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Youth at Large


My defiant shouts are lost under the roar of a thousand vehicles on the overpass above me, my only listeners obscene symbols rendered in neon spray paint on the city's underbelly. I cry out my frustrations with the world, with the people who run it, with the inevitable brokenness I see in every heart, in every crannied nook. I scream against those who dared to hurt the people I love, who dared to pull them away from me a thousand times in a row. Yet maybe they pulled themselves away, and the thought gives me pause in my shouting. Silence echoes about me as I consider. No. I will not give on them. I will keep chasing them.

Standing beneath a manmade brand of thunder, I cry out for the inevitable heartbreak of love, for divorce and separation, for abuse and name-calling, for the devolution so common among new hearts, fresh and un-jaded from the darkness in the world. I cry for hindsight, the way it taunts us with countless, “You should have known better.” I spent all night scrolling through pictures on my phone, laughing at the way you smiled in old videos, hunting for a clue that this would happen, buried somewhere under those impossible grins.

I'm tired of sickness and loneliness, of the misery of being lost and adrift. I’m tired of returning to the same anchor forever. I want to pull it up, hoist the sails, tie up every rope. I'm filled up with mountains of teenage rebellion and nowhere to put it but the brittle air around me. I long to cultivate a new persona, one unafraid of challenging authority, being different, taking a stand and pursuing a life no one else told her to lead. To hell with conventional wisdom. I want to "stick it to man" with guns up and ready to fire, looking for a part of myself that can only exist in the full freedom of being able to "lose it" at any time.

Growing up changes things. It forced me to hold myself back, stifle my tongue, say, "yes ma'am," and "yes sir." Inside, I’m burning up, trying to picture the underpass where I can say what I think without fear of losing my job, home, family. Others less controlled than me require numerous people to hold them back, to keep them from doing something dumb. As for myself, self-control still reigns against my fleeting temperaments.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if these lunatics on the TV are people like me whose eleutheromania has grown so strong they're willing to sacrifice everything just to be unapologetically themselves. To stand in the streets decrying the pitiful state our nation has fallen to, our world has, our people have.

Even then, I'm not aiming for lunacy. I just want to stand in the middle of a street screaming at the sky and daring passing cars to bowl me over. I want to go to the sketchiest gas station in town, order an ICEE and see what happens. Walk into a crowded movie theater and shout “fire!” Minor incidents. Petty crimes. Untenable today.

Fearing the consequences, I pull back. I curb every unnatural tendency. I squish myself into a cardboard box, stapling it down to keep the lid on tight. I plaster on the smile, extol the virtues of lost love, show support for everything I don't believe in. I can’t blame it on a lack of free speech. I’m simply unwilling to field the sacrifice speaking one's mind entails.

Then, alone in the woods by myself, crowded next to the graffiti under an overpass, I loose it all to the world again, yelling until my voice is hoarse and my mind empty. It helps, for a time. It reminds me that these problems, though heavy, mean nothing to the trees, to the spray paint, to the hundreds of people who’ve passed by and added their “Jenny was here” to the concrete walls.

I'll be back next week, then next month, then next year, then not at all. It takes time to tame the young, to mold them into the status quo. Yet if pressed, any mind can be taught to forfeit youth and its defiance.
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Meet me under the universe, will you?
I have some things I'd like to share.
It won't take long, just a minute - or two -
It's not much, I wouldn't normally care. 

But I've been caught off guard by your beauty lately,
The way you mark your ideals 'til the end
The way your heart longs for justice, but sedately
Every stranger a new friend to defend. 


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 red and blue wallpaper

I've spent my entire life trying to touch the universe. 

When I was younger, I thought it was with me in every breath, a simple energy guiding me forward, in and out, in and out. I would play with it, caught up in its imagined grandeur, in its everyday wonder. A playground made all the difference to my beleaguered soul, and I delighted in the possibilities a swing-set could carry. Now, I swing only for nostalgia and nausea. 

Later, I thought I found the universe, leaning halfway out a hotel window and staring at the stars, my feet hooked underneath the bed frame so I wouldn't fall out - even though my entire body lay outside the window, simply enthralled by what she saw above her. It's different in country-towns, you can actually see the stars. Seeing the stars makes one think they can touch them, can reach out and snag the stardust straight from the moon itself. 

Yet since my hands only snatched at empty air, no matter how many times I sought something more, I turned to stories and books, hoping to capture the majesty of the universe with a scarce word, delicate and drifting across the page. It glimmered in the world around me, and here at last was stardust, beautiful and gentle in my hands. Even then, though, I didn't touch the truth of the universe, only its reflection - like a sunset over the water, or a lonely girl staring into a backlit mirror in a hotel bathroom.

Hotels became a theme, a longing. A place of uncertainty where maybe this time... maybe this time it'd work. But it never did. I got closer, then further and further away. No matter how tall I grew, how high I climbed, I couldn't reach it. 

Sitting in the back of a research class, our professor told us a complete population was called a universe. You could have as many universes as you wanted: women in their 60s, teenage men, cadavers, up to the entirety of Earth's population all at once. A universe, she said. I wondered, caught by the idea that here around me, everywhere, were mini universes, revolving around themselves, tumbling back again and again towards a common theme - a sun at the center of their galaxies, black holes and white holes the gravitational forces leading the way. 

Yet, it wasn't quite enough to see the world like this. To realize I could create my own universes, however great and small. Research confined the universe to the Earthly, to the immediately tangible, ignoring the existence of the millions of clusters of magic beyond our atmospheric walls. 

I've been told numerous times I don't live in a vacuum, that I need to be careful because my actions have consequences. But it screams around us daily, that massive lack of mass we call outer space, tearing into every breath. It meets us each evening, a reminder of how we pale in significance beside it. Yes, our follies touch each other, reverberating outwards through our cities and counties and states and countries and into the entirety of our planet, but at least they can't touch the universe.

We do live in a vacuum. 

Though I've spent my entire life searching for it, I'm not special. I can't touch it either. It will keep taunting and evading me, pulling further away with every fleeting touch, watching my hands glance off it and cackling its beautiful, beautiful laugh.  

Why must I chase you so? Why must you run away like this?

Some people like to think of God this way, I think. As untouchable, a vacuum far and away from us all. Cold and distant and running away as soon as we seek Him out. But I see God in the little beauties, the way the wind blows against my skin or the intricacy of a weed in the pasture. Wild blackberries in back alleyways, roses growing out of concrete. 

Perhaps God put us in a vacuum for a reason, a reason besides "well, at least they'll only blow themselves up." Perhaps if we could touch it, we'd become so caught up in the creation, we would entirely forget its Creator. 

Instead, maybe it points towards another kind of otherworldly beauty, showing us what's waiting on the other side - that there is more to this world than the cold vastness of a calculating universe constantly evading our touch.

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Sundays

i initial your name in the dirt,
a cliche i've always longed to fulfill
but now i wonder why i divert
my own self to write about you.
so instead, i scratch out the hurt
and replace your name with mine,

wondering when i became so willing to be replaced by someone else?

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Black Eyed Susan


Twenty-seven years of watching her shadow dance across the walls, twirling in and out of contact with his own. Twenty-seven years of watching her stare out the window, brooding on the color of the sky - always the color and shape of the sky. Twenty-seven years of placing flowers in her hair, daisies and daffodils, Queen Anne's Lace and Black Eyed Susans. Twenty-seven years of biking with her six times around the neighborhood as dusk fell, her laughing in the same nasally way she always did, throwing her hair back just to stare at the sun as she pedaled. Twenty-seven years of memories, good and bad. Walking her through the highest highs and the lowest lows, beside her in every way. 

Five years of misery, breaking out into shouts over the smallest of things. Five years of distance, hiding from one another, sleeping in different beds with different people. Five years of watching her come home with black eyes and bruises and doing nothing, turning his face away and saying it wasn't his problem to solve. Five years of their only child begging them to get a divorce every time he came over, telling them it had gone too far - that they weren't the same as when he was there. 

Then three years of loneliness, lying in deserted fields in the middle of nowhere, picking himself back up and learning to live alone again. Sitting singly on empty beaches and watching even the most hideous of seagulls find a mate, sing their songs together. Three years of picking flowers but having no one to whom he could give them. Three years of watching the rain fall without stealing a kiss, without feeling another's hand on his. Holding an umbrella only above himself. Three years of living alone in a rundown cabin in the middle of the woods - a hermit not solely by choice. 

Then after thirty-five years, she knocked. Not looking at him once, she fiddled with the Black Eyed Susan in her hands, twirling it back and forth.

It's the first one you gave me, she says. He takes it from her, fingers gently brushing hers, and examines the flower - a small one. He remembers the day he picked it for her, about a month into their courtship. She had blushed as he put in her hair, then carefully saved it and pressed it into her favorite book. 

She peered up at him then, and for the first time in awhile, he was overcome with tenderness at the sight of her bruises. He invited her inside, and she followed. 

I can't live alone, she admitted over coffee. I just can't. And yeah, it's hard, but it's harder having nobody.

He didn't intend to, but he reached out a hand and trailed it along the side of her face, outlining the yellow and purple. He wanted to kiss her, hold her hand, give her a flower unadorned by old memories. He did none of those things, withdrawing his touch. 

So you came to me, he said, hating the callowness in his tone. 

Thirty-two years, she said. And we threw it away. 

You said you wanted to start over, he said. 

So did you, she returned. 

Well, what stopped you? he asked. 

The two of them looked at each other, knowing the answer. It was twenty-seven years worth of memories, keeping them both up at night. Keeping them from coming to terms with new love, new people, new places.

After coffee, he took her to the field behind his house, where rows of wildflowers bloomed. He plucked them, putting them in her hair. She laughed, that same nasally sound he had loved, then hated and now believed he could love again. 

Later, they returned to his cabin, where he poured them each a glass of wine. 

What's his name? Why does he hurt you? he asked. 

She grimaced, offering up information slowly, reluctantly. He pressed gently, reassuring her. Afterwards, he invited her to stay the night. She slept troubled until he curled in next to her, sweeping her hair away from her face and soothing her. 

The next morning, he was making breakfast when she came out to see him, embarrassed. 

He told her not to be, that she could stay forever if she wanted. 

What if he comes after me? she asked. 

He won't, he said, yawning. 

She believed him. 

And this time, she stayed. 

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The Laundry List of Stories I Want to Write But Probably Never Will

I restarted my blog this week, the last day of May, and it's pretty darn cool, this new aesthetic of mine. it's scribbling down the remnants of my heart in the back of a rusted-out trailer. It reminds me of the pastor who lit a truck on fire for his graduation before he came to Christ. It makes me want to write about good Christian girls and those who have to fight off the Enemy with whatever they can muster. I see it in a romance that sweeps me away. In the loyalty of good friends who never leave me. The exhilaration in driving a golden-metallic car named Champagne down streets called home. It's dancing in a deserted parking lot and shouting along to badass lyrics I know all the words to but have never thought about. It's swapping out the middle finger for "I love you." It's coming into myself and my style, of thinking past tomorrow. Of shedding the skin I've been trying to wear for so long - nevermind that it hasn't fit in so long. 

So here's to the stories left untold. To the:

Good Girls Golden and Youth at Large and Recompense and Black-Eyed Susan and Queen Anne's Lace and Windbreaker and Disassociated and The Message Inside and The Road to Requiem and The Wanderer and The Sea is Not Full.

So write me poetry, heart of mine. I want to be more than a journalist but rather a weaver of words. A lover, a bulwark of life and liberty. A reminder that this is what it means to live. Set me on fire and let me drift into ashes on my own, the dust settling wherever it chooses. 

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What I See in Your Eyes

Our love is like 

                          t h u n d e r

Howling on the seafront
While a tornado tears towards the heavens, snarling
And fish burrow deeper into the depths, serene
And waves wage war against the beach, slashing
And shells scatter on the sand, searching
And gulls cry out a thousand shouts, before disappearing. 

And the beach has cleared out,
Minus a single person - that's me -
Walking towards the tornado - that's you.
And that's what it feels like sometimes,
When my hair whips backward, caught in gusts
Far too heavy for me to bear alone.
When your eyes carry me to places I've never been before
The misty blue of a sea battling itself, foam flying.
But when I wade into the waves, the storm calms me.
It wraps me in a cocoon of gentle tides, lapping at my knees.
I play in the surf as it comes in, falling into the water,
Letting it soak me to my skin, kiss me again and again.
I feel safe here, like no one could ever take me away from you. 

That's what it feels like to love you.
Thunder in every gaze,
Swelling tides in every touch.

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Wild Blackberries

Tell it to my brain, dear, not my heart.
That rhapsody of strings has long since
Been rendered false discordant art
Under whose banner even fools wince. 

I don't lift mediocrity high,
Purely for the fun of flaunting it.
Rather, I want to skip the old lie
The one before we learn we don't fit.

Please don't fill my mind with romance
Because, Lord, are your words tormenting me.
I'm beleaguered by kisses, another chance
For you to chase me down, set me free. 

But no, I don't want to love you that way,
Eating wild blackberries in worn out fields
Caught up in the magic of every word you say.
Begging you to return the heart you healed.

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https://i.pinimg.com/564x/b3/fc/bc/b3fcbc208874d4ecd4bb83c1d78d6cc6.jpg

Tasting Poison

You don't think she's the type of girl to wake up and scream at herself in the mirror. To wait until she's alone to start talking to herself, lips dripping venom with every word. When she was younger, she trashed everyone who even looked at her, staring them down and daring them to say something - anything. 

Now, she's course corrected, turning her jargon back on herself, pulling out the flaws others won't tell her to her face. She scrutinizes herself in the mirror, picking at every flaw, every imperfection in her skin, as if in belief it reveals a deeper part of who she is. If she nips this in the bud now, maybe it can stop the corruption of her soul, right? 

Does she believe herself unworthy? Sure. She used to, at least. 

Now she just looks around in disdain, viewing others as unworthy of the delight she has. 

Her prayers and actions contradict. She says she wants to love her neighbor then tears her sister apart. She's torn up by grief and dismay, attempting to build a version of herself where the world isn't quite so hard to keep up with. Where she's got the maturity to build her own case and manage it. To be friends with people when no one else is watching. 

But she's got a bad habit of forgetting people exist when they're not there. Something has to remind her. Otherwise, the only time she reaches out is when she has a story she wants to tell. 

She hates herself for the barbed wire her words cut themselves apart on. She hates that they aren't nearly as sharp as they used to be. She's trapped between the sickening poison she used to sip daily and the glimmering nectar fed to her by friends and pastors. 

She's afraid to probe deeply into her faith for fear she will lose it. She doesn't want to spend hours every day worried about the darkness in her heart, so she ignores it. 

So in the darkness of her mind, she watches the light play with her hair, bouncing it back and forth with every breeze. She examines the heart of gold others say she has, messing with the flowers in the fields and hoping for another opportunity to see something come to life. 

She's looking for rest in minor moments, making the most of these dwindling dog days of summer just begun. 

The hard-won moments redeemed from the past seem all but lost in the face of the new ones. So she's attempting to hold on to past and present, present and future. Trying to carry everything, painting new canvases over the old instead of stripping the walls bare. 

But painting over old wounds doesn't heal them. 

Still they drip, like the poison from her tongue, but with sweeping motions, she picks them up and brushes over with fresh paint.

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Such Joy

i miss your arms
around me, laying me back
in summer grass. cool
against my skin, yet strong,
a gentle reminder that i can
not escape, that i do not
want to escape, that i would
spend forever with you
if it meant i could keep you. 

and i realize my heart
goes the way of foolishness,
as every lover's does
and that the words i say now,
i will later scorn, but my
heart yearns to love again
and i no longer wish to deny
it such joy. 

https://i.pinimg.com/564x/49/3a/6f/493a6f28a671906d78d863c535ba7d73.jpg

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