crappy writings with not so crappy intent

It’s hard to explain. It’s kind of like when the rain stops. It’s that feeling when you’re singing in the car with your best friends and the music is loud you can’t hear your own voice. When you’re screaming the words and laughing and for a split second, it’s like nothing else matters. Like the only thing that is important is that moment. But it also feels like those days where you can’t get out of bed. Those days where you break down crying when someone tries to get you out of bed. Those days where you sit down in the shower curled up in a ball. It feels like the weight of the world is sitting on your chest and the more you try to hold it up, the more you crumble. But maybe one day, it won’t.

1. His eyes were blue, but they were also green. It’s like there were galaxies trapped inside his irises. The stars and comets glistened and shone and just a slight glance would send a soothing warmth through my body while simultaneously igniting a fire within me. His lips were full and pink, and every word that poured from them had a greater meaning. His lips would spew passion and fiery rambles and they would kiss me impulsively, even when they shouldn’t. 2. His eyes were brown and his hair was a soft red. His hands were strong and callused and when they touched my skin, I swear universes collided. He held doors open for me and he didn’t hide the fact that he was in love with me. His teeth were perfectly straight even though he never had braces and whenever he smiled, his whole face lit up and his eyes seemed to disappear. He liked to say I love you’s at red lights and when I bought coffee for him and in between kisses, even though I never said it back. 3. ... The first boy I loved, the first boy who loved me, and the first time I experienced both together

She loves books. And when I say love, I mean she loves books. When she walks into a bookstore, it’s like there’s no one else there. Just her and millions of words. She can’t read in public because she gets all fidgety. She loves cats, and even though she claims to hate kids, when she sees a baby smile, I swear she smiles too. She’s ditsy and air-headed, but she’s also the smartest person you’ll ever meet. She prefers coffee over tea any day. She doesn’t even need the caffeine, honestly. She jumps off the walls with or without espresso. She lights up every room she’s in. She’s one of those people that everyone appreciates because they know that her kind heart is rare in this world. If I had a dollar for every time she’s done something for me just because, I’d be a very rich man. When I picture her, all I see is frizzy red hair. I don’t think there’s a more perfect hair color for her. She feisty and brilliant and loving and kind. She’s also stubborn and strong and independent, and there isn’t a single thing I’d change about her.

In Ten Years, I am going to wake up. I am going to put on my favorite outfit, and I will not care if I've already worn it that week. I am going to kick ass or I will not, and I am not going to let either outcome define me as a person. I will be married, or I won't, and I will not worry about being alone. And if a young girl comes to me crying, asking for help or for someone to listen to her, I will remember the day I wrote this, and I will remember how I felt. And I will hold her and I will listen to her, and I will tell her that I know. I was there once and I know. I know, I know, I know.

“But you’re hurting too,” I say with tears in my eyes. “Oh, honey, I don’t fucking care if I’m hurting. You are not bothering me by telling me how you feel inside. I want to hear these things because you know why? You help me. Every thought you share with me helps me. And right now there’s a little girl playing on the playground who is gonna come to you when she gets to be your age, and you’re gonna help her the same way you say I’m helping you. So you have to push through it, okay? You have to do it for her. If not for me, think about her, okay? Promise me you will stick around to help her.”

“Are You A Feminist?” I am five years old. My mother just told me to go fetch a sweater because an adult man would be coming over soon, and I need to cover up. I am seven years old. A boy wouldn’t stop chasing me on the playground and throwing rocks at me. I’m upset. My best friend says it’s because he likes me and she told me boys are mean to girls they like. I am ten years old. We just had our first health class in school. The teachers were trying to educate us on sexual assault. After class, my friends told me to scream fire instead of rape if I’m ever being attacked, because no one will come if they hear the word rape being screamed. I am twelve years old. I just got my first period. A pad fell out of my book bag at school and everyone started laughing. Apparently, periods aren’t normal and they should be hidden at all costs. I am fifteen years old. I’m in the office crying because a boy I don’t know kept following me down the hallway and grabbing my ass even after I told him to stop. The administrator scolds me. “maybe you shouldn’t be wearing leggings if you don’t want that kind of attention” she sends me home with a dress code violation. She marked the “distracting” box. I am seventeen years old. I’ve just been slapped because a boy got angry with me after I wouldn't let him put his hands down my pants. Apparently, I led him on by letting him copy my math assignment. I am twenty-one years old. My best friend has bought me special nail polish to wear to the bar. She says it changes color if it’s dipped in a drink that has a date rape drug in it. I am twenty-three years old. I’m reading this to the first class I will ever teach. A student raises her hand and says, “no offense, but doesn’t this stuff happen to every girl?” So yes, I am a feminist. And when you ask me why, I will read this to you. Again, and again, and again.

I'm trying not to miss you. I'm trying so fucking hard, but still, it seems as if everything I do is about you even when it's not about you. I tell myself that the taste of toothpaste will only remind me of you up until I get a new flavor. I'm holding myself underwater prolonging it. The leaves are changing. The tinges of emerald green are transforming into auburn reds and dirty browns. it reminds me of you. It reminds me of the time we snuck into a pumpkin patch and spray painted every last pumpkin black. And the time that we went to the haunted house your brother works at and he got us in for free. The first snowfall of the year was last Tuesday. The fresh white snow reminds me of the time we babysat your little sister, and she made us go outside to make snow angels with her. It reminds me of the time we made Christmas cookies with my family, and as soon as we finished placing the dough on the baking sheet, my cat jumped on the counter and knocked down the pan.I remember how we fell to the floor laughing and just laid there on the ground, together. It's beginning to warm up, and the flowers are starting to bloom. The temperamental weather reminds me of the time it was supposed to sixty degrees so we went with your family to pick fruit. The temperature changed from fifty-eight degrees to thirty-two in a matter of twenty minutes. Your mom told me that my fruit was the best out of everyone's. The soft pinks of barely blooming flowers remind me of the time we danced in the rain when we were supposed to go see a drive-in movie, but it had been pouring for days. It reminds me of the sunset we sat and watched after we got tired of dancing. School is finally letting out. It reminds me of the time we went to get ice cream before my dance recital, and the mint chocolate chip cone I got melted all over the outfit I was supposed to perform in. It reminds me of the time we went to The Rolling Stones concert our parents wouldn't let us go to and we lost fifty dollars in the mosh pit. It's been a year now. Everything seems so much better with happiness and laughter. I keep telling myself I'll get that back. I keep telling myself I'll get a new toothpaste, but somehow I can't seem to remember.

Pain pours from her eyes. I can hear the hurt through her sobs. she is not fine.

I saw a photograph of you today. You were wearing the blue and white striped button up shirt I got you for our first Christmas together. Your right hand grasped your left as you stood tall. I remember the way that hand felt. I remember the chills it sent down my spine when you would brush your fingers against my neck. I remember the way your hands fit perfectly in mine, a way no hand has ever fit before. I remember how whenever I see you now, you walk with those hands, and you look at me as if you never used them to touch pieces of my soul. I remember all the times you’d call me beautiful, and you’d leave me hanging on your words as you pretended you never said them, the same way you pretend your hands haven’t held my heart. I remember how it felt during all of that. I remember how the secure casing around the valves and chambers of my heart tore open. And how the pain just kept seeping out. I remember all the times I found myself putting the pieces of my very being back together after I would see you. I saw a photograph of you today. I threw it in the trash.

I've been better lately, I promise.  I don't down a bottle of vodka after every time someone asks me what happened anymore. I don't put a blade to my wrist every time I think about the ways you ripped apart my soul. I still kiss other boys hoping their lips will taste like yours, but I promise, I've been better lately.

People tend to  Leave Every time i  Attempt to open up. I wonder what is Sending them away. Every person I have ever loved has left me alone. Sorry for being so sad All the time. I now the constant complaints about the Vacancy in my heart is irritating, & I know it gets annoying, having to pick me up Every time I break. My bad. I fall apart a lot. I guess life isn’t for Everyone.

I need to find a new happy place. Mine cannot be you any longer. I need to stop going to the stupid fucking coffee shop I go to in hopes I will see you.  I need to stop searching for your car in every parking lot. My mood can no longer depend on whether or not you are my friend that day. I need to find a new happy place. Mine cannot be you any longer.

Why are you so fucking afraid of letting me love you?" he screams. His voice cracks due to the formation of tears in his eyes.  I turn my head and look at the light beige carpet that covers his bedroom floor. It's not that I'm afraid of letting him love me. It's the fact that when I asked the girl who sits next to me in my math class where her happy place was, she answered with a boy's name.  And when I asked her again three months later, she looked at me, laughed and said, "My happy place? Probably my death bed."  It's the fact that two weeks ago, I stood before a casket that held a seventeen-year-old girl in it. She committed suicide after she found out her best friend slept with her boyfriend.  It's the fact that my English professor had to stay with someone after her boyfriend broke up with her so that they could make she didn't succumb to her depression and kill herself. It's not that I'm afraid of letting him love me. It's that I'm afraid of loving him back.

I don't miss you. When your favorite song comes on, I don't think of you anymore. When I kiss other boys and their hands slide beneath my shirt, I don't picture your face or pretend they're your hands. I don't miss you. When I go to our favorite coffee shop, I don't feel the pang in my chest anymore. I don't stare at the couples who sit at the same table we used to sit at and wonder if their love story will end the same way ours did. I don't miss you. Yesterday, the restaurant I was at sat me next to a person wearing the same cologne you used to wear. I ran into the bathroom and cried for an hour, but I swear to god I don't fucking miss you.