Whack

Everyone is dead.

I'm looking at you, pathetic humans.  You bloggers, you.

You're sad and broody.  All the time.  And yet your stuff is so remarkable.  That's not fair.

The parts of me that are dead go stiff in the dirt and I weep over the carved stones of their dwelling places until I am forced to avenge their death and structure my life around reviving them.

I beat the ghosts of myself with a club.

You dance with your ghosts in the darkness.

I am alone in the light.

I want the light.

I don't need ghosts.

I don't want to write ghosts.

But you all do.  And it is beautiful.  It's not fair.

Maybe it is because I do not know your darknesses.

But I want to write bright.

Is that too much to ask for, in an existence of divine shadow?

Please take pleasure in what happiness I can offer you in my jealous and ignorant state, you little lurking beasts.

For I will not be morbid.

Here is a microwave and some leftover pasta.

Here is my favorite pair of gloves.

It's getting cold outside, but you don't have to cry.

If you do, you can still be sad.  But make it a good sad, without the raw gore and sobbing embellishments.

Here is a tear to go with the cold.

It was not fun to extract from my eye.
Go ahead and sigh.
Just don't die.

I'm Not Dead. It's Called Homework.

So you know my secret.

I'm still traveling the universe, but the thing is, the longer I'm here, the more like home it feels.

I still sit in class.

I still have a job.

I even went to Homecoming and Sadie Hawkins.

Now isn't that funny.

I'm here, but I'm hiding, but I'm all over the place and won't get out of your face.

Kind of like the universe and my life.

Here are some post cards from another dimension.

A Letter to Fear

Dear Fear,

Hello dear.  How has it been since I ran into you?  Remember, when I fell out of the space craft and landed in the black hole?

I hope you and Anxiety are doing well.  I saw her across an asteroid belt the other day.  We chatted about the two of you and paced back and forth a bit.  By a bit, as you know, I mean a lot.  She told me all about her pacing in the kitchen while she makes you sandwiches.

Grilled cheese is your new favorite.  Perspiration is the butter that browns the bread, and the cheese is the filth that gets in humans' heads.

And I hear there's a baby too.  You named her Worry.

Well you know what they say about Worry and rocking chairs.  Bet she's fun to put to sleep.  Bet she drinks her bottle all up.

I just wanted to let you know something, Fear.

LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You stalker.

Get out of my life.  You and your creepy family and your pet tarantula.

Don't make me get a restraining order.  Do those count out in space?

Serenity Blue

Just So You Know

I like it when you fold paper cranes better than the pouring rain.

Sometimes you have to write in pencil, not pen.

People will tell me it's less genuine.

But hey.

It's different.

And that is absolutely everlasting.

At least as everlasting as the thread on the friendship bracelet you gave me.

My  nail polish is chipping away just like the time.

But at least the time has been spent on you.

House of Bricks

Come brother, come sister,
Come into my house of bricks.
It's better than straw and sticks.
I won't play any tricks.

"Little pig, little pig, let me in."
Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin.

Listen one and listen all,
There's a big bad wolf outside.
He runs around, but we will hide,
And he will be denied.

"Little pig, little pig, let me in."
Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin.

You're a pig and I'm a pig,
But we can make some stew.
Maybe the wolf will fall in our brew.
I have fresh vegetables too.

"Little pig, little pig, let me in."
"Not by the hair on my chinny chin CHIN!"

He could huff and he could puff,
But he couldn't blow MY house down!
But...why does that make you frown?
I thought his eyes were yellow, not brown.

"Little pig, little pig, let me in.
I'm just a sheep, but I'm in wolf's skin."

---

Straw and sticks aren't as strong as bricks,
But bricks will kill you slower.

So if I'm not stew
Before you're through,
I'll shave my chin
And let you in.

I Can't

Don't mind me as I fall asleep listening to my favorite things.

I'm just living my dreams.

Working.

So hard on other things.

I hear they matter.

That's what I'm told.

So why do I feel so worthless, knowing that I really didn't have time for that essay?  Knowing my teacher was okay with it because she knew how hard I was trying to live my dreams and realizing I needed sleep?

Still working.

So I'll doze to the sounds of the extra credit analysis written on the same poem by the girl a few rows away because she took the time to say it exactly the way I felt it but could not describe after sitting by gray walls by day and listening to elevator music and wearing gloves by evening and night.  And just because I couldn't write like that.

Living my dreams.

An exasperated, exhausted writer who can't write.

I just want to.

Let.

Go.

The Blue Girl Has Waited Long Enough

I'm sitting on the rings of Saturn with Oakley, who is texting his girlfriend.  Apparently there's great reception here.

It's so dark.

It's so bright.

Definitely a starry night.

"Serenity Blue," Oakley said, looking up from his phone, which lit up his face.  "Serenity Blue," he said, "tell me about love."

"No thanks, Oakley Johnson.  Scars."

"Isn't that the best kind of love?  The kind that scars you?"

"Does she have scars that match yours?"

"Yes!  Etched on our hearts!  They hurt--wasn't supposed to happen.  But so worth it.  You can't love without scars."

"True.  But you're in a haze.  Loving isn't worth it for everyone."

"Let me guess--"

"Yep."

And I put my hand on my chest and felt the scorching against the back of my eyelids and Oakley knew a scarlet letter lay there, scratched along my veins, yet nobody else on Earth or the moon or Saturn had an S like that anywhere within their souls.

Not an S for me.

Not for Serenity.

"No wonder you're Blue.  You love young.  You love deep.  You love Long."

"And how Long does it take for something in return?"

"Well...at least you love."




Here is a song, so listen:  Here is a Heart by Jenny Owens Young.