Oh, How I Wish You Were a Better Writer.

Let me lay this straight out.

I want you to get over anything you’ve ever thought of me before, and accept me the way I am now. Love me the way I am now. Care about who I am now.  Ignore anything I ever did, said, showed you in the darker years of my psyche. Let it all go, and fall in love with the girl beyond the bullshit. Fuck whatever rule it is that keeps us from touching, that keeps us from saying I Love You, that keeps me from telling you and keeps you from caring. Did you ever wonder why we wrote those rules, why we so carefully placed those de facto boundaries arounf ourselves, double looped so as not to let anything slip? Didn’t it ever cross your and our mind that maybe it was very unhealthy of us to hang ourselves with eachothers streams of consciousness? I’m quite sure it must have occurred to you, because it has haunted my dreams for the past three years and I can only assume that it would have at least made an appearance in your own pristine wanderings. And if you can’t bring yourself to do that, then, for your sake and for mine, get the hell out of my life, and give me back my memories.

God Damn it, Stephen, I want to start over. Or, better yet, I just want to start something different. Not friends through convenience, not friends because we look like we’re related, not together because it is easier, but because we want to be. You made it sound like that was what you wanted, but when I showed for the tell, your lips and arms were sealed shut. Do you really want this? Because it comes without a guarantee of “All the Sweetness With None of the Guilt!” It comes without the quirky, hands-free, no need for ceremony entertainment that was basically all that was worth mentioning in our friendship the past three years. SPEAKING OF WHICH.

Just out of curiosity, did you care about who I actually was? Did you, do you, care, at all? Or did you only like me because I can make up stupid stories and “go with anything” and be creative and crazy and loud when you are too afraid to be? Fine, if that’s the case. I can’t blame you for dealing with what you were given, and that was my special recipe for companionship. But, like every toy, I have a breaking point, and I reached it about half a year ago. Maybe I was mistaken for thinking that you’d still care for me when that day passed, but as soon as the trumpets and glitter stopped, so did your attention towards my well being. When my song and dance couldn’t take you away from your troubles, you yelled and threw me against the wall. I shattered, my arms bent and broken, my paint chipped and joints twisted. I was a broken baby doll, still murmuring “mama” and trying to totter back to you, but quivering in fear lest you bash me again. And, never one to disappoint, you did just that.

Like, seriously?

NEW TXT MSG FROM: Stephen Dailey

I’m sorry I snapped on you today, it’s just…

a. you suck as a friend.

b. you deserved it.

(c.) the only thing you’ve done for me this year is make me look stupid and feel like an idiot. I feel insulted when I talk to you and i feel even worse when you arent talking to me. I feel like you never have time for me anymore because you are always off with your governors school friends. I feel like you don’t want to be my friend anymore.

d. all of the above.

 

Trick question, because i’ve done much more than make you feel like an idiot. I’ve made you look like an asshole in front of all my friends by writing a poignant, heartbreaking blog about how much of a dick youve been to me in the past three years, and also I made myself seem like a flake by switching moods every three sentences. But mostly, I’ve wasted my time.

If you ever have to write a letter like this to someone, take it as an indicator of a bigger problem.

Is that even a question?

Because I’m your hero,

and you’re my weakness.

There’s something sharp about your eyes. They’re carved, they’re perfect and soft and sweet, but there is an undeniable edge, a blade therewithin. There is something thoughtful about your skin. It’s smooth, it’s perfect and soft and sweet and subtle. It’s peppered, dappled, transparent. There is a power to your voice, a bite to it, and though it nestles and quivers in your throat, it rears up, pulls out of you in a way that makes me blush when I hear it. There is a tooth to your mane, a bow to your smile, a stone to your bridge and it makes me want to jump. I admire, I respect what you do, I am confused as to what I am expected to feel, I am ashamed when you tell me I am your hero. I’ve never been one before, be gentle, it’s my first time.

 

I like knowing what I know about you, even though I’m terrified I might let go of something and everything will drift, I’m jinxing, I’ll stop. Whenever I try to write or blog or journal or anything, I’m trying so hard to impress something upon someone without having to say anything, I end up not saying anything at all. Maybe I’ll grow out of it eventually, but, until then, know this. I want you, so badly. I really really want you.

I Find It Funny

that as my life progresses, all my favorite songs become more and more applicable. I used to lay in bed and kick and sigh and wish I could say something, sing anything meaningful. And now, a soundtrack is forming to my existence, my secular mix-tape and my convivial vinyl collection. I’m comin’ out of my cage, and I’m starting to realize that I never have made it quite this far before. It started out with a kiss, how did I play it like this, we were playing a game, like we were little kids. Now I’m falling asleep, and she’s calling her dad, while he’s watching her back, and she’s brushing it back. Now they’re going to bed, I feel stomache acid and it’s killing my head. But he’s touching his face now, she puts on her dress now, I can’t go,  And I just can’t look, it’s killing me, that I’m losing control. Jealousy, making me wish you were me ,tripping over limpid eyes, leaden consolation prize, but it’s just the price I pay, destiny is a game I play, open up my lips and sigh, and I’m Mr. Brightside.

Cut the music, and I gotta, gotta be good, because I want it all.

It really was only a kiss, butsomehow, those lips brushing and the taste of spite at the back of my throat has been nitro-enough to fire this new developement. It’s killing me, choking on my alibi, destiny is calling me, and I’m all revved up. Vines tangled close, peices of flesh, love songs, angry chorda, and jumbled lyrics have more of  a place here than ever before.

Eagle eyes, you never even had a chance. And there are so many songs I’d like to sing to you, so many pages and pages of words and thoughts and letters that I wish your eyes could rest upon and find no peace, but it’s all going to have to wait. We’ve only a few strings and a stick to our name, and all the sand in the world to write upon.

SayWriteNeedForget,

Words

Living Sixteen Years in a Body Devoid of Life

At a certain point, words just don’t cut it. There’s not a word in any language on any planet that hasn’t been said, spelled, written, re-written, revised, edited, cut, pasted, and eaten. I can talk myself to sleep, I can talk myself into a frenzy, I can talk myself away from the fridge and talk myself off of a ledge. I was raised on words, reared on words, breastfed to nursery rhymes, force-fed pledges and creeds, sworn into on books, sworn at in bookstores, written up, dressed down, commended, and commenced. And you would think that this would help me, and indeed, at times it has. But words are only words, talk is cheap, language is just specialized noise, and teeth and tongues must have a more noble use.

Ive spoken, read, listened, imagined, written, told, worded myself into different worlds, into different arms, into happy existence. But I’ve done nothing. If I died tomorrow, my legacy would be theoretical. People would remember my voice, not the way I walked, or how my hair smelled, or how my tears tasted. Or maybe they would. But how would they relate it? Could anyone recre3ate my embrace? Can any face make the same expressions I did? Could any hand bend, shape, fold, caress, and close, and be mine? My body is irreplaceable. It cannot be revised, edited, rewritten, or spell-checked. It can’t be bound in a book, or sandwiched between the pages of a magazine, or filed away to gather dust. It won’t suffice to be recorded.

 

It just is.

 

But it hasn’t been. Not yet.

 

 

Sixteen Years, two months, two days, of happy, fulfilled, loving life, filled with words and bursting with expectation. A toast.

 

 

May I someday be able to not have to say it.

 

Live,

SayWords.

Letters to my ovaries.

Er, letters to and about my ovaries,

as per myspace.

 

Jul 3, 2008 11:42 PM

my ovaries,

 

I think, are dying.

Because I’m neither pregnant nor menstruating nor going through menopause.

And yet, the odd sensation of a semi filled water baloon sloshing around on top of my left ischium continues undaunted.

Whatup, pelvis?

Maybe I have a tumor. Or an alien baby.
OR A MUTANT SQUID CRAWLED UP THROUGH ME WHEN I WENT SWIMMING AND IT LODGED ITSELF IN MY FALLOPIAN TUBE WHICH IS WHY I FELT SO SICK WHEN I ORDERED LOBSTER AT THAT RESTAURANT!
OMG MAYBE IT’S THAT LOBSTER!
still clacking around in my ovaries!

Hmh. I hope this doesn’t render me sterile. These tits were made for nursing.

WTF, vagina. W T F.

Call me when you feel better.

Xo, reenis

 

Jul 3, 2008 11:45 PM   OMG IT’S BECAUSE   I CALL MYSELF REENIS, ISN’T IT?!? my lady parts are already kinda irked that I claim to have scooped them out with a spatula. And I guess adopting a pseudonym akin to a phallus is just rubbing salt in the womb. So they’re rebelling. They’re… mutineering. Damn. Jul 3, 2008 11:55 PM Dear Ovaries, I’m really sorry I started calling myself Reenis. You’ve been there for me for as long as I can remember, and it was pretty low of me to start fraternizing with the enema. Enemy. I’m also sorry for saying I scooped you out with a spatula. Even if you are sometimes the bane of my existence, there was no reason for cutting you off from the rest of the body. I know that was a blow to your pride, and I don’t know if you can forgive me, but I think it’s important that you know that IF I ever actually DID scoop you out, you would be sorely missed. I know uterus would never be the same. I know we can work through this. We’ve had our rough patches and dry spells, but, in the end, it all ends up allright. I know that I’m going to have to change some things to really help this relationship work, but I’m ready to play as many games of Give and Take as neccessary to get you back in running order. I know you don’t feel appreciated, I know it seems like I wish I’d never even discovered you, but I just wouldn’t be the same person without you. Here’s to us. Get Well Soon, Reen Jul 3, 2008 11:58 PM Dear Reenis, It’s been fun dicking around with you, but I can’t live this lie anymore. Maybe, someday, after we’ve both done some growing, we can be friends again. Also, the ovaries know, so, it was destined to end this way. Regards, Reen A young girl’s troubled path to self realization.

Canto

My love,

I’ve been wronged by words before, so pardon my hesitancy in launching into a full fledged relationship with a new keyboard. My previous attempts at flight ended messily; fragments runons, poor, punctuation and hyperbolesgoneamuck. Nothankstofacebook, I’ve slowly been rebounding from my written recklessness and, with any luck, will soon be restored by the Pwrz dat b to my literary fullness.

My God, that was exhausting.

Until we meet again and again.

Regards,

Saywords

As You Were

Dearest Darlingest Planet Cyberspace,

Thanks ever so much for the warm welcome. Methinks we’ll soon the the busomiest of buddies.

Sweetcheeks,

Make Words