15 days until summer
39 days until kyle
let's all just be happy, ya know ?
without purpose
can i just say that i dont understand the purpose that grammar serves question mark
yet i continue to analyze and belittle and whine to those you use it improperly period
so henceforth i have decided that i will comma in fact comma use proper grammar parentheses starting now parentheses but without capital letters period i hope you dont mind period
there’s a sad coyote and he’s singing, oh he is singing, and a fire took his house but he don’t care, nope, he don’t give a damn. he’s crying (oh sorry, i meant singing) for LOVE, as simple and cliche as that sounds, but all that he wants is his face back and his fingers and his toes back so he can hold onto something/where/how (somethingsomewheresomehow) so tightly that he never lets go. do you know what i mean when i say LOVE? i mean waking up with your hair tangled together and tied in knots and breaking out of your shells and finally convincing him/her/them/it to lay in the grass with you.
yeah, the grass makes me itchy.
but why does that matter to you?
and why do i care so much that a guy i don’t care much for tells me i’m hot and spicy but then tells my friends that i’m “cute” and that’s all?
i’m tired of being cute, so i’ll be a coyote instead, and i’ll keep you awake at night, and i’ll be the only thing on your mind.
fourteen.
happiness is driving in the rain and laughing and sitting in front of strange houses and smoking at the elementary school and stealing andrews sunglasses and chasing stray cats and double dog daring each other to eat fish heads and i like happiness
thirteen.
you know someone came up to me and said
“eliza you must be a sad person, a really sad person”
and i said
oh yeah ? why’s that ?
“well your pictures.”
you know i went up to someone and asked
hey what’s art ?
“sadness. depression. anger. keep your glass half empty and you’ll do just fine.”
well let me ask you this:
is grief a gift ?
happiness a curse ?
i’m fifteen and my parents are disappointed.
Why? You want to know why?
Step into a tanning booth and fry yourself for two or three days. After your skin bubbles and peels off, roll in coarse salt, then pull on long underwear woven from spun glass and razor wire. Over that goes your regular clothes, as long as they are tight.
Smoke gunpowder and go to school to jump through hoops, sit up and beg, and roll over on command. Listen to the whispers that curl into your head at night, calling you ugly and fat and stupid and bitch and whore and worst of all, “a disappointment.” Puke and starve and cut and drink because you don’t want to feel any of this. Puke and starve and drink and cut because you need the anesthetic and it works. For a while. But then the anesthetic turns into poison and by then it’s too late because you are mainlining it now, straight into your soul. It is rotting you and you can’t stop.
Look in a mirror and find a ghost. Hear every heartbeat scream that everysinglething is wrong with you.
“Why?” is the wrong question.
Ask “Why not?”
"
look at all the little trees
with their little stumps
then look at the monstrous me
i walk like thump
thump
thump
but i didn’t want to hurt you
so i’m sorry
