A Perfect Pair

I feel like I've known these new friends of mine for years, all of us huddled around one big table in class. Every one of us is completely different, but we all fit together perfectly, like a puzzle.
The girl next to me, curly-haired, tall, and skinny, is like an old soul, someone who sees potential in everything and everyone around her, reaching out to take you in. She's kind of serious, kind of quirky, and she's one of the most real people I've ever met.
There's another girl across from me, dark-haired with a bubbly personality and a wide smile. She's the kind of girl who gets her nails done prefessionally and carrys around metallic-colored purses, with her dark cat-eye makeup. But she's also stubborn and sarcastic, nowhere near sweet. More like me.
And then the girl diagonal from me, the quietest of all of us, is the one I'm most fascinated with. Her appearance is striking, with bright red skinny jeans and jet black hair that clashes with her fale white skin. She's very thin, as well as tall, almost as if she were a model. But she's hidden and shy, and hates how she looks. She feels as if people are constantly looking at her, like she was ugly. But she's just the opposite. Her eyes are wide and a dark brown, and her skin is smooth, and her features are well defined and suited for her face. Today was the first time she spoke to me, but then again, actions speak louder than words, right?
All four of us, huddled around our one big table, were meant to be. Somehow, it all works out.

Better Places

I sometimes wish that I was as athetic as her.
But I have two left feet, slow reflexes, and hands that stay firmly at my sides in protest against anything risky.
She runs gym class.
She acts like it's a second skin for her, walking around like she knows exactly what she's doing.
She doesn't blush, or cringe.
Or stay planted in one spot, too paralyzed to take a risk.
She tells people how she feels.
What she thinks.
What your place is.
And I hate her for that.
But then I think about who I'd like to be in this world, and who went against all odds and the accepted mold of society ...Green Day, The Grateful Dead, Lady Gaga, to name a few... and then I can't help but smile.
She doesn't have a funky haircut.
Or sarcasm.
Or enough will not to let jealousy taint her voice.
She can't write.
Or sing along to punk rock.
Or quote Led Zeppelin.
Or think as deeply as me.
I am not Sydney Carton (from A Tale of Two Cities).
No.
I'm someone in my own shoes, proudly wearing them on my feet.
And flaunting them.
I can't help but look at her head-on, knowing something that nobody else does.

Forever

I'm almost finished with my story, and it's kinda scaring me. I mean, what will I do with myself when it's all over, everything written our for me to look at and see? I love all my characters like the sisters I've never had, and just loosing them all is terrifying, leaving their stories undone, hanging in suspense. Forever. I know that I'm not going to actually loose them, but... what if I need to add something when it's all over?
I've always been the kind of girl that feels like my identity is uncertain. Like my first post, titled, Who Am I? I used to ask myself that all the time. And I still sometimes do, because like Francesca says, we're always growing, always changing. Forever is not etched in stone. Forever is forever changing, always taking on a new identity.
I'll miss my friends that I've grown with, though.

Scream At Me Until My Ears Bleed

I've always considered myself seperate from everyone else, a sore thumb.
Q: Do you still think this now?
A: Yes and no...
...That's what I've always wanted someone to say to me. "Just tell me everything. Scream at me until my ears bleed." Basically, I just want someone to listen. I need to tell someone. And now, finally, after months of blogging about the fact that nobody understands me and the fact that I'm so different, I think someone actually does.
During this year, in one of my classes, there's this girl who's artsy and very particular about everything she says and does. And she sits next to me, so she starts to talk to me, gradually at first (Hi, bye), and then now a couple of months have passed and we've sort of become friends. I have other close friends, but this girl... she just understands me completely. It's an incredible feeling, knowing that there's someone out there besides your family that knows what makes you smile, your little quirks, and funny beta fish stories :) All my other friends are very different from me, and I know they say that opposites attract, but sometimes those differences make talking about deep things hard. My other friends aren't as deep as me. Just her.
Q: What kind of friendship do you like?
A: I love sleepovers, and telling stories under the covers, our heads hidden.I love friends that still ask you what's wrong......even when you respond, "Shut up, why bother?"
I love friends that know everything about you, even the most embarassing things that you'd never tell your mom.
I like friends that are open and honest, no worries, that tell you when something is ugly or if you're being a complete jerk. 'Cause that's just what friends should do.
I love taking walks around the neigborhood and just spilling everything to eachother, stomach in knots from laughing too hard.
That, to me, is true friendship.

Honestly, this summer was a turning point for me. I had to just deal with some tough things, by myself, and now, things have turned around completely for me.

...And now I'm screaming.

The Painters

It's like they're still walking these floorboards, creeping up behind me, their stories flickering back to life, hitting me hard. It's like it was yesterday, me in baby blue standing under dusty lights in a freezing room, everything the color of navy, ice, and lace. I still see her paint-splattered sweatshirt and her tangled mahogany hair, standing on the porch, and letting her smoky breath curl out and turn to feathers on that freezing night.
Life inside is warm and freezing all at once, because you can see your breath, but still feel that heat of the lamp hovering over your head. Tubs of white paint perfuming the air, making me dizzy the slightest bit. Frozen fingers, lightened souls, all huddled under that same flickering pool of light, measuring out fate, and then cutting it for use.

Behind Those Eyes

Some girls don't know how beautiful they are.
I'm not talking about their faces, either.
What makes a girl pretty is a smile on her face, a genuine one.
Laughing.
Eating chocolate just because you want to.
Being nice to animals, loving frogs, saving spiders from something (or someone) else.
Reading and loving every moment of it.
Listening to the music you want to, not what your friends think is cool (this applies to me).
Loving your parents openly :)
Walking not to look better, but to find inspiration, to hum to yourself quietly.
Girls who play in the snow.
Wearing what you like.
Admitting to liking something when everyone else thinks it's stupid.
Drawing.
Being yourself.
Always aknowledging that you're pretty.

Because, really, we are.

Shatters my heart, seeing a pretty face that's not fully appreciated.

If You Could Only See

There are so many things people don't know about one another, it's scary. Even when people claim to be calm, cool and collected, they really and truly aren't always. I know this from experience. Why do I know this? Well, because...

Not my best picture OR writing, no, but it says it all. It's funny how much you can find out through an open window. A cracked-open door. Outside. Pretty scary. And amazing, all at once. It's almost wrong to know something else about someone that nobody else would even care to think of. And pretty chilling. Story of my life.

Does anyone else have insight, too? Or is it just me?

Outside the Lines

I'd like to be many girls that I'm not. The girl with the bright personality, the boldness, or the sincere kindness. Or maybe the girl who's daring and not afraid of anything.
But you can't be all of them, though...

...Or can you?

I didn't know the answer to this a couple years ago when I started to wonder about this. To me, at the time, it was either this or that, black and white. Now, though, I understand that people are sometimes a little gray here and there. It's okay to go outside the lines. So, my answer is this: YEAH! You can be all those girls. Every one of us is. Now my soul will rest in peace.

Whoa

Sometimes I look in the mirror and just shock myself. I wonder who is that girl looking back at me? Sometimes I disgust myself, other times I don't . It all depends on what day you ask me. It shocks me to see the changes in my face, the sharpness of my cheekbones that I don't remember being there a year or two ago. Or the fact that every winter, my freckles fade more and more, and now I have to squint to really see them. I'm changing. And I'm not sure if I'm okay with it.

Blisters

My cousin has this tire swing. It's a worn-down black rubber tire so thin from years of tugging and hanging onto. Since it's been up for more than ten years, the tree branch that it's tied onto is kinda crooked and bent, hanging over us lifelessly. We used to twist it up till the rope was all bunched up, and then one of us would jump on it while the rope untwisted at what seemed like a hundred miles an hour. My cousin and I were best friends. She used to have this curly hair that was always wild and unkept, and she was always stringbean-thin, yet Coke was her heroine (and still is). But now, we don't even talk.My cousin, to say the least, got caught up with a bad crowd. We don't even say "hi" much when our families get together at Christmas. Mostly, because we're totally different. And now I feel so much younger, even while she's really younger than I am. But she doesn't even know that I miss her, and love her. I don't want to see my cousin hurt herself like this, but I don't know what to do. I can't tell her what I think, because I haven't seen her since spring, and she avoids all eye contact with me. I may say that's fine with me, but here I am, still young and innocent, left behind, rocking back and fourth on that tire swing still.

Cracked Up to Be

I feel sorry for people. I feel sorry for girls that feel like they have to be thin and gorgeous otherwise their worlds will fall apart. I feel sorry for girls that have become so shallow and self-absorbed that they forget what's really important. I feel bad for girls that feel like they need a guy to support them at all times, even when they're cocky losers. I feel bad for those girls that forget how they got so bad. I feel bad for pretty girls, because sometimes, popularity's not as beautiful as people make it. It isn't as cracked up to be. I've seen pretty girls at their ugliest, and even while they claim to hate you, I feel bad for them. Because they don't hate me. They just hate what they've done, behind their beautiful, eyeliner-framed eyes, eyelashes fluttering to hide what they know. Because what they know and see and feel is something truly, unbelievably ugly.

Feeding the Monster

Everyday we wake up to a society

That strives for perfection,

Driving ourselves deep into the ground,

Always sensing rejection.

The monster is our hero ine,

Taking over our souls,

Depriving us of living,

Gaining all control.

They've got the strings

Under their rein,

Parading all girls around like lifeless puppets,

Knowing they've got all to gain.

Theatrical eyeliner-rimmed eyes we've got,

Glossy waves of tumbling hair.

With the strings tied around us and their fingers, like a game,

They drive us deep into the ground, and don't really care.

It's nothing foreign,

The bitterness new,

Radiation exposed to the innocent

Living without a clue.

But lying in your bed, the tube laughing in your face,

You turn your head onto your pillow and close your heavy eyes,

Diving into shallow sleep,

Slipping away from the lies.