hush.

Creative Writing, Journal, Personal, Poetry

Wishing I were more competent,
Reality seeping into my expectations.
A brave new world, doused in complications.

“Look at me,” I’m screaming –
Drawing attention to my ever-nearing fate.
Blindly dancing toward the cliff,
no one saying a thing.

Advertisements

Moral Dilemma

beautiful, Beauty, Creative Writing, Future, Humanist, Journal, Nature, New, Personal, Poetry

It feels as though the world is lapping at me,
Eating away at my heels as I try to make my way.

Like a rock on at the edge of the ocean,
Never getting a break from the endless torture
That is the ocean’s softly beating wave.

Back is sore, feet bleeding, hands callused
I’ve held on this far, but I was never promised an end.

Not a moment goes by as I brace to the cliff
that letting go isn’t considered,
but if I do, the cliff will fall,
Cascading into the ocean.

Atop this cliff, a child sits, their fate is my decision.
I can hold on, turn into to stone
As the water relentlessly beats me with its salty hand
Or I can let go, and let the ocean guide us into the world
of eternal night.

I Deserve To Love Myself

beautiful, Family, feminism, fuck you, home, Humanist, Journal, Personal

When someone has a kid, it’s understandable that they would want them to hold the same beliefs and ideals as themselves.

Though, after I had spoken up for myself, my mom turned to me and said “I would never have been allowed to talk to my parents that way” when I had just expressed that I disagreed.

I have my own opinions, and I won’t apologize for thinking for myself. I might not know everything, but neither do you. There’s a good chance that we are both wrong in our own right, though I would rather die knowing I stood up for my own thoughts rather than following you blindly.

She has threatened to take away my phone because she believes I have too much contact with the world around me,
She thinks my opinions are too radicalized and extreme,
That I am simply following the mainstream.

Rather, I’m plunging into the arctic cold water that is adulthood and with that comes autonomy.

I have the right to my own opinions and thoughts, she doesn’t have to agree with them, but punishing me for them? That’s wrong.

And that idea she brought up, about not being able to speak to her parents a certain way, aka disagree with them – I just don’t even know where to begin with it.

I expressed to her that I have self respect, and in having that I am willing to voice my thoughts without hesitation. Somehow she views that as entitlement.

In some fucked up way, she thinks that my “selfish nature” of loving and taking care of myself is uncalled for and a generational thing.

That wanting to go to therapy and wanting to eat fruits and vegetables is somehow entitled. I just want to take care of myself. I don’t want to be spoken down to. I don’t want to be hit. I deserve to love myself.

Burdens You Face

Creative Writing, Family, feminism, home, Journal, no trust, Personal, Poetry, Relationships

We burden her.
She won’t admit it, but we burden her.

We talk, but she doesn’t like being reminded of her burdens.
We cry, and her burdens are overwhelming.
She can’t stand us.

Forbid her burdens have issues that need attention.
Forbid they demand health treatments that cost money.

Isn’t it feminist to be selfish?
She wants to think so, and selfishness it is.

This burden doesn’t react well when yelled at by the Abusive Coward,
But let’s slap a “sensory overload” tag on it and call it good.

That burden doesn’t like being threatened by the Abusive Coward,
It leaves and it’s a bad, bad burden.

The smallest burden, the loudest, it needs attention and her time,
but that time is called for by the Abusive Coward.

The coward, he is the victim when he strikes a Burden.
The coward, he is the victim when he threatens a Burden.
The coward, he is the victim when a Burden cries.

She sees humanity in the coward,
She sees love in the coward,
She sees hope, light, and prospect in him.

Her burdens weigh her down,
Suck her dry, they kill her spirit.
Despite being their mother, these burdens are inhuman.

She carried them around, 9 months each.
9 months to learn to despise them,
9 months to learn she would never have freedom.
9 months to realize she carried the children of a man she loathed.

I am her burden, one which has been steadily growing seventeen years.
I am her problem, which she can’t ignore.
I am the outspoken burden which plagues her,

Plaguing her existence with demands.
Fair treatment.
Therapy.
Vegetables.

Extremities which cannot be fulfilled.
Demands which are impossible.
Requests that are beyond capability.
I am your burden, mom.

I Need To Hear It

Awareness, Domestic Violence, Family, fuck you, home, Journal, no trust, Personal, Poetry

I know how I feel, but their words drown out my voice.
I know what has happened, but they say I’m making it up.
I know what I have seen, I know it and I will never shut up.

It’s just sensory overload
You’re just displacing your fear
This is a simple case of, “_____”

maybe “it’s Just” what I’m telling you it is.
perhaps I know what I’m experiencing

“The social worker thinks it’d be a good idea to get you into counseling”
Have I not been saying that for three years?

Listen to me.

Just fucking listen to me.

I know how I feel, I know what I’ve seen, stop doubting me.
I’ve come to terms that you don’t listen, my words are like wind to you,
they pass quickly and you don’t notice them.
my words are like the sound of a subway passing,
quick and you’ll soon forget them.

I swear to god, some strangers notice my suffering more than you have,
and don’t tell me that this is my fault.
I didn’t bring this on. I didn’t call CPS.

Please someone, tell me this isn’t normal.
Please tell me that being yelled at, accused,
isn’t normal.
please tell me I’m not just too sensitive.
I need reassurance that I’m not just a weak kid who
doesn’t understand the world.

I need someone to tell me I’m not crazy.
I need someone to reassure me that this is not regular.

That having Child Protection Services at your house is irregular.
That being screamed at and blamed is unusual.

I need to know I’m not just exaggerating,
I need to know that I will be okay,
I need to know that this isn’t all me..

Reminiscing

beautiful, Creative Writing, Family, Journal, Love, Memories, Peace, Perfect, Small Things, Smiling

It’s 1:30am, I have about 5 hours and 10 minutes before I need to be up, but I can’t fall asleep. So, I’m up. And I’m writing. Because I have been trying to go to sleep since 9pm.

All I can seem to think about are my old memories. Very distinct and exact memories.

I can remember where everything went in my last house – the house where we lived as a family last.

I can still here the way the different doors creaked – I can hear the kitchen door that led out to our Asian patio. The way my mom’s desk looked, the stain on the carpet in the hallway just outside my room. The way the carpet came up just enough to see the green tile in my closet. The way the laundry hamper smelled in the hall. How we organized our freezer and pantry. Potatoes on the bottom shelf, onions too, both in wicker baskets. Those rice and blueberry treats mom would get from Costco. The guest house. How it always seemed to smell of barbecue chicken. The closet, weird coats, how we would go out there just to watch tv. The old cigar box in the guest house garage. The tire swing by the horse pasture, the orange grove, the brick wall, the nut trees by dad’s shop. How the orange trees smelled in the summer, the way snails would gather near the sprinkles, our pool. The second story of dad’s shop, how you could hear rain hitting the tin roof. The old war maps dad hung in his office out there. His big metal work table. The way the old blacktop road would burn my feet, mom’s white porch swing, our pomegranate tree. The lemon tree, the tree house we built with Callie. Mom’s garden. The basil plants. our compost pile. The brick fireplace inside, the big solid wood mantle above it. Dad’s bear hanging in the dining room, my pine piano. Mom’s brown rug. My music rack. The little patio outside the door off our breakfast nook. The lights suspended in there. Tig. The kittens. Our playhouse, and the summer we spent at the house before we moved in, sesame ring pretzels. Too much Febreeze. Mom’s clothes line. When dad worked in Vegas and mom made that bon bon ice cream that the whole block loved. Mom’s fourth of July parties. The vegetable stew she would made during thunderstorms. How we could see the beautiful mountains outside our kitchen window. When mom would wake us up by singing. Getting ready for youth group, that shimmery purple eye shadow I loved. The ivy wallpaper we had in our bathroom, the stone walk-in shower that’s light didn’t work so it was always dark. All the goddamn storage space in there. Our craft closet. Mom’s closet, which was always organized. The little garden outside mom’s bedroom, the wall of windows that were in front of her bed. Her beautiful bathroom, the high windows, tall ceilings, wood and stone everywhere. Our beautiful, expensive, World Market table. The wall of windows in our dining room. How mom would let us make an pillow fort out of the living room during the summer when Lacey and Katie would stay with us. That Thanksgiving when Uncle Winky brought his Brazilian friend, who was probably his boyfriend and we were all just oblivious to how gay he was. Sage and Sonia. Spending summers with the Deitz, their treehouse. Going over there to hang out with Jacob and Nate before any of us were out of the 8th grade. The year Jacob started high school, when he started driving, when he went off to college. When Carson started dating that dude with the weird name – playing in the orange groves outside their house, the palm fans. The mule. Callie’s horses. Going with her to mediation in the hummer, taking her to her dad’s house. Going to see movie’s with her and Melissa, always having diet Dr. Pepper and tootsie rolls. When Melissa would decorate for christmas, and their entire house transformed into a winter wonderland. Ms. Terri’s 15 foot christmas tree, staying out until 1am to help get ready for VBS at Foothill. The red berries. When Mrs. Hengst took her Sunday school class to see Mega Mind and I felt super left out.

Oh my god. Carson and Hayley are both married. Jacob and Nate both have girlfriends and are going to graduate college soon. Callie is a Sophomore. Riley and Katie are in college. Lacey is graduating this year. Sonni is at COS. What the hell happened to my childhood? I will never spend another summer at the Deitz cabin. I will never climb frog rock again or go to Dudley Ranch. I’ll never go hunting with my dad again. I’ll never go inside the 38o house…. I’ll probably never see the Sisto’s, or step inside Foothill.. Who knows if I will even see Delaney or Owen.. But I’ll never spend a halloween at their house, or go into  their treehouse with those weird little brown berries that fell off their tree, or see their clawfoot bathtub filled with plants that DD put outside her bedroom window, or watch Owen obsess over Cars or Nate over spongebob or Jacob playing Call of Duty on their family computer… I will never sit on the Deitz porch swing and hold kittens again, or see Boomer.. I miss their pebble walkway and watching everyone play volleyball on summer afternoons while Melissa obsessively cleaned her house.

I’ve only been writing for twenty minutes, but I just took a long journey back into my childhood.. I can’t believe where I am today, when I used to lay awake at night and think about my future. I never imagined my parents would divorce, and moving to the coast was always a desire but seemed far fetched. Going to a public high school? Unheard of. I’ve had three boyfriends? ALLYSA! Y0u were supposed to marry Jacob, Nate, or Caleb – preferably Max. C’mon! You were going to get married in Gramp’s church, with that nasty blue carpet and wooden pews and green cushions, the weird cross with backlights. But too much for that, because it has all been torn out and redone. Now it’s The Road. Those little lights that used to line the stage are even gone. The smell is gone too..  And you have been in every room in that church now, all the mystery is gone. The fear is gone. Now it’s just a musty old building, and the imagery of Burt is dead. You had your thirteenth birthday party there, it was really fun. You worked there, too. When you were 15. You watched your little cousins roam those halls, now. Oh yeah – Uncle Juano got married and has three kids. Uncle Wink has two. Aunt Ne has Ribbon now, and you lived with her as well. You miss that. You also lived with Nana and Gramps, your room was the one with the weird, old closet that always scared you. The one that used to be Gramp’s office with the bottles filled with sand and coins. Also, I don’t really have to tell you this because you kind of already know, but you don’t believe in God at all. But you already have your doubts.

So much has changed for me… I kind of just want to go to Katie’s trailor and just sleep among the musty old smell and bad internet. I want to wake up to the neighbor’s rooster crowing and the hill we all know is Goliath’s grave…

Love Me

Journal, Personal, Relationships

You said you loved me.
You said that you still cared.

That was really selfish of you, ya know?
because now I have to live with the knowledge.

I have to see you and know that you still care about me,
I just want to move on with my life, Talon.

I don’t want to think about you.
Yet I dreamed about you last night.

Why have you done this to me?
Insisting on making yourself a part of my life still.

You’re hurting me.

Regrets

Journal, Memories, Personal, Poetry, school

I tell people not to regret, yet I do.

All of the fucking time, I regret everything.

I regret liking the people that I have, I regret telling people things, I regret moving to the coast, I regret leaving behind my friends.

I regret opening up about things to people who don’t deserve to hear it,
I regret not standing up for those who deserve it.
I regret oversharing.
I regret confessing my feelings to any and every person I have.
I regret leaving my dad, sometimes.
I regret cheating on my homework.
I regret calling out Kayleigh and Cadence for shit.
I regret having flings with guys who don’t matter.
I regret not loving myself more,
I regret being self-confident.
I regret bringing my sheet music up for show and tell in second grade,
I regret blaming Ciera for stealing my sea shells,
I regret being so fucking awkward.

Why can’t I just be normal? Just once.
Why can’t I fit in, just once?
I want to be loved, even just once.
I want to be cared about.
To be hugged, and feel wanted.

I don’t want to doubt.
Or second guess even once.

Is it so much to ask to be loved?

I just want to stand in the big grass field at ERCLC and watch Eric with his RC Airplane class, crashing their planes. I want to listen to the little kids make up ridiculous but genius stories. I want to see the moms who have their lives together, who buy stuff from the bakesales.

I want to organize events like I used to, be in productions with Peggy and Makena and Leslie and Fiona and even Cadence and Abiel. I miss everyone so much.

I miss being able express myself without sounding like some sort of freak – being able to wear my quirky knee-high socks and bright yellow shirts. I miss taking Archery with Eric and getting into Quarrels with Bobbi over stupid Neon Dance drama. I miss game nights, and going out that one time with the schools telescope to watch stars with the Astronomy club. I miss walking into Eric’s office and seeing a picture of me in there from Eli’s mental health photo shoot.

I miss the masquerade dance.

I miss Heather’s Journal class.

I miss despising Abiel for always bragging about her Travels.

I miss Theirry’s exuberant acting

And Katie as Mrs.Dowdle.

I miss the days when I would longingly gaze at Dustyn while he was in PE with Brian.

When I would wait until monday nights when I could go to Youth Group and see him.

I would always chew gum.

I would wear low cut shirts before I had boobs.

I miss sitting in the library with Riley and Lacey because we didn’t have a class that period, when Orion went to school with us.

Choir.

Orion’s broken perfume bottle.

Tiger. Debates in 1930’s.

Trying on dresses for the play in Peggy’s office, or Brian’s, or Eric’s, or Bobbi’s, or Yasoda’s.

I miss ERCLC. It’s my home.

I miss the bright yellow sunflowers that would bloom this time of year, and the pumpkins that would grow outside the library windows – the way Anonda would always smile at me, how I could climb the tree in front of Sage.

I miss going to Halloween parties in Three Rivers, eating Peggy’s chilli and watching the little kids sort and trade their sweets.

I miss house sitting for the Entz, how I slept in Zacks room.

I miss the valley.

I miss Elderwood.

I even miss living with Nana and Gramps.

It’s okay to regret, I guess. It’s okay to miss people, things, and the past.
I definitely do..