Death in Her Grave

As a queen in my grave, I toss and I turn and I wish I were anywhere else. Can I not climb to heights unknown? Well, I may not do that if my dirt duvet continues to weigh me down! I must shed this suffocating skin if I wish to taste the stars.

Does Death pretend to those alive that she is among the living? No, she never bothered, never tried, for though she breathes and beats, her soul has withered inside. So, she poses no charade and goes about her business, and with every soul she guides to rest, she wants to be alone. How hollow her pursuits! If it were not for the strength of her wings, her heavy heart would not let her fly. Eternity is too long - she never wanted forever.

Like never in a moment, Death was a queen in her grave. But she was always still, her fingers wrapped around the blade. She'd already climbed to heights unknown, dwarfed the highest mountain - the warmest thing she'd ever felt was the weight of that dirt duvet. The ground was solid about her and she savored every taste. Who needs the stars? That open sky is but a waste.

Intrigued

By all the Gods in Heaven, I must confess! I am enchanted, bewitched! Who knew I'd ever meet a guy with just the right lazy smile, just the precise drawl in his voice! Perhaps it is mere infatuation, but I am feeling this in my bones. Damn, boy.... Congrats. I can't remember the last time THIS particular set of emotions possessed my soul.

The thing is, everything I do, everything I've learned.... None of it quite works on you. The way you hide in your shell, covering your face with a mask that is composed of a book and a steady look away glare makes me desperate. You remind me so much of who I used to be. (It doesn't hurt that you're the sexiest thing I've seen since Jake Richardson.)

I really want to get to know you, to learn who you are, what you're about. I want to know what you care about, the things you value, the substance that powers the clock (bomb?) waiting within your soul. In summary.... I'm intrigued.

Science Class (Required Course)

I find it so difficult to scrounge up half a care for the subject you teach. It might be different if I could mix it up by paying not the least little bit of attention. But, no. You INSIST that I provide you with the privilege of occupying 100% of my usable brain space. (Hate to break it to you, but my attention span only extends that far when it matters.)

Sorry, but I'm much too distracted by your awful outfit. (Pure white simply should NOT be paired with brown.) AND you have poor grammar! Talk about beating me upside the head with your lectures!

This is dull, darling, I am compelled to confess. You're reiterating information long learned, repeating conclusions easily reached by a languid twitch of common sense. Just, please, please, let me occupy my understimulated brain with some other task. It's either that, or doodles get stamped all over your pretty new lab notebook. Isn't it all easier for everyone in the long run if I pick up my book and read?

Kickback Eyes

I'm a dream with kickback eyes, come find my story. Let's forgo reality. Maybe it's not practical, but it's quite the scene. Soft hair and bidden touch, it spirals out in ink. I'm lots of fun, you need lots of sun - the dark is closing in. The candles flicker through the night, fire my dame. You're glorious, yes, you are, a dance to mark and deem. And here it is, once again, my eyes a kickback dream.

'Easy'

Have you even once heard me agree to the notion that I'm 'easy'? Hell, no, you have not and you never will! The reason being? I'm NOT easy.

I am as difficult to get as you can even dream of conceiving. I stoop in the doorway of life to even CONTEMPLATE seeing you. So, how DARE you imply that I'm free, a slut, a pre-paid whore, the one that gets you off at the count of three!

(Tactic switch.)

This merely shows how small you are. You're so teensy-weensy-tiny, it's adorable. You're a six year old, both in your behavior and everyone else's perceptions. Now, just because you'll never have me doesn't mean you can try and shoplift me off the shelf by claiming that there's no price tag attached. It just doesn't work that way. (Especially when the price tag describes something like 'good old fashioned hard work' or 'wooing'.)

Oh, I'm sorry if you don't have the right currency. Unfortunately, it's impossible to change out. Oh, well. Go see if you can suck your own dick. (Not that you haven't already tried.) 'Cause your claim that I'm easy? It kinda just makes me even harder to get.

A Realization

She's not so cute - just unforgettable. Merely a star visible in a cloudy sky, flashing bright. Of course you want her - she's the only source of light. What a shame if she turns out to be a flame to burn you. (Actually, that would amuse me GREATLY.)

Me? Bitter? Oh, you perish that thought. You seem to have forgotten that I am the DEFINITION of sweet, simple, innocence. (The fact that this is not the case will not be taken into your consideration.)

Okay, I get it. My body's telling me something, and you're not gonna like the message it's sending. It's tellin' me that I'm lookin' for love, and guess what?

You ain't it.

Don't get me wrong - you're a nice guy, but that's just the issue. I have this critical fantasy in which I'm arguing animatedly with my fellow and then he pulls me close in the moment, still debating some point or another. You wouldn't do that, and everything within me screams out that anything else would be a BAD idea.

No, she's not such hot stuff. You and I both have to accept that. For once those clouds clear, and they will, there will be other stars to guide you. And the star you choose won't be her, won't be me, 'cause I KNOW that I'm a flame which will burn you.

One Guy, the Emcee

I'm hyping myself up for this, and I'm not sure why. It's just a guy, one of many, who has just been persistent enough to warrant an invitation to check out the place I lived. I swear, something like a demon has siezed control of my body.

He's next to nothing to me, really. Just another diversion from the lack of true interests. He's bold though, a splash of sunshine in a cold pool on an August band camp day. He revives my interest in the male gender. He possesses the ability to create WORDS!! And not just innuendo - he has matched me stroke for stroke, blow for blow, somehow managing to switch my fighting waltz for a much gentler, much kinder dance. How the HELL did he manage that?

Okay, I'll admit it. I was impressed by his daring moves, his sweet smile and sense of romance. But then again, I was ALWAYS a sucker for romantic gestures, flowers and stars and moons and slow meanders body to body, in time, in step.

But he has too many of the right answers and not enough of the wrong. It makes me REALLY suspicious. No guy is that perfect, not without manipulation. It's so hard to believe that he's dealing me straight instead of spinning me across his finger like an emcee plays a record. So, I'm hyping myself up for the coming duel, placed conveniently on my living room floor. I just hope that there aren't any bloodstains.

My Ex is a Bisexual

This is the creepiest thing ever. I'm trying to repress the knowledge, but it just makes me feel so sick inside. It squicks me out!! Yeah, I know it shouldn't matter, but it's creepy. How can the guy I spent close to a year kissing and loving suddenly want all that with another GUY? It's screwy.

The thing is, I've got nothin' wrong with it, in theory. To each their own. But, honestly, I feel betrayed, stabbed through the back with a knife I never thought you'd DREAM of pickin' up. It tastes bitter, sour, warheads spiked blood, no sugar. Maybe if I'd known before, this wouldn't sting like so many hordes of jellyfish.

And perhaps if you'd told me yourself, it wouldn't be so bad either. But, no, I have to hear it from my best friend, the gossip queen, that you've moved completely under the status of 'man-whore'. I figured that's where you were heading, but I didn't... COULDN'T expect this.

Okay, I'm cool. I'm dealing with it. So, you're a bisexual man. Got it. You wouldn't mind having what we had with somebody else who happens to have a penis. Nothing screwy with that concept.

Free Write

A demon in a glow of light, a star among the embers of Hell. Here she is, your angel, your savior, your slut, your whore. When cast in that light, she's not a saint anymore. A rose, a rose, a box of chocolates! Romance is in the air! And then it's not, torn asunder, a heart wrenching cry of despair. The long lost art of conversation does charisma make. But when the Soc is for all the losers, do you even dare? I want not to be a false idol for faux worshippers at a fallen altar, but a Goddess, churchless in midair. Did I stop making sense? Yes, my faults progress, digress, wander back to demons. But a demon is a fallen angel, so are my faults broken virtues? Philosophically speaking, I suppose they are. Candles lick at the underside of my hair. The flames will not be doused, the thoughts not be repressed - did I err in unleashing my more human side, my soul, my heart's dank lair? Ah, yes, 'twas a mistake, a folly on my part. For what is contained inside will not be broken apart. It floods this page, my fragile living, so easily ripped and torn. (And from this folly, graveside flowers, they bloom and are born.)

Conflict and Drama

I am very, very confused right now. Conflicted, I suppose you could say. What is this madness, and what initiated it? I'm about ready to slit my wrists, just for relief from the tug-a-war fighting for possession of my being. Drama, drama, drama.... Have I mentioned how much I loathe drama? I don't WANT two guys fighting for my heart, if only in the 'in my mind' sense. It'd almost be preferrable if they were physically fighting, the two guys, because then I could turn around and walk away from the whole situation. As it is, the two of them clash in my mind, and there is no escape.

I'm exhausted already, and the day's only just started. I don't want to deal with this. Maybe it'd be simpler if I just stopped thinking. Yeah, right. I'm the QUEEN of over-analyzing things.

What possessed me to give him my number anyways? Perhaps I merely found it gratifying to be the chasee rather than the chaser for once. I didn't expect that he'd attempt to close on me within the day. And over the phone!!

I find it rather pathetic that two guys can screw with my mind so completely. Am I not a woman and proud of it? Men are inconsequential to my cause. Pah! Why am I attempting to interject logic into this scenario? It won't solve anything, as emotions have nothing to do with things falling down the page into truth. So, I guess I'll just ride it out. It's the only thing I CAN do.

Declaration

I am amazingly angry at you. You have no idea. What you did was so excrutiatingly bitchy, it makes me want to pull your spine from your body with a stapler. Maybe it's your party, but so what? That doesn't give you the right to step on people as you please.

If you only have a certain number of invitations to hand out, we understand. But only if you're not broadcasting the party to anyone and everyone who will listen. It's a slap in the face to those who have stood by you and helped you and put up with you. And the most appalling part of this situation for me? YOU DON'T EVEN CARE.

That is the height of discourtesy, and you know how hyped I am on manners. I knew you were self-centered, but I thought that with all the times you've been stepped on and hurt, you'd know better than all of this. How utterly foolish of me to think so. You don't care about anyone but yourself.

I wasn't going to go to your party because I had other obligations, but now I'm not going to go because I don't want to be around anyone who hurts her friends like this. I do not want to associate myself with anyone so self-centered and insensitive as you are. There are much more generous, caring, kinder people I could hang with - for example, those friends you so cavalierly dismissed as unimportant.

Gravestone Epitaphs

I am stuck on the concept of forever on a gravestone epitaph. After all, that's all that will be remembered of us - our final dying sentiments etched in cold marble, slowly being erased by wind and weather. It's our longest goodbye and then it (and subsequently all evidence of our once existence) is gone, lost to the true forever.

Don't you despise how random poetic concepts sometimes become a thorn in your heart, weaving their chemicals through your blood, lacing through your brain, until you can only regard the world through the lens of that concept? Well, I have come to view every human action as another desperate attempt at achieving the ultimate gravestone epitaph, the one that penetrates true forever. No one wants to believe that they're as insignificant as being forgotten. We all want to think that we are important, memorable, an inked mark on the records of eternity! Alas, not one of us is. We will all fade from even obscurity.

But that does not stop us from trying. It's hard to accept that only our belief that we are the center of our universe interjects us along the edges of those of others. We MUST persist in that falacy that states that forever is a possibility. We HAVE to, no matter how futile we recognize that hope to be. For on my gravestone will be five words - "She wanted to be forever."

Poison & Elixir

I am confused. No, really. I am perplexed, baffled by the intricacies of human interaction. Why can't people just say what they mean?!

Sense is suddenly returning, shocked into rejuvenation by the naivette of that demand. It would be no fun to break hearts (or at least dent them) if those fragile organs were displayed prominently on a sleeve for all in the world to see. So it is for the best that I must guess at the next move in this peacock's waltz. The fact remains - I am mystified by this situation.

It would be much too simple to complicate things by asking advice of others. No, the only way to help yourself is to HELP YOURSELF. 'Cause, hey - only you live in your day to day life 100% of the time. It's not like your best friend sees life looking through the same baby blues you employ for use. Face it - it's your milk that's spilled, so you're the one to clean it up or cry over it.

Poison loves company - it makes the job go that much quicker. Fortunately, the same thing applies to healing elixir, else we'd all be dead. Like likes like, I've heard it said, and it ranks up there on the list of truths I've stumbled across so far. But when you mix poison and elixir, what events transpire? Ah, THAT is the question that's got me puzzled. For humans are poison, elixir, or some shade in between and it is rare to find someone with anything close to the same consistency. So what happens when you cross poison with elixir? Wait- don't answer. I swore I wouldn't ask.

Catstrings

You know how when you want something you don't have, you have so much fun working to get it, but how once you have it, you wonder why you wanted it in the first place? Pickup artists have a name for this situation - catstring theory. That's right - we're human kitty cats fascinated by a piece of string dangling just out of reach. Rather pathetic, really.

In any case, you're the string in this scenario. And you've just dropped yourself right in my lap. And boom. Just like that, you've lost your appeal. You're not interesting anymore. I don't want you like I did before. There's a lot of truth in the idea that it's the chase and the chase alone that makes relationships fun.

Besides, what do you even know about me? Yeah, I know you're aware that I've got a pretty face and a body to die for, but what's my last name? My favorite subject? The names of my two best friends? That's what I thought. For all we've talked over the past few weeks, we've only discussed you. You hate math, you draw more than you write, you're a visual thinker, you have a black lab and a welsh corgi, moved from California, and your favorite color is red. Mere scrapings from the wall of things I've learned about you. I'm more than a smile and a listening ear, nothing you would know anything about. And perhaps that's why you're so interested. I'm your catstring, and I'm hardly likely to simply drop into your lap.

Game

The boys in front of the bar claim they've got game, but so do the guys in front of the geometry textbooks on their desk. Both are lying. Everyone likes to think that they're big and bad and they've got the answers to all their problems, but it's obvious to everyone, including themselves, that they're just bluffing their way into a corner. They can't follow through! They're fantasizing here and projecting it to the real world - the fantasy being that they can get any girl their groin desires. To be honest, I find the whole affair laughable.

Sure, they can read psychology books written for the incompetent masses and try and weight the scales of attraction in their favor, but all in all, they're a dime a dozen. Until they've got the confidence as well as the nice guy factor, they're just disciples thinking they're gurus. They're worshippers at their own altar who are stealing from their church. (In other words - they got nothin'.)

Now, you know who are the ones who've really got it? They're the ones who never TELL you - they show you, and you cannot mistake them for anything but what they are. They're the real deal, the actual players, the ones who will take you for spins on their psychotic merry-go-rounds, and once the rides are over, you're still cheering something along the lines of 'again, again!' Cause it's obvious - a millionare doesn't have to say that he's rich.

So, a tip to the boys in the bar and the guys in geometry - stop talking your false game, stealing from your church's collection plate, and start doing. You'll find that people are much more impressed. After all, if you've got it, why is it necessary to tell people about it? It'll be clear as truth, whatever truth happens to be.

Charm

I know how to charm, but it's rare that I bother. I'm addicted to cynicism, so I often find that it's not worth the effort. After all, who aspires to make pals with people who appear unpleasant? (In other words, pretty much everybody.) The most interesting people spend less time talking about themselves and forever focusing on the one person who is truly important in your mind - you! They've got a spotlight in their hands and they're shining it on you. But when a person is on stage, it's impossible for them to see the audience. You're blind, and you don't even know it.

To some it would seem as though I've got the world in my messenger bag, friends and fun and wit and smarts, but have they ever minced down the halls in my stilleto heels? No, I didn't think so. 'Cause from where I'm standing, I've got everything I could possibly want right at my fingertips, but am so reluctant to seize it lest it seize me back. What happens when I want to let go? I'm trapped with its burdens forever, the task of its maintenance thrust upon me. And now I ask the question that's a stand by for my soul - who wants to be forever?

So I know the way to charm a body, but I suppose it's only in theory, 'cause the way human beings appall me? Damn, I'm in no hurry to assume the mantle of groundskeeper for the mansion my charm would build for them.

Back to School

For some reason, I expected something to change over the past two weeks, shift, reveal something new, but I have found, to my great dismay, that nothing has. Everything is exactly the same. My friends are still self-centred, too busy talking at each other to pay attention in class, school is still dull, and the hallways still lock me into my customary silence. Why did I expect anything different?

This day is going to pass, as so many have before, in a series of inconsequential dramas that will be forgotten before the day is out, and in slow burns of overstimulation headaches. YAY! This day shall be just like the rest that have spiraled away into the annals of forgotten history. It's good to know how little it takes to get back into the school swing.

Would it appear strange if I were to bang my head against my desk repeatedly?

Ice Skating

We went ice skating today, my two best friends and I, and when we were skating, we didn't skate together. Tamora, the flirty charismatic one, immediately found a new group to skate with, one girl and four guys. Kitty, the sexy, stylish one, skated with her boyfriend, his hoodie hanging huge on even her voluptuous frame. And me? I skated alone, knees bent low toward the ice, head bowed, arms outstretched for balance, the quiet writing one.

We whirled around the rink, sometimes passing each other, but ultimately absorbed in our hopelessly separate worlds. An hour of this, if you can imagine, each turn in the frozen atmosphere irrationally bringing tears to my eyes. I blamed it on the shards of ice flying through the air with each turn of the blades upon its slick surface. We had planned this excursion to be together, Tamora, Kitty, and I, but it was obvious that things do not always go as it is imagined they will.

I finally slid to a crisp stop before Tamora and her new found friends. She had always been so quick to befriend - everyone LOVES Tamora. She did not express surprise at my stopping, but instead smiled in that way of hers - the one where it is impossible to gauge whether her mood runs warm or cold where you are concerned. But the girl she was with smiled with clear heat, her eyes sparkling in her pale visage and burbled out, "So YOU're the best friend!"

I was completely taken aback. Tamora was my best friend, yes, but it had been a long while since I'd thought of myself as hers. She was too often with Kitty, rarely with me. Then I realized - the new friend had mistaken me for Kitty. Yes, that was it. I grinned politely back at the girl, hiding my hollow heart in the smallest, most cramped closet in my soul to re-emerge eons later as a skeleton secret.