when i was ten,
my heart was too big for my body
and there was this boy in my class who i hated
because his hair was stupid and his smile was stupid
and i couldn't speak properly when he was around.
i found out he liked my best friend
and that made me feel a bit hollow inside
so i crinkled my nose and hated him more
even when he tried to talk to me.
(have you ever hated someone that way?)
when i was eleven
our teacher sat us next to each other in class.
we laughed at everything with our eyes
and everyone else got annoyed
i'd lie in bed texting him until i fell asleep
(his hair was still stupid.)
when i was twelve,
i was freefalling into destruction,
but he could still make me smile
even when it hurt my heart to do it.
my dad was dying and my skin was scarred,
but he told stupid jokes that made it go away.
(maybe i dotted the i in his name with a heart.)
when i was thirteen,
we only had one class together,
but we sat together every single lesson
and drew on each others' hands
and the teacher thought we were dating.
i liked another guy for most of that year.
(i never told anyone that i liked the first boy, too.)
when i was fourteen,
i dated a tall guy who i didn't like
because i didn't want to admit that maybe i was in love with my best friend,
who made fun of my boyfriend mercilessly.
i dumped him, but i never told him why.
i'm almost fifteen,
and my heart is still too big for my body.
these are all the things i'll never tell him.
i don't know
his favorite color
or if he likes honey with his tea
or if he even likes tea
i don't know what song he listens to when he's upset
and i don't know what his favorite cereal is
but i do know
his smile is amazing
and his laugh is really loud but it's kind of like music to me
and his clothes are really simple but they look really cute on him
and he wears glasses sometimes and he looks good with or without them
and i really wish
i knew all these things
so i know what song to play for him when he's upset
and if he wants tea i wanna know if i should put honey in it
(if he likes tea)
and what type of cereal he wants when he wants some
but i'll never know
because i'm the shy girl across the room
who hides behind her hair and the sleeves of her hoodies
and glances at him when she thinks he's not looking
and he never is
his favorite color
or if he likes honey with his tea
or if he even likes tea
i don't know what song he listens to when he's upset
and i don't know what his favorite cereal is
but i do know
his smile is amazing
and his laugh is really loud but it's kind of like music to me
and his clothes are really simple but they look really cute on him
and he wears glasses sometimes and he looks good with or without them
and i really wish
i knew all these things
so i know what song to play for him when he's upset
and if he wants tea i wanna know if i should put honey in it
(if he likes tea)
and what type of cereal he wants when he wants some
but i'll never know
because i'm the shy girl across the room
who hides behind her hair and the sleeves of her hoodies
and glances at him when she thinks he's not looking
and he never is
sticks and stones, they broke my bones,
words, they broke my heart
silence broke what was left of me
and then i fell apart.
We used to be youandme
and then we were you-and-me
and then we were you and me
and then we were you…. and me?
and now there’s
you
and
then
there’s
me.
To Santa Claus and Little Sisters
By, Anonymous
Once,
On yellow paper, with green lines, he wrote a poem,
And called it "Chops"
Because that was the name of his dog,
And that's what it was all about.
And his teacher gave him an "A"
and a gold star,
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
And read it to all his aunts.
That was the year his sister was born,
With tiny toenails and no hair,
And Father Tracy took them to the zoo
And let them sing on the bus.
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a Christmas card
Signed with a row of x's.
And his father always tucked him in at night,
And he was always there to do it.
Once,
On white paper, with blue lines, he wrote another poem.
And he called it "Autumn"
Because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about.
And his teacher gave him an "A"
And told him to write more clearly.
And his mother didn't hang it on the kitchen door
Because the door
Had just been painted
That was the year his sister got glasses,
With black frames and thick lenses
And the kids told him why mother and father
Kissed a lot.
And Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews,
And the girl around the block laughed
When he went to see Santa Claus at Macy's
And his father stopped tucking him in at night,
And got mad at him when he cried for him to.
Once,
On paper torn from his notebook, he wrote another poem,
And he called it "Question Marked Innocence",
Because that was the name of his grief
And that's what it was all about.
And the professor gave him an "A"
And a strange and steady look.
And his mother never hung it on the door
Because he never let her see it.
That year he found his sister necking on the back porch
And his parents never kissed, or even smiled.
And he forgot how the end of "Apostle's Creed" went,
And Father Tracy died.
And the girl around the block wore too much make-up
That made him cough when he kissed her,
But he kissed her anyway
Once
At 3 a.m., he tucked himself in bed,
His father snoring soundly.
He tried another poem, on the back of a pack of matches,
And he called it "absolutely nothing"
Because that's what it was all about.
And he gave himself an "A"
And a slash on each damp wrist
And hung it on the bathroom door,
Because he couldn't reach the kitchen.
By, Anonymous
Once,
On yellow paper, with green lines, he wrote a poem,
And called it "Chops"
Because that was the name of his dog,
And that's what it was all about.
And his teacher gave him an "A"
and a gold star,
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
And read it to all his aunts.
That was the year his sister was born,
With tiny toenails and no hair,
And Father Tracy took them to the zoo
And let them sing on the bus.
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a Christmas card
Signed with a row of x's.
And his father always tucked him in at night,
And he was always there to do it.
Once,
On white paper, with blue lines, he wrote another poem.
And he called it "Autumn"
Because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about.
And his teacher gave him an "A"
And told him to write more clearly.
And his mother didn't hang it on the kitchen door
Because the door
Had just been painted
That was the year his sister got glasses,
With black frames and thick lenses
And the kids told him why mother and father
Kissed a lot.
And Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews,
And the girl around the block laughed
When he went to see Santa Claus at Macy's
And his father stopped tucking him in at night,
And got mad at him when he cried for him to.
Once,
On paper torn from his notebook, he wrote another poem,
And he called it "Question Marked Innocence",
Because that was the name of his grief
And that's what it was all about.
And the professor gave him an "A"
And a strange and steady look.
And his mother never hung it on the door
Because he never let her see it.
That year he found his sister necking on the back porch
And his parents never kissed, or even smiled.
And he forgot how the end of "Apostle's Creed" went,
And Father Tracy died.
And the girl around the block wore too much make-up
That made him cough when he kissed her,
But he kissed her anyway
Once
At 3 a.m., he tucked himself in bed,
His father snoring soundly.
He tried another poem, on the back of a pack of matches,
And he called it "absolutely nothing"
Because that's what it was all about.
And he gave himself an "A"
And a slash on each damp wrist
And hung it on the bathroom door,
Because he couldn't reach the kitchen.
We all say we hate these celebrities.
But why? I mean for instance One Direction. Even though I don't listen to them I still have respect for them. I mean they were regular people like us who found there dream in life and followed it. They had a passion to make music together. And the Directioners? I don't why we all blame them... One Direction made a difference in their lives. Why do we have to hate them for it? If One Direction made one girl's life change then why do we have to go in her face and tell them that we hate One Direction and their music?
I just don't get it.
Every year for Halloween
I wanted to be
a pumpkin, sunflower, m&m, turtle.
But, when you get older, the costumes tend to get smaller. Finessing curves into eyecandy instead of masterpiece. American beauty turned apple pie cutie.
So, this year, I decided to be a school teacher, nurse, fairy, Wonder Woman.
But, when I went to buy the costume I was like, "Where's the rest of it.? Is B for books or boobs? Was the toothfairy a stripper? To check temperatures or raise them? Oh, hell no. Heels?"
Halloween has become a different type of freakshow and all that I am don't fit prettily into polyester and spandex.
I'd much rather be a sasquatch, Godzilla, King Kong, Lochness. Goblin, ghoul, a zombie with no conscience. Everybody knows I'm a motherfcking monster.
Society is trying to squeeze the fantasy out of us--turn our feminine fatal.
So, this year I think I'll be monster. Let me be mummy--empty of all organs so they'd never fail me. Only my heart would remain, the center of inteligence and emotion. But, I'd never need to feel another pair of greedy eyes on me.
Monster.
I'd much rather be vampire--my reflection disapearing every time I looked in the mirror so I wouldn't have to worry about flaws that stare blankly back at me. I will suck everyone woman's sterotype out of your throats.
Monster.
I've heard that some of the most beautiful women are the craziest ones. On a good day I'm human, on a full moon--werewolf that I exist when the lunar ticks. Ticking 'till the time comes when I'm finally comfortable in my own skin.
Monster.
Let me be your worst nightmare for one night. I'll shed away my wings and Betsy Johnson's and I'll play boogieman. See, I know what you're afraid of--A woman who can do bad, no evil, all by herself. But, nowadays, boogieman is a lot less frightening than a strong woman.
Monster.
But, no matter what garments we wrap ourselves in, a woman's status as trick, treat, or geek is not up for discussion.
A woman dressing, acting, or being should be her choice.
If a woman wants to wear a skimpy outfit, let it be her choice.
If a woman wants to cover up let it be her choice.
If I wanna be a motherfcking monster then let it be my choice.
Is B for books or for boobs? Both.
To check temperatures or raise them? Both.
Was the tooth fairy a stripper? Maybe.
But who cares?
See, I'd much rather be woman and if it means that I must be a monster then
Happy Halloween.
But, when you get older, the costumes tend to get smaller. Finessing curves into eyecandy instead of masterpiece. American beauty turned apple pie cutie.
So, this year, I decided to be a school teacher, nurse, fairy, Wonder Woman.
But, when I went to buy the costume I was like, "Where's the rest of it.? Is B for books or boobs? Was the toothfairy a stripper? To check temperatures or raise them? Oh, hell no. Heels?"
Halloween has become a different type of freakshow and all that I am don't fit prettily into polyester and spandex.
I'd much rather be a sasquatch, Godzilla, King Kong, Lochness. Goblin, ghoul, a zombie with no conscience. Everybody knows I'm a motherfcking monster.
Society is trying to squeeze the fantasy out of us--turn our feminine fatal.
So, this year I think I'll be monster. Let me be mummy--empty of all organs so they'd never fail me. Only my heart would remain, the center of inteligence and emotion. But, I'd never need to feel another pair of greedy eyes on me.
Monster.
I'd much rather be vampire--my reflection disapearing every time I looked in the mirror so I wouldn't have to worry about flaws that stare blankly back at me. I will suck everyone woman's sterotype out of your throats.
Monster.
I've heard that some of the most beautiful women are the craziest ones. On a good day I'm human, on a full moon--werewolf that I exist when the lunar ticks. Ticking 'till the time comes when I'm finally comfortable in my own skin.
Monster.
Let me be your worst nightmare for one night. I'll shed away my wings and Betsy Johnson's and I'll play boogieman. See, I know what you're afraid of--A woman who can do bad, no evil, all by herself. But, nowadays, boogieman is a lot less frightening than a strong woman.
Monster.
But, no matter what garments we wrap ourselves in, a woman's status as trick, treat, or geek is not up for discussion.
A woman dressing, acting, or being should be her choice.
If a woman wants to wear a skimpy outfit, let it be her choice.
If a woman wants to cover up let it be her choice.
If I wanna be a motherfcking monster then let it be my choice.
Is B for books or for boobs? Both.
To check temperatures or raise them? Both.
Was the tooth fairy a stripper? Maybe.
But who cares?
See, I'd much rather be woman and if it means that I must be a monster then
Happy Halloween.
