Those old 'car crash hearts...'

{ Monday, March 26, 2012 }

When your Spring Break destination suddenly turns into "home," the very least you can do to busy yourself is digging through the archives of your life. This evening I found myself face-to-face with an ill-scanned copy of the prized Fall Out Boy story, written at the ripe old age of 16.

Now, I can clearly see that is it riddled with style errors and marred with run-on sentences, yet I couldn't help but smile and reflect upon the journey from that story to the one I penned most recently.

Writing completely takes over the identity of its victims; sucks them in and cloaks them in a pensive facade until the transformation is complete. And then you don't have a clue as to who you were before the pen felt so natural and malleable in your hand, and sitting in one spot composing for hours is the new norm. Sometimes it happens overnight, and sometimes it takes years.

I feel like this is my identity now. I ramble to my parents about plot, verbiage and the Oxford comma and am greeted with loose nods and confused, sympathetic grins. It's hard to go a day without scouring the national news for a potential localized lead to carry in my back pocket back to school.

To be passionate about anything there has to be an apparent ardor and the faintest, slightest stroke of obsession. Not many understand, but when they do, you'll know. And it may be one of the greatest, most exciting things, or one of the most painful and arduous.

Either way, it is a story in itself.


{ Saturday, March 10, 2012 }

You'll meet her, she's very pretty,
Even though sometimes she's sad for many days at a time.
You'll see, when she smiles, you'll love her.
- Pan's Labyrinth

I'm honey and thorns,
Firmly rooted in a bed of home-grown hopefulness.
I'm the faulty bolt of a bigger machine,
Well-oiled and methodical.
I'm stitched together with awestruck wonder and good intentions,
Flawed in all the right places.

Marred with all the marks of a writer --
The restlessness, the incessant curiosities,
The scribble-laden notebooks --
Yet, I get by.

I guzzle coffee like it's water,
Coursing through my veins in a wave of piping hot life support,
And I shake.
I shake.
I drink until I shake,
Just so I feel.

I refuse to believe that humanity is mainly comprised of monsters,
Although some may argue otherwise.
'An idealist to a fault;'
I've heard it a thousand times over, now.

I'm magnetized to the flawed, broken,
All it takes is one glance to sense a Mariana's Trench
Between one's head and heart.
I don't know why.

Eras are distinctly divided into before and afters,
Of tender kisses, thoughtful words,
The things I remember that no one does.
Years are frivolous now.

I have a knack for saying all the right things
At all the wrong times.
And eating dessert first,
'Just in case.'

A bundle of anomalies, optimism
And sincerity.
The heart will thaw out when a warm hand wraps around it,
One day.

Leap Day

{ Monday, March 5, 2012 }
On that rare, balmy day in February I took a long, hard swallow and returned to those docks.
I was nervous.
I was alone this time.
I remember feeling vulnerable and naked without my pen and paper,
But I trekked onward without my proverbial security blankets in tow.
The water slapped the shore lovingly, playfully;
Teasing me.
Enticing me.

The worn wood was all-too familiar as I ran my hand along the railing,
Half-hopeful for a splinter, just to feel something.
I sat down in that familiar nook and began to search calmly --
Then frantically.
The letters were all gone.

Four February's ago those carvings were fresh, wondrous,
Washed away by weather, time and regret,
'LS and LB' never existed to the untrained eye.
A juvenile and atypical gesture at best,
It still stung.

And then my mind wandered to that last Leap Day,
When I asked you, "If it happened on Leap Day, did it really happen? Please love me just one more time, just to make sure it counts."
And you laughed at me and tickled me,
Then happily obliged.

"If I die in my sleep, are you still willing to be everything you promised you would be?"
You asked me with a glint of wistfulness in your eye,
Brushing my hair away from my eyes in the methodical way that I loved.
I was so young.
But, I nodded anyway.

And now I'm branded by my heaving, heavy heart,
But my head remains high.