I wrote this while eating peanut butter and wallowing in self pity

I am a slave to my emotions. 

The vain imaginings of my disobedient  head.

I tell it to knock it off, but it just laughs at me and tells me to shut up. 

My brain sends unwanted, but so desperately wanted images to my eyes

And I cringe. 

Because all it does is hurt me. 

I can understand why Oskar bruises himself so often. 

Because I want to. 

Because maybe that pain will feel worse than the made up real pain I feel in my treacherous head. 

And maybe gate theory will work this time. 

I know it won't. 

But that won't stop me from trying again. 

And again

And again

Because anything to distract me from this is a blessing. 

Because nothing hurts as bad as this. 

If I were a robot I wouldn't feel this. 

Because robots are hard wired and cold metal. 

Software. 

Devoid of creativity

Unable to feel love

Or pain. 

So maybe there's a way I can lock my heart up where no one can find it. 

Remove it. 

Plate it in gold. 

Throw it to the bottom of the ocean. 

Anything to stop the pain.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

That feeling you get when you're on top of the world and you can do anything and you fall for the only guy you shouldn't fall for because he's too skinny, and he's paler than the moon

And he has a girlfriend. 

But his hazel eyes and dimples make you disregard everything

And your brain tells you to stop

But your heart doesn't care

And it wants what it can't have 

And you beg it to reconsider because pain is all that's forecasted for the future. 

But love is supposed to conquer all. 

And then your head deflates a little,

And reality kicks in,

And you try to forget everything you've just felt in the last half hour. 

Yeah, I've felt that feeling. 

Twists and Turns

life is a maze.

confusing in the moment,

but clear in reflection. 

A Haiku For You

the brief autumn air

refreshing and comforting

soothes my sufferring soul

Don't read this if you're happy

It's Saturday night.
My phone is completely silent.
I haven't been called in weeks.
My friend tells me she's surprised I don't have a boyfriend.
I'm not.
I tear myself down as though I were as strong as a house of cards.
Acne.
Socially inept.
Brown eyes.
I mean, who likes brown eyes on a girl anyway?
Isn't that a guy thing? Tall dark and handsome? Girls who have blonde hair and blue eyes?
Isn't that the perfect combination?
I guess I'm far from perfect, because that doesn't describe me at all.
Least noticed by the company I keep.
Least noticed by the company they keep.
Until I am no longer noticed by anyone
and I fade so drastically I am transparent, opaque only in the hopes that someone will see me.

Don't worry about me though.
I'll be OK by tomorrow.

Things Seen From the Refrigerator

Do you remember the time you got stung by a bee? I do. Your mom set you on the counter and put some salve on it. I watched with paper eyes from the refrigerator, my drawn smile in place, frozen next to my stick figure family. We all wanted to know if you were ok. After a moment your crying quieted and you smiled, even though there were still tear stains on your face. You leaned forward and hugged mom and looked at me. I waved at you, but you didn't see. We were all glad you were all right, and continued waving from our perch. We've long since been packed away and forgotten, but I just want you to know I still remember.

Cowboys and Indians

I remember Preference

The hat you wore.
I'm pretty sure you were the only one wearing one
but it suited you.
I remember the date we went on to the rodeo
you wore it there.
You told me to keep it upside down so your luck wouldn't leak out.
You moved away.
I'm sure you wear it there too.
I'm sure you tell another girl to keep it upside down.
I'm sure you stay longer than you should talking to her.
I'm sure you sneak out with her friends.
I'm sure you won't come back.
So stay if she makes you happy.
But don't forget you almost kissed me
with your hat on. 

Shamelessly Forthright

I don't try to be mean.

Sometimes it comes across that way.

I'm just trying to be honest.

I guess honesty isn't the best policy when you're supposed to be nice instead.

Nice in this society where everyone is a winner, even though all you did was show up.

Nice where things have to be politically correct, and it's wrong to refer to black people as black instead of African-American, even though nobody calls white people Caucasian. 

Nice where there is no distinction between excellence and mediocrity, because it's rude to classify people according to how we perceive them.

Nice to where our hearts bleed for serial killers and rapists because they were dubbed psychologically insane from childhood.

I just can't be that nice.

I can only be honest in the most deplorable candid way.

 I guess that's wrong.

But I'd rather be wrong than regular.