old #1 (this is from like 2 years ago ok give me a break)
“You’re something else.”
I’m not. You’ve always managed to make me that. I may put on a persona of hopelessness and witticisms, but I’ve never been something else.
You smell like curry and my mouth swirls with blood, but you take me anyway. You take me in and my cinnamon skin, and I give into you. The stars are a little bit brighter and something whistles louder, and I give into you.
You’ve got me where you always want me, with syrup-slicked words and your casual way of making people stop and stare at you and your handsomeness. Thats how you pulled me into this, and that’s how I’ll stay; you’ll always save me and I’ll remain a mess that needs fixing.
You’re the one that’s something else.
anti-climatic back-to-back shit
and I’m thinking all my tactics are tactless
I’m thinking that your words are relentless
like the un-spoken words of our first kiss
fuck
my hand slaps myself out of it
I can recognize why we ever doubted it
I’m dumb as
fuck
rewind, I’m back where we started with
your hand rocking mine, the pavement covered in spit
90 degrees with the neighbors who don’t give a shit
you’re my cocaine covered dream
Aztecs and asphalt in your wet dreams
you asking me how does that feel, white washes of steam
fuck
you’re the reason why my friends act like I’m a disease
I don’t even get a please
it’s just move out of my way, whore, my mom called you loose
me in front of a locker with your hickeys wrapped around my neck like a noose
me with my dreams shoved down the toilet and my hands tied behind me
fuck
me with my hands trembling on a condom in health class
fuck
me with my face searing while you tell them about how my knees tremble
fuck
me with your father yelling for you to make me leave his house
fuck, fuck, fuck
and you hanging up the phone yelling
fuck
it, him, you
fuck
hey I’m back
hey
hey
hey
I won a poetry contest for Bruises by the way, you can find it somewhere in the depths of shit on my blog
sorry I have just completely hated my blog for a while so I took a break and then I was like time to get to writing whoop de do
so that’s what I did
yeah
I’m just gonna post a poem now this is awk
pictures of me pictures of me my forehead is big yay yay yayayayaayyayaayyaayay I’M REALLY EXCITED
YES I AM BACK ON TUMBLR
NO I AM NOT GROUNDED ANYMORE
NO THIS IS NOT AN ACTUAL WRITING PIECE
oh darn
ps. I’m going to start posting some of my old stuff in a series kind of way (like the ‘memories’) YEAH YOU’RE EXCITED RIGHT NOW AREN’T YOU :)))))))
okay bye
so you guys wanna know a story
this isn’t real writing or anything, this is just me thinking soooo
my mom and I were in Nordstrom’s and this woman that my mom knew from high school was there, and she was going on and on, man. I’m just standing there with my game face on like, “Yeah I’m into this” when I just wanted to go get some water and go home. All of a sudden this woman turns to me and asks when I’m graduating from high school and I’m like what the hell do you know how old I am but she KEEPS ON TALKING ABOUT IT AND DOESN’T EVEN LET A WORD IN CONVERSATION WISE.
why do I look so old. This happens like once a month now where someone my parents know accuses me of being 16 +
yeah
dear beautiful,
hi.
I’m so uncomfortable with writing to you in real life that I can’t move my pen. I sit with my mouth open, looking out my window, as if I’m waiting for you to come in my door and tell me what to say.
But that’d be sort of off, for you to tell me how to write a letter to you. Even though I’d kill for just a passage of time to watch your slim fingers hold a pencil and write words, and for you to tell me what to say here, what to space there, in that voice of yours that’s purer then religion on Sunday. I’m gone.
See, I was going to send this to you, but my hands would freeze in the mailbox and I would imagine you opening this. I know exactly how you’d do it too, and knowing you so bad scares me. I kind of hope it scares you too. Does it? Huh.
My first priority here is to clear something up for you, which is really how beautiful you are. I’ve been spending nights on my computer when I should be sleeping, looking up guys like you, with skin like a sheet pulled over those rods of cheekbones, man, you could be a model with that face. And you could be a philosopher with that mind, I feel like I’m steps way behind you when you talk. You’re brilliant. I can’t compare to you with my words and thoughts on how to irradicate a whole class of ignorant 8th graders, but you swallow my thoughts like a pill and birth something better.
That’s why I like you and I don’t like you, but we balance. We balance even though I’m hundreds of miles away from you and your 24/7 warm in that endless sunlight and friends that look like you could get a show on Nick if you wanted too. I wish we could, me and my friends, but they wouldn’t make a show for a group of kids who explain in detail how they would give a certain sensitive rapper a blow job. It would be perverse.
My second priority is to tell you that I’m in love with you which you already know, which is bad because you have a girlfriend whom any designer would throw in their best piece and hurtle her onto a runway. It’s crazy, really, but it makes sense because you’re both beautiful. But she’s not willing to hold two hour phone calls about Vonnegut vs Plath, or make fun of the beliefs of Christmas with you.
But I’m not gorgeous. I’m just a girl that continually falls for guys that I get really close with that are also dating girls that look like white Tyra Banks’s. It’s simple really, how we worked out, because my dating patterns work like DNA. But something is different this time because I feel you everywhere I go. Everything I think sarcastically about the girl with the fake Russian accent in my 4th period, zips through my mind into The Pile Of Things That I Need To Tell You.
Why? Because not to be cheesy, but you; you, you, you, are un-believeable. You are the final thing I see before I go to sleep, the first glance of wooden headboard in the morning, the taste of salt in my mouth from some guys tongue at a party, my favorite shirt settling on my skin.
You, my dear, are infinite, intimate, everything.
Sincerely,
Me.
hey did you guys miss me
AWWW STOP IT YOU
NO AW C’MON STOP IT
so I eventually have to write about my birthday but I’m tired and had a geometry review packet and an argumentative essay due tomorrow soooo
By the way, I hate essays. Oh god. All the comments I get from teachers on them are like
“You could do better!”
“This is not your typical writing!”
ER no it is not because I can not write non-fiction-y things like that. I could care less about some vigilante named Phoenix who got arrested but is a non-government-affiliated-crime-fighter so I just end up writing shit pieces that get me 80’s.
I’m pretty sure they only pass me because I occasionally write something nice. (I HAVE TO POST THIS THING I WROTE. I TREATED IT LIKE MY CHILD FOR 2 WEEKS AND DIDN’T EVEN WANT TO TURN IT IN BECAUSE I DIDN’T WANT PEOPLE CRITIQUING AND WRITING ON MY BABY)
what a sentimental little fucker I am, god. I need to get to work.
I bruise so easily
my mom used to hold up bananas in Safeway and joke,
this is your skin Chloe
because there are marks all the way down
My body reads like a story book
my arms yell easily with dark brown marks and ink stretches
spaces on my chest are like battlefields
my thighs are bite marks and bumps that I would pay to have tattooed there
and long scars on my legs prove that I’m a soldier, a warrior
my ex used to make fun of me for them,
how he could hold me and I would flinch and then wake up with bruises
upon bruises
upon bruises
but I would never laugh
I just cradle them and pray for myself, pity my marks
the way a single person could open my cover and flip my pages
my paper skin, crumpled,
Mary pushes her legs up against the vinyl of the seat, and I can smell the sweat of other nervous train passengers from years before. I can imagine them glancing at their notebooks and our of the windows and wondering what the fuck they’re doing in a railroad car in Italy, but I don’t tell Mary that. I write it down quietly and write the word “sensually” in big looping cursive script near it, because I feel like whatever we’re about to do in this boot-shaped country has something to do with sensuality.
Mary is digging fish oils out of her ridiculously expensive canvas purse, and turns to me with those eyes-like-fucking-oceans, going, “Do you want one? I swear they work like magic on weak bones, and I mean your mom told me about your ankles, so…”
I press my shaky hand to her clammy shoulder and shake my head. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
She looks at my ankles, obviously acknowledging the fact that when I walk I’m barely able, and that my bones peek out of my flesh like my skin is a blanket.
But she nods and swallows a gulp from her crumpled, days old bottle of water. Re-thinking the heat in the cabin, she pushes the window up, the wind blowing back her bleach white hair to the seat.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Leaning back, Mary delivers another adventure of The Sexual Adventures With Mary And Her Extremely Loaded Italian Boyfriend, and I try to remind myself why the hell I am in Italy with my cousin. She coldly drops the bomb that her boyfriend also lives with this orphaned teenager that his father took in years ago, which makes me laugh so hard that I think blood is coming out of my nose.
Mary’s eyes become little pretty blue slits. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s, it’s, oh god.”
She doesn’t blink for a second, and then my words choke out, “Is his name Heathcliff?” and I think I could just die, right there.
Mary sits slightly astonished for a millisecond, and begins to pile almonds into her hand, re-counting stories of “Healthcliff’s” girlfriends and wondering if I’ll be “close friends with him”.
I take an almond from Mary’s palm and say, “Of course not.” To which she questions, “Are you a lesbian now?”
This makes me laugh even harder, and I’m relatively sure that people are looking, so Mary gets up and escapes down the aisle to the bathroom.
Opening my notebook again, I grab my pen and write, “Heathcliff” in big block script underneath “Sensual”.
I look at the two words together until they clot in my mind, and I begin to put together porn schemes involving Heathcliff and a girl hopefully named Cathy, getting dirty among the moors.
When Mary comes back from the bathroom, I stare at her in amused pity and wonder why she ever decided to take me to Italy.
I just want someone to give me
a hickey and play some Wale
shave my legs for me
wash my hair
make me food
throw up in my toilet
get hungover and sleep at my house
to go to Denny’s with me
laugh at my dumb shit
read my writing
scratch my hair
kiss my shoulders
loan me sweatshirts
take videos of us making out
stay up until three in the morning watching YouTube with me
I was reading through some of my writing from two years ago, and it made me so sad. Like, I made this list of things I would want my boyfriend to do and they were all true and now I don’t have a boyfriend anymore bleh
So how are you? Oh, that’s good.
I wrote this thing about kinda/sorta a teenage female god but it’s incredibly bad. Why do I even try writing anymore. It’s really depressing.
Even my mom looks at me like what the hell are you writing what is this
……yeah so I’m going to go and post that list because it is somewhat interesting, and cute.
RIP to my cute relationship. (Which died about a year ago, what am I talking about.)
