Fire

Like never in a moment, I fell to the flames. One death, two deaths, three deaths, more. No matter how high the numbers run, they'll only be ignored. And the ashes! Oh, those pity-pathetic remains! Even the wind will not touch them, those products of fleeting fame. Fire does not consume- how presumptious to say so. No, fire is a dancer, stepping on what it wishes to destroy. I am a dancer - or is that just a clever ploy?

Societal Standards

That's IT! I hate this, I really fucking hate this! I am better than that, more confident than that, prettier than that! I should not be reduced to tears by a sizing system, should not look at emaciated models and envy them, should not hear the word 'anorexia' and think 'good idea'. No! NO! NO!!!

What happened to me? I used to be so happy in my body, so content in its shape and its curves. What happened? I used to look in the mirror and see the length of my neck, the pronounced collar bones, the delectable hips and thighs. Now I only see bulging cheeks, fat ass, thunder thighs, nonexistent breasts, rotund belly, chunky calfs.... The list continues. What happened? When did a size five become fat, a size seven scary, and a size nine exceptionally obese? And more importantly, why?

Perhaps it's the people I hang out with. Pretty much everyone I know is obsessed with getting down to a size zero, a flat stomach, a perfectly toned ass and totally trim legs. Starving yourself doesn't become anorexia until the other girls get jealous and working out is great until someone else can do it better. And even the girls who are going on concave, ribs showing through their three layers of t-shirts, are looking down at the scale and hoping to drop another ten, twenty pounds. What's the matter with them? What's the matter with me?

Eating disorders are often linked with life threatening depressions. One feeds the other, a vicious spiral staircase that only ends in falling. Yeah, I know this. Models are at an unhealthy weight and will pay for it with years off their lives. Yeah, I know this too. But get this - IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT I KNOW. No matter how many times you tell me that these things are unrealistic, that these ideals cannot be acheived, that it's unhealthy.... No matter the ways you tell me that this is not a good thing, there are forty other people simultaneously telling me that thin is in and that I'm not thin. The standards are so sharp, I can only impale myself on them, no matter where I turn, they so surround me. Yeah, I KNOW the facts, but the loudest thing I hear is that chant, coming at me from every side, in every voice that's ever spoken.

"Bulging cheeks, fat ass, thunder thighs, rotund belly, chunky calfs...." "Thin is in, fat is laughed at...." "Five is fat, seven is scary, nine is grossly obese...."

STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT!!!! That's IT!!!!

Prince Charming

Why is that every guy thinks that every girl wants a prince? I mean, really. After all - this is no fairy tale. Any prince presented will inevitably be vapid, insipid, or just a plain out jerk. And even if this weren't the case, not every girl sits in her window and waits for a prince to happen along, nor does every girl go adventuring off to find one.

I can tell you right now that a prince would be wasted on the likes of me. No, chivalry in all its constance would bore me, serenades beneath my window drive me to stone him for the sake of my sanity, and bouquets of flowers irritate me irrationally. I'm simply NOT looking for Prince Charming.

I want a knight. His armor doesn't even have to be shiny. However, his sword must be sharp and his steed must be speedy. I want to be able to fight with him, to knock him down and be knocked down in turn. Prince Charming can go jump off a cliff. After all, this is no fairy tale I'm living, and I don't have the patience to wait for him to happen along, nor the time to go off and find him.

Regained Vision

Holy crap! The trees have leaves! God, I had forgotten what the world looked like, so long did I live blind. It's glorious - rather harsh, but sharp and pretty for its crystalline beauty.

There are signs all over, writing that I missed. Indications, indiscreetions, and intimations, all things I'd said but never knew. All these fine details that I didn't know existed are suddenly blatant in their self-evidence. How did I go so long with that veil across my vision uglying up my universe? It's all so beautiful, so beaten.

Even long familiar faces seem transformed by this newfound clarity. There are smiles and lines where before there were only soft, faint blurs of emotion. things are so different, so intricate, so obvious! (For example, trees have leaves.)

Lost at Death's Feet

How'd I die like this? How did I so expire? There will be no more flowers for me, unless they grace my thankless grave. Curses upon them! So close above me, and me without the energy to so much as graze them with my hand!

I am lost now. What shall I do? My eyes are wide with the fright of the situation, but I seem to enjoy the hellish sight. There's no point in this. Do you not hear me? There's no point! Let it be, all ready!

Oh, I see. Oh, yes. Not my fault - these things never are - but the end result is the same, regardless of my involvement or lack thereof. Nothing I can do, nor anything I could have done.

What a cold, bloodless charade. You'll conform yourself to the standards until your existence is shattered and you're too broken to even try. You're fallen at the feet of my bad news and everyone - everyone! - stops and stares at the spectacle. This cannot be! It simply cannot!

I can't do this! Not without you - not without Nobody Special. No more flowers for me- they've fallen from my broken, shattered hand and there they lay - scattered across my grave. I am forever lost and I shall not be found until I am fixed again.

V Day

Ah, Valentine's Day. The birds sing, hearts festoon the halls in a shower of pink, and presents are given to those lucky few. I am most certainly not among the lucky few.

Tamora, of course, is loaded down with gifts. Chocolate and flowers and stuffed animals and a pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs from someone who knows her too well. I'd laugh, but I'm insanely jealous.

Kitty is getting her presents after school. Unlike Tamora, she'd rather be going steady with someone rather than flirting with everyone. Her boyfriend will do something sweet, something romantic, something amazingly sensitive and thoughtful. And she will love every minute of it.

Then there's me. I'm quiet. A bitch. I scare the guys off, and the ones that won't be scared.... Well, they don't know what's good for them. So, I get nothing. Happy V Day.

Discoveries and Change

Wouldn't it be amazing if things mutated, changed, somehow came my way? Wouldn't that just be remarkable? I think so, but others might not. As it is, I feel a tightening in my stomach and I recently discovered that I have curves. Such odd concepts to contemplate....

I miss the days when I could ignore everything and retreat into a shell. But my eyes have been opened and the colors are simply too bright for me to sqeeze them back shut. I'm learning things like never before. (It's almost too much.)

I'm going to shed my human skin and become a faerie. No particular reason - I just want to try on something lighter. I'll dance down the halls and burn myself on iron rather than words, just for a change of pace. But it'll be fun, the freedom in the hollow bones and dense muscles. (After all, it's that freedom I want.)

I think I'll go find something new. A dance class, a hoodie, a book, a hobby. Just something that I've never seen before, never done, just for the rush of all that newness. I'll make a change, something seemingly small and inconsequential, and maybe it'll completely reshape my world. 'Cause wouldn't it be amazing if things mutated, changed, somehow came my way? Wouldn't that just be remarkable? I think so. As it is, I feel a tightening in my stomach and I recently discovered that I have curves.

Bereft

Ne'er in a moment did perfection come to call. I cry - how'd I manage to lose it all? I'm nothing, in case you forget. Aspire back to something - what you don't see is what you never get. Who needs happiness, who requires hope? Bread, butter? Clothes, tears? Pah! I scoff at those who might need these things. I mean, look at me. I seem to be just fine. (But what I wouldn't give for just one of those to be mine....)

ME

Yay! I finally managed to piss you off enough to make you leave! Funny how I managed it, too. I could have given you a right dressing down, and I intended to, but there was no need. Just laugh, giggle, and burble on about flirting with another guy. Poof! You're gone.

It's nice! I have the freedom to move, the space to think! I can be me again, flirty, silly, shallow me. I can be myself! What a concept.... I'm stuck on it. I can dance without the burden of your wish for your eyes, I can toss expletives without concern for your violence, I can think of myself and what pleases ME. ME, ME, ME! (Simply for the joy of my ability to use the word.)

Interesting how you were undeterred by the word 'no' but that the word 'yes' falling on different ears was what finally gave you pause. Gonna be jealous? Yes. Gonna be angry? Yes. Gonna call me a bitch, a whore, a slut? Yes.

Am I gonna care? No.

Because finally (finally, finally, finally!) I don't have to think about you. I don't have to factor you into my decisions. Finally, I am free. (ME, ME, ME!)

The Narcissist Who 'Loves' Me

You are so fucking self-centered! Really, you are. Full of yourself, too. Makes sense- you're your world. But you've got nerve, asking such things of me, as though you've a right to them. Well, fuck off buddy. You don't even know me.

Never once have you expressed any interest, not even twice have you really wanted to know what's wrong. You're so quick to judge people, so quick to declare things wrong. What are you now - God? You know shit about anything, less than that about me.

Yes, I listen, yes, I care. But I can't keep doing that. I'm not an endless well spring of empathy and interest. I need someone to fill me full, to return just one of my constant favors. And you don't get that - you never will. You can apologize all you want, but you don't try to understand. Too little, too late.

And after all we've talked, all that's been said.... Fuck off. Your sense of entitlement? Shove it up to there. You don't even know me - you never even cared.

Falling Unfixable

I thought things had changed, I thought they were better. Hell, I thought I was better. I thought (wished, hoped, prayed!) that I'd become likable, appealing, someone-worth-something in the eyes of others. But of course not. Never in these years that matter.

Searing glares, a keep your distance walk- my smile tightens and I try to pretend that I don't notice, that it doesn't matter, that I don't care. When they laugh and they point and they talk, I shut down and pray that the blush I put on that morning is the only thing coloring my cheeks. And I thought things were different!

And no one cares if they aren't. So what? Just the usual outcasts in the outlands. Nothing new, no matter. Really, no substance to the situation. So what if she reads self-help books non-stop in the desperate, desperate hopes that things will get better, that she can make it so? So what if she's a brilliant conversationalist, makes people feel special, as long as she gets the chance, the opportunity, to do so? But, no. Her face must be stone or else her heart would be smeared across these marble floors. As it is, it's what's happening to her soul.

Don't you understand? I try, try, try to be the empathetic ear, the one that listens, comprehends, makes it better. But how can I? I can't even fix myself, yet you expect me to make you all better. God, I'm so empty, so silent, so stuck! Please, understand. If I just have that, there's glue enough for me to finish the job.

I didn't smile today, because all I saw were frowns. Please, I thought things were different, I thought things were better. I thought I could manage, I thought I could sing, but now I see that I never knew what those things really mean. All those searing glares cut me from without, all those keep-your-distance walks stone me with boulders from within. Please, understand, I implore you. I thought that things had changed - I thought that I was better.

Inferiority

I really do worry that I'm not pretty enough, not perfect enough. I sometimes think I'm nothing on the physical scale. Because all my friends wear size one jeans and I have to squirm my way into size fives, I feel like I'm worthless. It doesn't help that I can't move like they do, can't stretch like they do, can't flirt like they do. I feel inconsequential, an inferior little bug to their goddess glows. Why would a guy go for me when Tamora and Kitty are in the same room?

It's the ultimate 'feel bad' dilemna. I want to believe I'm the sexiest thing ever, but it's just so difficult when my best friends collectively hold 30% of the male population in their palms. I have maybe 5%... If that. I'm just too shy, too silent, too much of the scholar and not enough of the slut. Sure, I'm a bitch, but that's about all I have going. I can't dance, I can't flirt, and I can't do a split. Why should ANYONE look my way?

Free Write

I called for Heaven in a state of molten grace. I deemed myself worthy- no one puts me in my place. I've clawed my way up from the bottom of the pile. I've gained inches, almost feet, and that's nearly an accomplishment. The weight of those on top keeps pushin' me down. I've got to get stronger, or this will always be the case. I must be a demon, I must be an angel, I must be a virgin, I must be a whore. I've got to loan myself out until I get interest back. Perhaps not the best method of the lot, but it'll certainly get results. Lift me up to Heaven? Most likely not. I'll always be a wagging tail at the bottom of the puppy pile. All my friends are natural leaders, so I must be a follower. God, do I resent that idea. I am in charge of me, no one else. Do you hear me? Of course not, I am silence. I tried to climb a mountain only to discover it had no top. I was just dieing, no intent to go to Heaven. And isn't that a catchy turn of phrase, ringing through the halls? Yes, it's a pretty sound, but it loses its charm when it's overplayed. I'm going to dance a pole, become the sexy queen. But I'm never the queen, am I? There's always someone better suited to the title. I'm searching for a sense of belonging, and, God, it's hard to find. All my interactions fall empty. After faux matchmaking, I feel guilty. I should apologize to the both of them for wasting precious time. He's not for her, and he's not for me, I 'm not for that other - This triangle was never what it seemed. I'll just have to talk to him - perhaps he'll understand. But again, there's someone better available to take the job, so why should I bother to try? I'm second string, third string, not on a string. Friggin A - I never made the team. I'm the last tier of the hierarchy, and it's made of three. First there's perfection, then there's devilry, and then there's nothing. And nothing is guilty, nothing is sad, nothing is neglected... Nothing is sad. So I aspire back to something, and that's just too damn bad. 'Cause I've always been nothing, and the monarchy doesn't even glance down.

Dancing the Pole

I blast my music, ignoring everything else, my hips possessed by a dance that is the ultimate sensual showing. This is where I get my freedom, my confidence, my sense of "Hell yeah, I'm the sexiest thing to walk the Earth since ever." (Unfortunately, that feeling only endures as long as the song.) I curl around my pole, skirt dripping from my thighs. This is how I express myself.

I ponder about what would happen should anyone witness these dances that I lead myself through. What would they think of my fuck me pumps, my fishnet stockings, my lacy lingerie? I dismiss the thoughts. Who cares what they think? This is for me.

Cupid's Kitchen Sink Valentine's Day

Doesn't the tale go somewhere along the lines of 'Cupid shoots two people with her arrows and they are each other's Valentines'? 'Cause that's what I heard. But, oddly enough, I think there's somethin' screwy with that tale, 'cause last I counted, Cupid was a shootin' people left and right, destining three peeps for every five, and every one claimed the title 'Valentine'. So, either the legend's completely wrong or Cupid's mind has been spending time at the kitchen sink, droppin' her marbles down the drain along with some nuts from her fruitcake. One or the other....

Regardless, the confusion leaves a right mess for the social janitor to clean up. John's tears have flooded the halls 'cause the toilets are clogged with Miranda's morning sickness since she slept with Nick after Alan wanted to take Lynn to the prom instead of her. And that's just the beginning of this(these) hurricane affair(s)! The whole damned town has been caught up in Cupid's madness! (Though on second thought, she may have just lost her ability to hit a fifty foot target.)

And to further complicate things, we've got faux cherubs flying the halls as well, playing matchmaker like Fiddler on the Roof was just a trailer for the real show. Badly, I might add. (Their aim is worse than Cupid's!) Everywhere you look, there's drama drizzling from tear ducts making a bitter sauce for the St. Valentine's chocolates in that pretty wrapped box. 'Cause left and right, there's three Valentines thinking they belong to another five and wading boots are becoming harder to find. I'm somehow doubting that it's the legend at fault.... Maybe 'cause there's a clog in my kitchen sink....

Back to the Background

I feel as though I've reverted back to my usual invisible state, a phantom gust through the hallways. And here I thought I'd broken myself of that annoying habit of not being seen....

Well, what does it matter, anyways? After all, it's not as though I'll die of this. No, the scars of tribulations past will protect me from the mild discomfort of not being visible. This is nothing, no matter how inconsequential it makes me feel.

Whatever. The years have taught me that I am a minor absent detail in the tapestries of others' lives, so I should expect only to escape notice. What dementia possessed me with the recent delusion that my place is in the forefront? I know not, but I discard it along with the phrase 'I'm important.'

Too Late

What the HELL are you doing? Yeah, I get that it's less scary to hint around the edges of what you mean, but it's also less appealing. What am I supposed to think?

Besides, it's obvious. You COMPLETELY lack subtlety, which makes it even more frustrating that you don't just come out and say it. I mean, come on. You extol your 'virtues' when it comes to love, how it should be based on more ethereal standards rather than physical appearance. Nothing like swinging a brick at my head....

You're such a hypocrite. You want to be a hero to my damsel in distress, but there's a slight problem with that. I'm not a damsel, nor am I distressed. Thus, I need no hero. I need a dance partner, and as you said yourself, you don't dance. Ever. You also say that your love is based on values and what you see in a person's heart, but you're so busy looking at yourself in the mirror that there's no way you can see anyone else. Any 'love' you experience can only be lust.

Anyways, you're too late. You missed your chance by a large margin. Yeah, you were so busy hinting around what you meant and swinging your brick that something awful happened: I got to know you. And since you want to be a hero and I'm no damsel in distress, you can give this obsession you have with me a long, forever, stretch of rest via death.