with only a kiss on the cheek to sweeten the sorrow of our parting - not nearly enough. I wanted to pull him back, ask him to kiss me like he'd asked for, to make me a real live cheater. But he was already gone.
Should have said something, should have asked, should have said yes - should have, should have, should have. Now it's far too late, the time has expired; I'll never know what it could have been like.
Well, maybe not never. There's always next Con.

Sunday, 24 May 2009

Currently
Big Bad World
By Plain White T's
1234
see related
The Opposite Side of Lonely

Dear Ethan,
We aren't "we." Were we ever "we"? Did we do the things it takes to become not just you and me, but "us"? In all honesty, I don't think we did. We weren't very much, even when we were an almost-"we." You said things I liked, but you barely responded when I held you, even when I refused to let go. What kind of "we" is that?
Your idea of "we" is probably twisted, honey. You've never been anything but you, have never defined yourself by someone else, never been an "us." I've been an "us" before, but I've never liked it as much as this one. Of course, that doesn't make much sense, since we aren't an "us." Are we?
No one has ever been this kind of "you" for me, the other half of "us." Thre have been cop-outs, who tried to own me when all they really wanted was the physical side of "we," not the emotional side. There have been liars, who said they wanted me as their "you" forever, but didn't really mean it and left without a backward glance. There have been placeholders, who really did want me as their "you," but weren't quite enough to satisfy my need for "we," weren't the right "you." It's a two-way street, baby. Can you take a walk on the other side?
There isn't quite a way to describe this, the lust for a "you" on the other half of "me," the love for a warm and comfy voice on the other end of a telephone line, a reciprocation on the other side of "I love you." Could you be that other part, that other piece of "we," that everything on the opposite side of lonely?
No one's been like that for so long; it's hard to remember how it feels. I want a "we," but this time, I think I know exactly what that means. It means staying up until three in the morning on the telephone, just to hear another quite shard of your breath. It means listening to stories of broken-down fences and frightened horses and holding a lamb in your arms as it breathes its first breath. It means discussing Harry Potter at midnight, or breaking down the plot of the Terminator at three AM, or accepting this twisted "we" without a "you." It means being okay with everything we are. I'm fine.
If "we" means lying in your arms long enough to watch the sunrise peek over the winded hills, I accept it. If "we" means holding your hand even when I don't know why it feels so good, I accept it. If "we" means jumping onto the computer at every opportunity and checking your Facebook to see if you're online, I accept it. To be honest, this "we" is kind of beautiful to me.
It's simple - that's my favorite part. We don't have to find a way to fit the Hallmark cliches around the truths we hold close, the ones that really matter. All we need is a time, a place, a "we," and there we are. Nothing else, no more, no less. Just a "you" beside a "me," with the world lying all around us, nothing in between us. This "we" is unstoppable; there are endless possibilities for what "you" and "me" could be. Are you ready to step up and take it?
You've never been a "you," but I'll teach you how. It's just like how you've been treating me all along. You treat me like your "you" - that's all I ask. Just act like I'm the other half of your "we," the opposite side of lonely, and I'm okay. It doesn't need to be anything more than that. I ask nothing but acceptance, a place to sit when I can't breathe, a place to speak when I can't think. You could bring me that place. Couldn't you?
If you could, why don't you? I'm your "you," you're my "me." Do we need definitions? Does the "we" need an "us," or can we just be "we" without the labels? Are we a long-distance "us," or a non-existent "we"? Do you even care which way it is, as long as we're together? We aren't together; distance keeps us apart, the world between our fingertips, preventing us from being the kind of "us" I want to be. Is it so impossible to be a long-distance "us"? Or must we continue with this non-existent "we"?
I'm holding out my hand - all you have to do is take it. Make me your "you," and I'll stand proudly as such. I'm asking you to be my "me," to let this be your very first "us." This could be the "us" that defines me, Ethan. It could be the "us" that defines you. You'll never know until you take the plunge, so step off the diving board and into the "us." The water's fine.
It's easier than it sounds. Just make a commitment to an "us," and we can be just like this, nothing really different, no big changes. The only thing I'm asking for are those two little letters, that "us," the pepper on top of the salad, the sprinkles on an ice cream sundae. It's simple, baby - just step over the edge and be okay with falling. The air's not so bad either.
I love you. What's the other side of that?
Love,
Me.

Monday, 18 May 2009

Currently
The Poison
By Bullet for My Valentine
Cries In Vain
see related
Prose and things that are supposed to describe how angry I am

A poem first. This is called Crimson: Part II. (You may remember Crimson: Part I.)
---
Flew up to my room in escape of the yelling, the badgering, the never-ending pursuit to lock up my freedom and throw away the key. Caught up in a flurry of "no one understands me" and "I need to get out of here," I prepared to flee my quiet in search of solace, only to find the knife sitting, waiting. It could shower me in crimson, I knew, that lovely color crimson.
I grabbed it up and clenched it in my fist, shredding, cutting. Easy to imagine when I could still hear my mother out of one ear, hear her turning the rancor on my sister now, hear the shrill commands I longed to escape. Like animals clawing at each others' flesh, cawing and challenging, screaming and scratching, so I did to my own hand. There, I created five small lines of brightest crimson.
The hurt faded, receding pathetically fast, leaving me gasping for more. Even now they can barely be seen, don't hurt anymore when I press them down to worsen the hurt, please the demons. There's only one thing calling me now, and that's the knife. Short, sharp, silver, shiny in its ultimate danger. I love that weapon of darkest crimson.
These cuts will be stronger, more vicious, but I'm ready for them, anticipating, demons licking their lips. They hunger for another taste of hell, and so I'll give them one or several. I can never get enough now that I've begun to see why my demons beg for this shard of extreme madness, why they scream not for gold or blue, but for that truest, blackest crimson.
I don't shy away from my duty to the knife. Rather, I wait for those silver cries with the air of a dog anticipating a bone. He tries to predict the next time he will be handed this glorious opportunity, twisting himself into circles with the lack of it, and so do I with my knife. Except this is no idle pleasure - it's a necessity, led on by the persuasive power of blinding, blood-curdling crimson.
They creep into my dreams, leaving me salivating like Pavlov's dogs at the bell. The dreams are darkest night; black forest, full moon, just like all the cliches. A beast slinks through the trees behind me, a demon stalking me, getting close enough that I can feel branches rustling against me as he moves closer. And yet, in those dreams, he never approaches me, only hiding, avoiding, sirking the responsibility of handing me my daily dose of crimson.
He can't avoid me forever; I'll try my hand at stalking him, rush on behind him, follow into a world where all is crimson, no blue or white to destroy the image. No voices in the back of my mind, infuriating, pressing harder, so close now. Just me, all alone on a romp with deep, revealing, sweetest crimson.
It's a permanent fix, a no-returns policy, a one-way ticket straight to hell. I like it better there, could live in a world of only orange, yellow, red, gold - fiery colors to lead me into the demon's world. No slimy green, no obnoxious pink, no starry-eyed white, no downcast blue to hinder me. Crimson will take me away, as only crimson can. Oh, my dear friend crimson.
---
And another one. This one's called Frustration.
---
Pent up in my veins, trapped inside my whitest skin, vulnerable, helpless.
Shaking fingers curl seductively around the blade, smile at what a weapon so sharp could possibly do. The possibilities are endless, unstoppable.
These fingers have touched blades, and still they yearn for more, lusting for release of energy caged under flesh and muscle and brightest crimson blood.
Nothing is quite like the voices chanting in my mind, egging me on as the knife comes nearer and nearer to my deliverance, my one reliable exit.
I can now escape the angels that keep trying to pull me, kicking and screaming, back up to their heaven; all I want is sweetest hell, sin and sinners, laughing, dead.
With swipes of this destructive blade, I can run from it all, flipping the finger with a laugh as the angels pursue, trying to keep me from my demons.
I love the demons who led me here - no force, no dragging like these persistent angels. They won't leave me alone, so determined to make me see their way.
The demons don't give two fucks what I do, as long as I'm not with the angels. The whitest, purest lights are blinding, suffocating me, taking away my space.
Leave me alone, light - come to me, darkest night. I am a dark angel, black, a paradox.
Don't let the wings on my back fool you - they're broken, I don't fly like the rest. I am doomed to fire and crumbling buildings, small reminders of how society once functioned, behaved.
And yet, the others down here aren't quite like me. They harm those around them in order to let go of their pain, while I release it on myself, the only one I don't care about betraying.
No way can I strike down anyone who's helped me, anyone who's contributed to my escaping. I have only hindered myself, so I therefore deserve this harm I place upon my own shoulders.
A crime and a punishment, an escape and a retribution, a salvation and a sacrifice, a rescue and a kamikaze, my haven from deepest hell.
Demons seduced me, angels pursued me.
Sweet, bloody pain feels so wrong in my laughter, standing by the windowsill and wondering what would happen if the angels knew. They see my hell, but don't know why I'm really here.
They'll never see; I can't let them in, won't allow them to try their hand at helping. They can do nothing but worsen it, put more pressure on my aching back.
Light invades my brain, cracking, snapping my resolve. I must return to the blade, the sharp, the pain I love, the hell I resign myself to. I am my own little demon.
---
And now, another one, again. This one's Not Enough.
---
Oh, God
Not this again
Save me
Please, please
Rescue me from her arms, restraining and containing me in a tiny little bird cage, clipping my wings and taking my freedom away.
Held down with guilt trips
Unable to move or to cry
Find myself mourning for the past, and for my very life.
It hurts, hurts like hell - clutching my stomach and rolling across the floor, a panic attack.
More manic helplessness, less of my control. More tears and more scars, less of my willpower. More promises and prose, less of my freedom. More pain, more pressure, less of myself.
I''m not enough
Never satisfy you
Can't be all I was meant to be, expected, failed.
Damn it all to hell, let me slip, let me fall
Don't need this shit, let me go, let me free
Can't stand the fucking lie, let me make my own choices.
I can be my own person without hel from anyone; I'll do the things I findimportant enough, worth it, and leave out all the rest.
Can't stand being scuh a failure, let-down, good-for-nothing kid, with nothing worthwhile to say.
Everything I do is wrong, nothing right, never good
You have the final say, nothing makes sense, never clear
Crush me, kill me quickly, have mercy on me, please
I may have said some things, and they were true. Pressure, nothing, pain.
Take my place, be me for a day, see how cruel it is to be this girl, how bad I want to be free.
Save me, take away the boulder crushing into my chest, suffocating, killing.
I'm a time bomb, just a matter of time before I'm done now, okay, fine. Never.
Pulling apart my defenses, revealing me in all my insecurities, failing to realize how terrible screaming can feel after two full years.
Twenty-four months, one hundred and fourteen weeks, seven hundred and thirty days of pressure, yelling, pain - too much to handle now.
So long, so far, so gone from this killing, feeling, living.
Not worth it to feel this, to live this way for all my life.
What did I do to deserve your scorn, your eyes that accuse, condemn me to hell - I'm already there.
---
That's all for today.
Sarah.

Sunday, 17 May 2009

Here's something random

I've decided to record my Top 25 most played on my iTunes. Here we go.
1) Darkness: Disturbed
2) Lullabye (Goodnight My Angel): Billy Joel
3) You and Me: Lifehouse
4) Unsaid: The Fray
5) Blind: Lifehouse
6) Hanging By a Moment: Lifehouse
7) City Hall: The Fray
8) Some Trust: The Fray
9) Tears Don't Fall: Bullet for My Valentine
10) Without Reason: The Fray
11) Oceans: The Fray
12) I'm Yours: Jason Mraz
13) Together: The Fray
14) Get Back: Demi Lovato
15) One Thing: Finger Eleven
16) Jainy: Five for Fighting
17) Cristofori's Dream: David Lanz
18) Superman (It's Not Easy): Five for Fighting
19) Misery Business: Paramore
20) Curses: Bullet for My Valentine
21) 10 Years Today: Bullet for My Valentine
22) Disturbia: Rihanna
23) Your Guardian Angel: Red Jumpsuit Apparatus
24) All These Things I Hate: Bullet for My Valentine
25) I'm So Sick: Flyleaf
I have very diverse music tastes. Well, some of them are the ones I listen to when I'm happy or what have you, and then some of them I listen to when I'm trying to go to sleep, so go figure. Well, there you go.
Serena.