1. Torch Song.

    You paint your nails three times a week because nothing says, “I’m hiding behind my smile” like chipped nail polish,

    Or so your mother says.

    And the third therapist you’ve visited this month thinks you have commitment issues,

    Like that even solves anything.

    But a woman named Susan with an awful pixie cut and an affinity for wall decor that implies we’re all lucky to be here doesn’t know shit about you,

    Because she isn’t there at four in the morning when you roll over and yesterday’s friendly fuck is right where you left him,

    Occupying a space that always seems empty,

    When you place your ear close to his heart just to hear the rhythm, and exhale to the same beat because it calms you down when you’re thinking about the day you tried to walk away from every painful part of your childhood and ran smack into the brick wall we call adulthood.

    At midnight you tip-toe to the fridge and drink milk straight from the carton because you know no one can see,

    And every day you will try to remember what your mother says about forgiveness, but all that comes to mind is the irrevocable truth that some people are so broken they can only hate you for being whole.

    By the time you’ve been hired and fired from your fourth job this year, you’ll finally accept that there will always be at least one person who questions the motive behind your forgiveness, but all that matters is how it makes you feel.

    You are a flame,

    And your torch song is drinking too much coffee, missing the wrong people, lying about loving red wine, running your car on empty because you spent your last five dollars on a used Gin Blossoms album,

    Burning your tongue on a hot pocket because it’s the only food you can afford,

    Burning your hands touching people who only want to rip your ribs apart to make space for themselves,

    And seeing your new therapist till “daddy issues” don’t make you cry anymore.

  2. Here’s Why I Need More Than “You have such beautiful eyes”

    The man who said, “you have such pretty eyes” before you,

    Got everything he wanted,

    And I was left with an extra place setting at the dining room table and a bunch of old t-shirts that stopped smelling like home.

    These eyes have seen the tile on my closest friend’s bathroom floor when I found her there, admitting she didn’t know how to keep dealing with the pain,

    Have watched my own two hands let go of the steering wheel when I couldn’t figure that out for myself.

    My eyes have seen thousands of people walk by who didn’t care to ask my name,

    Have watched the leaves turn on two marriages till my mother finally settled on one,

    Have seen the darkest parts of my own soul matched in someone else,

    And

    Driven nails into the worst parts of my body and demanded my conscious be held responsible for convincing me that was what they were.

    When you speak softly and attempt to find the epicenter of my soul,

    I will remind you that it starts with what I see,

    What I have seen,

    And the things I want to see.

    These eyes have seen how love can fall apart when people neglect to open more than just their legs,

    And if you stand in front of me they will injure up every image of failure that came before you,

    Convince me to close them.

  3. On Moving On.

    I thought moving away from this place would solve all my problems; would make up for all the unreturned phone calls,

    Unrequited love,

    Horrible parking jobs,

    Unseat letters to friends who only wanted to stay in touch,

    Apologies to people who hurt me first,

    But you can’t move from one place to another and not expect your failures to follow you,

    Because the only thing that washes you clean is the rain you weren’t expecting. This town is full of people I fell in love with at first sight;

    I can count them on both hands,

    If I forget about my toes.

    I’m pretty sure I’m a sinner and I’ll probably sin again,

    And even though I have two failed relationships under my belt and can’t commit to clearing my snapchat history let alone another person,

    At least I know that there is a difference between the love you feel for a friend and the love that keeps you warm at night,

    You think you’re a well-traveled soul, but the only thing you know about women is the part that brings you pleasure and the part you love the most,

    And they’re the same part.

    I needed to hear from someone that I would be okay,

    But instead I said it five times facing the mirror, as if the ghost of my former self would appear and shame me for having sex with the intent to make someone stay,

    And expecting that to actually work.

    But the room stayed empty,

    And you still haven’t called,

    But you know who has?

    The friends I ignored.

    Sometimes we find love from the people around us and from deep within a spot we always assumed would remain vacant,

    Sometimes the universe is so against two people being together but it takes years to see it from the outside looking in, and when you finally catch a glimpse you see that there is more to love than asking to be loved,

    Than showing your beating heart to the first person who demands to know it’s keeping you alive.

    I think that is the true definition of moving on.

  4. Im beginning to love myself again.

    Im beginning to love myself again.

  5. Lately I’ve found myself waking up earlier and earlier; despite the copious amounts of Advil PM I take a half hour before bed and despite working two jobs that absolutely exhaust me, I cannot stay asleep. When I do find refuge in the hours of blissful hours of sleep I can maintain, I survive horrific dreams. Last week, I dreamt my mother was murdered and woke up in sobbing. The next night, I dreamt I was raped. The third night, I dreamt that I was dating one of my male friends, who then turned and told me I was the most unlovable woman he’d ever encountered. So yeah, sleep. I set my alarm for five thirty, and I wake up at 4:30. And the cycle repeats. The later I set my alarm, the earlier I wake actually wake up. So this morning I set my alarm early and decided to head into the woods to think. The woods led to this mountaintop. 

When I told my grandmother I was planning on hiking a part of the Appalachian trail, her response was not enthusiastic. “Are you giving up your job? Putting off school for even longer? Trying to find God?” I did not tell her that, at 22, I’m still struggling with my religious identity; struggling with believing that when it has been such a long struggle for me to feel a sense of home and wholeness, of solitude and grace, that I should I open my heart and make space for someone I do not give credit to for the survivor I am today. A little later, she followed it up with, “I know three women who wanted to hike the Appalachian trail to become better acquainted with God and themselves, and came out more broken than before”. 

As I hiked down the mountain, listening to my friend chatter along, I found myself hearing those words again in my head. And then I wondered: do we go into the woods to find ourselves, or do we go into the woods to lose ourselves? 

Tonight as I swung back and forth in the hammock I have precariously hung on my balcony, I think I came up with the answer. 

I will go into the woods to lose myself. 

At 22, I work two jobs that exhaust me. I cannot do this for another five years. At 22, I have had sex with two people, and neither of them meant anything to me. I’ve fallen in love with the idea of someone, only to be let down by hostile reality that you cannot make someone up in your head when they already exist. I’ve washed over three hundred loads of laundry and I still can’t fold my towels correctly, and I don’t call my grandmother enough. At 22, I wear too much makeup because I am still horribly insecure about my body, my face and my appearance, and I don’t drink enough water. I can’t read a map or change a tire, and I live paycheck to paycheck. This is, while socially acceptable and normal, not the way I want to live. 

In seven months, I will be going into the woods. In my dreams, every man I’ve ever loved will be watching for me. Every person who has ever hurt me and been rewarded with much consenting silence, every unrequited love, every body image issue I have will be watching me walk in. I will walk with my head held high, and when the road finally disappears from view, so will the girl all of you knew. This is the promise I make to myself.

    Lately I’ve found myself waking up earlier and earlier; despite the copious amounts of Advil PM I take a half hour before bed and despite working two jobs that absolutely exhaust me, I cannot stay asleep. When I do find refuge in the hours of blissful hours of sleep I can maintain, I survive horrific dreams. Last week, I dreamt my mother was murdered and woke up in sobbing. The next night, I dreamt I was raped. The third night, I dreamt that I was dating one of my male friends, who then turned and told me I was the most unlovable woman he’d ever encountered. So yeah, sleep. I set my alarm for five thirty, and I wake up at 4:30. And the cycle repeats. The later I set my alarm, the earlier I wake actually wake up. So this morning I set my alarm early and decided to head into the woods to think. The woods led to this mountaintop.

    When I told my grandmother I was planning on hiking a part of the Appalachian trail, her response was not enthusiastic. “Are you giving up your job? Putting off school for even longer? Trying to find God?” I did not tell her that, at 22, I’m still struggling with my religious identity; struggling with believing that when it has been such a long struggle for me to feel a sense of home and wholeness, of solitude and grace, that I should I open my heart and make space for someone I do not give credit to for the survivor I am today. A little later, she followed it up with, “I know three women who wanted to hike the Appalachian trail to become better acquainted with God and themselves, and came out more broken than before”.

    As I hiked down the mountain, listening to my friend chatter along, I found myself hearing those words again in my head. And then I wondered: do we go into the woods to find ourselves, or do we go into the woods to lose ourselves?

    Tonight as I swung back and forth in the hammock I have precariously hung on my balcony, I think I came up with the answer.

    I will go into the woods to lose myself.

    At 22, I work two jobs that exhaust me. I cannot do this for another five years. At 22, I have had sex with two people, and neither of them meant anything to me. I’ve fallen in love with the idea of someone, only to be let down by hostile reality that you cannot make someone up in your head when they already exist. I’ve washed over three hundred loads of laundry and I still can’t fold my towels correctly, and I don’t call my grandmother enough. At 22, I wear too much makeup because I am still horribly insecure about my body, my face and my appearance, and I don’t drink enough water. I can’t read a map or change a tire, and I live paycheck to paycheck. This is, while socially acceptable and normal, not the way I want to live.

    In seven months, I will be going into the woods. In my dreams, every man I’ve ever loved will be watching for me. Every person who has ever hurt me and been rewarded with much consenting silence, every unrequited love, every body image issue I have will be watching me walk in. I will walk with my head held high, and when the road finally disappears from view, so will the girl all of you knew. This is the promise I make to myself.

  6. Album Art

    I Followed Fires | Matthew And The Atlas

    Now the low lakes have frozen
    Away from home I’ll go

    Title
    I Followed Fires
    Artist
    Matthew And The Atlas
    Album
    Kingdom Of Your Own EP
  7. The Theory Of Small Town Mourning.

    Everything I know about mourning is inherited; I cry at funerals because that’s what everyone around me is doing, and I never take in vain the names of those who are no longer with us,

    But if you don’t understand grief or why closing your eyes at night hurts so much after losing a loved one,

    If you run red lights in a crowded intersection because the adrenaline reignites a spark of humanity you thought was lost when their body was lowered into the ground,

    Then we are the same.

    And if your heart expands and constricts with each new morning without them, if watching dust particles float in the setting sun feels like pinpricks in between your fingers where their hand used to fit,

    Then we are the same.

    If every time you laugh it feels like you’re so violently expelling sadness from your body it’s almost as if the sound is being ripped from your chest and handed bloody and beating like the drums of war to someone else,

    Then we are the same.

    They tell little children not to stand next to the fire because proximity leads to danger, but no one ever tells you that when your soul is soaked through with tears the only way to dry out is to stand next to someone who is burning, if only to spark the hope you can’t find on anyone else’s body though you search their valleys from the most well-drawn map,

    Then we are the same.

  8. Conversations With The Skeleton In Your Closet

    I watched as she searched through the cupboards for a coffee mug, but I moved them to a rack above the sink weeks ago.

    "Why did you leave?" I ask, as she begins to rifle through my fridge full of food.

    "The same reason you stay," she replies. And in the same breath, "this milk is bad."

    She walks down the hallway, looking for the bathroom I’m sure. But I’ve changed the guest towels since she was last here.

    "Who are you talking to?" You ask, walking into the empty room.

    "Myself." I reply, and blow on a long-since chilled cup of coffee. Sipping, I find myself wishing I had some milk for it.

  9. "

    I have my mother’s
    stubbornness
    and none of
    her strength

    and I have my father’s
    passion
    and all
    of his selfishness

    "
    Mandeq Ahmed, ‘tiny legacies’ (via versteur)
  10. I Ate So Much Bacon After You Left

    And I threw myself into trying to organize my closet and compartmentalize my thoughts and remember to brush my teeth, but I couldn’t keep my room clean past a week and seeing you with a new woman made me painfully grit my teeth,

    And I tried to lose you in a desperately long list of men who tore my conscience apart looking for their fathers between my legs, and I guess it had something to do with trying to heal old wounds with new stitches, but every Monday your name was the memo on an “I quit” email to a boss I could only ever hate for having someone to go home to and a corner office with a view that wasn’t a cubicle wall,

    And I began to feel breathless without ever actually moving and I think it had something to do with how fast my mind raced back to you when I was focused on not showing up at your door because I couldn’t admit I was incapable of letting you go,

    My favorite word became “fuck” but only because it was so closely followed by “you”

    And I stopped calling my mom every Sunday because she always wanted to know how I was holding up and I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I had forgotten how to fold a bed sheet, wash my delicates or speak in something other than a giant run-on sentence

    All because someone had stopped wanting me.

  11. On letting it go.

    I’ll be the first to admit it: writing a memoir at twenty two after having achieved no great feats in my life makes me feel incredibly self-obsessed and irritating. It’s okay to be irritated by me, hell, I’M irritated by me. And yet, here I am trying to convince you to read this and understand me. At twenty two years of age I have held no less than two jobs at a time, I’ve worked seven jobs in the course of my life, dropped out of college on the cusp of receiving a degree that would never help me in the “real world” and started collecting bottles of wine and cats. So many cats.

    Whoops. I’m confusing the number of cats I have with the empty wine bottles. So many wine bottles, only three cats.

    Only! Ha, I make myself laugh. I guess if you haven’t laughed left, you should probably close this tab and go read something on Texts From Last Night (no but really, that site is pure gold) There’s nothing I can do to convince you I’m worth listening to, and to be frank, I’ve got no interest in that. If you want a love story, this isn’t for you. I’ve been in love with the same person for six years and we’ve never even hugged. Love? HA. If you want a happy-ending fairy tale, I’ll loan you my copy of The Princess Bride. Seriously. However, if you’re in that one percent that sees past the lure of happy endings, true love and the myth of perfect hair even when it’s raining, then this is for you. I’m not going to market myself as anything other than a fucked up girl; the product of two fucked up marriages, the victim of a school system that puts more value on appearance than education and the survivor of small town autonomy. Damn right I think I deserve to be heard.

    The thing I’ve heard the most in 2014 is not “damn Katie you look good” (unfortunately) or “wow you’re late again but somehow still managed to get Dunkin Donuts??” (Fortunately) but “Let it go!”. And as we’re nearing the end of this whirlwind year, I’m starting to think I’ve been misinterpreting it. You see, I thought it was grounds for me to unload a shit ton of emotional baggage on other people, to open the “I’m a bitter virgin that no one asked to prom” flood gates and make everyone around me feel guilty about what I felt was wrong with my life. Using “let it go” as a crutch, I confessed my love to two different people in the span of three months, offered up my overly-coveted virginity to someone I couldn’t stand to be around for more than half an hour, quit two jobs and realized that I don’t know nearly as much about maintaining friendships as I’ve always thought. You see, I’ve been coming home and sleeping in a gilded cage for so long that I simply wasn’t seeing that a lot of the blame needed to be put on myself for failing at love, feeling miserable and unaccomplished and skipping the gym like nine months in a row.

    I’m happy to report that just yesterday I woke up and realized I’ve been doing this all wrong. Maybe what the suspiciously good looking cartoon lady was trying to say was, “stop obsessing over bad moods, bad hair days, boys who don’t call, jobs that don’t feel fulfilling and anyone that tells you pasta makes you fat and let it go”. My mom is a two-time cancer survivor, my brother was wrongly accused of a crime and still managed to find love, my father was laid off after thirteen years at the same job and my youngest sister just graduated high school. What do I have to be upset about? So, so, much. And yet, nothing. Do I really want to waste precious time walking around a ticking time bomb of emotional instability or do I want to forgive the people who I felt never loved me back adequately, spend my money on memories and work my fingers to the bone because I’ll never be as able as I am right at this very moment? Heads we choose option two, tails we flip again.

  12. bastardsvultures:

a-scandal-in-fun:

There are lessons to be learned, and consequences for all the stupid things I say.

and it is no big surprise you turned out this way

    bastardsvultures:

    a-scandal-in-fun:

    There are lessons to be learned, and consequences for all the stupid things I say.

    and it is no big surprise you turned out this way

About me

I'm usually on a longboard, eating a burrito or not wearing shoes. All the good writers were alcoholics, and I aim to be great (sorry mom).

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