for you, poet boy

This is stubborn.
This doesn't want to come out.
This said it will kill itself before giving up.

This said it hates me.
This told me it was because I am fat, ugly, worthless, stupid, a liar, a whore, a liberal, Christian, female.

This hate that I'm writing this.
This knows I tried writing this blog 40 times in the last 3 weeks and 2 days.

Everyone's telling me I can do better. I can find myself a prince that glows in the sunlight and will sweep me off my feet.
I hate that. I hate it when they say "you can do better".

They are wrong.

I can't do better than you.
You probably invented the word better. In my world, you certainly did.

You did sweep me off my feet, and you do shimmer and glow not only in the sunlight, but also in the moon beams.

The emo quote girl inside me says: You've taught me one thing if you've taught me anything, poet boy. You've taught me that I have a heart, because I can feel it breaking.

It's never been like this.
It's never been insomnia, hungerlessness- it's never been. . . love?

I said I wouldn't fall. I said I didn't fall.
But I had fallen so far down I couldn't hear myself scream.

I think of you when I brush my teeth, when I blink and especially when I check my email.

For a second I wondered what I was supposed to do. How does one act when this happens?

I thought of stories I'd heard. Suicide.

Then I thought, no. It would break you. And I would never do that to you.
Then I thought again, and I said, I don't even want to die.

And I don't. Not only because dying would hurt you, but because I know, for the first time ever, I tangibly know that there are people that love me.
I don't because I have a purpose.

One thing really bothers me though.
It always has.
I never cried.

No. When I finally realized what was happening, I just stared in front of me and focused on the pattern of breathing. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

And I'm not angry.
Ok, yes I am.

But not because you just stopped. No. I'm not angry because of that. It's your right.
But it's my right to know why. Just a reason. Nothing more.
"Because you're a whore."
"Because you're too fat for me."
"Because I changed my mind."
"Because you're too clingy."
"Because I could never love you."
"Because I'm going off to college, and there are plenty of better girls there."

Anything, damn it.
Just a reason.
That's why I'm mad.

I'm mad because I thought you were a man.
I still think that.
Contrary to any evidence otherwise.
Like the fact that you just ignore me.

Why can't you just stand up and tell me the truth?
Or is that too hard?

Write me a poem then.
Write me a poem and tell me I'm a cyst.
A ball and chain.
A weight.
A menace.
Something.

Oh, but what hurts the most is that I still love you.
Not as a lover, because it was never that strong in that way,
but as a friend.

For a while, I considered you in the top two. Because Rachel could never be trumped.
I thought that we were soulmates- if not in the usual sense, then in the sense of I wanted to know everything about you. I wanted to feel your soul. Because I loved what I saw.

Well,
All things must come to an end.
Even good things.

I am sorry if I'm anything wrong. Any of it. If I was too touchy-feely, or if I told you too much.

I'm sorry.

<3

this one's for you

Every time you write me an email (which, if I might be so bold, have been sparse lately) I feel like I am powerful.

You've told me I march to the beat of a different drum even before you knew I love Thoreau, and you keep telling me, almost in every email that I'm special.

Some part of me knows you're right. Sure, there's always been this thing in me. . this itch; this feeling that I am going to do something great- maybe. If I rise above everything around me. One day I'll speak in front of a million people, write a book that saves lives, or become president. I don't know what, but something.

I hope it's something like what you do, quietly handing out wisdom that you've acquired through your years of teaching. I hope I save a life, not through some daring mission and being lowered from a helicopter, but through words, and love, and a hug that goes against the social mores we've all grown used to.

Another part of me says no way. Have you seen me? I can't even walk into a room without dying of fear, and I haven't called you (even though I sorely needed to because that college application was due oh, say, 4 months ago) because talking on the phone, especially to someone like you, is a crippling though. I feel like vomiting just thinking about it.

You are strong, and most of all- you believe in me, which makes me scared to screw up. Which I always end up doing, inevitably, by the way.

Whenever I see your name and a subject line, I smile, and wonder what new things you have to say. Every time it's different.

I know you expect something out of me, something great, because you've told me. Every journal I wrote in your class came back with "You should be a writer", "This should be your life's work; your vocation" or "Yes!" on it. You liked it, and you weren't just saying it (I though you were just flattering me for a while, until some other students of yours told me they didn't get glowing comments on their journals).
You make me want to be better- I guess you make me feel like I should always be spouting wise thoughts, a miniature Emerson or Thoreau or Whitman. If that were possible, believe me I would do it! If every word I said could have something extra, an oomph, if you will- I would do it without a doubt.

Sadly, most of my words come shrouded in lots of "Um"'s and "Uh"'s and I can barely thread together an intelligible sentence half the time!

What can I say? You're a hero!

Everything about you, from the regal way you carry yourself to the awesome hippy clothes you're always wearing (which I keep wanting to compliment you on, but always stop myself. You are after all over 50, and I'm 17. Some rule of conduct somewhere must say that I shouldn't like your clothes) you're just- perfect. I want to be like you, I guess.

If in, say, 30 years I end up being a college professor (not in Sociology, of course, I didn't do too well in your class) it will be because of you. It will be because I never realized a professor, or a teacher could touch a student's life in just one semester. Especially a student who never really reached out unless it was in neatly printed college-bound sheets of notebook paper. Actually, I never realized a human being could touch another human being that way, either. Oh sure, others have been sweet and caring and genuinely loving, but you were so much more. You saw a dream that was too scared to come out and spoke magic chants to it, and coaxed it out.

I haven't told you this yet, and I may never, since you don't read my blogs, but you will be the first acknowledgment in my first book because you told me to write. You told me there was even something worth writing amidst my ramble!

Thank you, Professor Watkins,
You're my hero.

<3

random tiny note

I do stupid things sometimes. Do you? Sometimes I wonder if it's just me that makes the whoppers (not Burger King). Yeah.

This is going to sound silly and childish, but I'm tired, so cut me some slack. . . I want to be perfect.

I want to have the flattest belly, the whitest teeth, the prettiest smile, the best hair. . everything. I really do. But you know what? Most of all, I want to be a hero.

Corny. Yes. I know.

But, seriously, how much better would the world be if everyone strived to be an example; a hero; an inspiration?

I don't have anything profound to say, so don't hold your breath.

Me? Geez, I'm just a simple city girl. I won't do anything big or great or momentous, but I can love somebody. Maybe you.

<3