Tastes like the cookie on the platter that no one wants to eat because it has a weird filling.
Feels like sitting in a corner be yourself because no one cares enough about you to hold a conversation with you.
Looks like a five year old girl sitting on the jungle gym alone because her peers don’t care for her.
Sounds like not getting invited to a party or having people ignore things you say.
Smells like waffles burning because someone forgot to take them out of the toaster.
Three simple syllables that string together three wonderful words. Eight long lasting letters that can either mean so much, or so little. The over-energetic twelve year old screaming at her teenage heart throb who’s singing on the television. The ninety year old woman whispering it to her ginger cat because it’s the only thing she has left. He said it to before she left him. Left him behind with all of the love he wanted to share with her. Some people hear it too much, and others not enough. The perfect pretty cheerleader who constantly gets showered by that line from her boyfriend, friends, and family. Compared to the girl who has cuts on her arms, wrists, because her parents are too busy screaming at her rather then loving her. Because her friends don’t care or don’t think she needs the constant affirmation. But she does. Doesn’t everyone? One single phrase can be the difference between pulling the trigger and putting the gun down. Other people say it too forced. He’s forcing his body against hers and saying it to convince her that this moment is right. It’s a chore. Like doing laundry, or stacking the dishes in the kitchen cabinet. I love you. I’ll give all my love to you if you give me yours. I love you. Now take off your top. I love you. It’s not you it’s me. I love you. I knew it was you from the first time I saw you. I love you. There’s no else I want to be with. I love you.
Ten, night, eight, seven, six, five, four, three two, one. Sizes that are plastered across our foreheads and engraved into our wrists. Sizes that define us and rank us, like the army, navy, military. It’s like a temperature. Because if you’re low you’re healthy. Then as it slowly rises you become sick. Sick enough to let yourself go and have curves? Curves are natural and beautiful and everyone knows it but her. And yet she still hangs her head over the toilet. Her fingers going down as south as they can. Skipping snacks, meals, days, because it’s healthy if you weight ninety pounds at five foot eight, right? Because you should base your self esteem off of cheap magazines covers on displays in convenience stores on racks. Ten, nine, eight. Guess what? You’re still beautiful. Seven, six, five. Guess what? You’re still beautiful. Four, three, two, one. Guess what? You’re still beautiful. Beautiful enough to fall in love, fall out of it, be happy, be sad, be anything you want.
Excitement. Memories. Hairspray. Alcohol. Closure. All of these words sum up prom. One night where everyone says you’re beautiful, hot, pretty, cute, witty, something. Something you never were before. And you’re spending one, two, three, four, five hundred dollars on a dress. A dress you’ll wear once and probably stain from a cheap pasta sauce in the first twenty minutes. And every minute feels special, different, an out of body experience. Bodies press up against you in the limo, the dance floor, in the hotel room late at night where mistakes will be made. You’re in the bathroom. Crying from a break-up, throwing up from too much cheap liquor, wiping off designer makeup you thought was worth the price. It all has some price. The limo. The dress. The hair. The dance. The booze. Everything seems to matter, yet you end up focusing in on one thing. One thing you want to fix because it seems as if tomorrow you’ll go away to college where you’ll never see each other again. Not realizing you have the whole summer to fix that relationship, friendship, tell her you’ve been in love with her for three or four years. But it’s all in good fun. You watch the sunrise, staying up all night because you want to be a rebel, an adult. This one night could be so many things. It’s up to you to put the prom fate on the right path.
Sweaters from your grandma that have the possibility of being made out of cat hair. The smell of needles on your living room couch. The constant playing of holiday music in every mall across the country. This is Christmas. Seasoning the turkey that just came out of the oven. The corny holiday songs that your tone-deaf aunts and uncles sing. The noise of wrapping papered boxes being placed under the tree. Because you’re sitting at the top of the stairs hoping to catch a glimpse of the Claud man himself. Hoping he’ll eat all of the reindeer shaped cookies you baked with your mom. Hoping you’ll see a new red bike the following morning. A dollhouse. A lego set. A board game. Hoping for anything and everything. The little boy wanting his parents to stop fighting. The teenage girl wishing to find her love under the mistletoe. Hoping that boy will take her ice skating or ask her to make angels in the snow. Because everyone wants the perfect Christmas as they look out their bedroom window. Witnessing the first snow. Witnessing their relatives coming to the door, the Christmas spectacular at Radio City. Everyone wants that bit of holiday magic on that one day. One day where they can stay up all night long waiting for a large man in red and eating as many candy canes as they want, not thinking about the consequences of tomorrow.
Bawling babies. Talkative toddlers. Learning to walk, speak, eat, and think. Hearts collapsing. Pulses stopping. Learning their years are behind them. A few seconds left to salvage this place we call a world. Timmy’s first time on the bike. Beth’s first time home from the hospital. Harold’s last time eating dinner. Agatha’s last Sunday walk with her grandson. Band-aids from cuts and falls turn into crashes from cars and bikes, then cancer and old age and transplants. He’s merely starting his life. She’s quickly ending her’s. Legos are used to build castles that will last forever. The old man whispers forever isn’t all that long. Forever could be as long as weeks, months, years, or as short as days, hours, minutes. A father weeping for his new born daughter. A daughter weeping for her dead father. And so it goes. People coming in and out of this world, at the speed of light.
She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know how her smile makes the whole room shine. Or how when she strums her fingers on her guitar, ukulele, mandolin, it sounds like music from heaven. Or how her eyes tell a story, a wonderful story about how she overcame obstacles and is strong enough to still be standing. Her sense of humor is good enough for late night television. She doesn’t have a clue in the world. Her flaws consume her. But they aren’t even flaws. Crying to your friends when you’re upset is normal. Acne is present on all teenagers, and she barely has any. Barely any flaws. She compares herself to societal standards. Unimportant. Unrealistic. She follows her own path. She has a great style, voice, great intentions that are plentiful enough to fill up an Olympic swimming pool. Her beauty makes men, women, creatures of all shapes and sizes take notice. How her hair perfectly frames her heart shape face. How her eyes sparkle like sapphires. She’s completely clueless. Dumbfounded. Unaware. Incapable. Not incapable of being wonderful, but incapable of realizing she is capable. Capable to find love, happiness, fame, fortune, whatever she wants. It’s my job to lay it all out for her, like a map, leading to the road of her uniqueness she never saw before.
The party starts
So she takes a drink
She gets ignored
She wants to be noticed
So she takes a drink
Her head starts to spin
The music pumps louder
So she takes a drink
She’s acting foolish
She falls to the ground
So she takes a drink
There’s a cry for help
People still don’t care
So she starts to cry
She runs to the bathroom
All alone by her lonesome
She throws her head down in shame
So many voices in her head
So many nights like this one
They all end the same
She takes a drink
She starts to cry
She presses repeat all the time
Ok this is my writing blog
It’s going to suck so don’t be impressed