lethargic, much?

Momma warned me about the dreadful “Senioritis.”

My inner language is crashed. The thought train launched off track and collided with a bramble of pre-calculus and other like courses. On board Love and Optimism were sharing a second honeymoon, but I haven’t recently heard of their current conditions. Crazy and Focus escaped together, but luckily there is a $10,000 reward for their recovery. (At least the return of focus would be appreciated.) Some speculate the accident occurred due to reckless thinking or possible information overload. If you have any details on this disaster, or know anything about the people mentioned above, please contact me before Mindlessness begins to reign. (I hear he’s pretty vile.)

it's been a while

"read my book with the boring ending,
a short story of a lonely guy..." blink182.


Dear ex-boyfriend,

If I could give red to someone,
I would give it to the ex.
Not a candy apple
i-miss-you
kind of red,
but a crimson
splattered
across the canvas of my
regrets
kind of red.
Because regretting is sometimes
easier than accepting
what you don’t want to
remember in the first place.

in dire need of revision

Suddenly,
I am cold, very cold.
I’m cold and I’m shaking and my heart is plummeting.
There’s nothing scarier than hearing,
“Justin wanted you to have this.
He’s going to the
Hospital.”

I’m shaking
Shaking
Shaking
Cold.
Why didn’t I tell him
I love him?
They say he’s going to be
Okay.
Okay,
Okay…
BREATHE.

I want to see him.
I want to see him right now.
I can’t be trapped in this school
When he’s trapped in metal sheets
And all I can see is the stretcher
The medics
The teachers.
No,
You can’t see him.
They talk to me like I’m
Nothing
To him.
Nothing.

Where is he going?
I want to be there with him
For him
By him.
How did it feel?
What did he think?
Does he need me?
I need him.

homage to my hands

When I was two and a half, my fragile hands held my newborn sister. Smile for the camera: now it's forever. My hands straddled monkey bars as I dangled above the earth. They cradled sand wherever I traveled. From the beach, from the lake, even at home I had the sensation of grains sliding over my fingertips. My hands were decorated with dirt and play, enough to make Mommy say, "Go take a bath, Michelle." They gripped the handlebars of my bicycle, my chariot to adventure. It always knew when I wanted to escape.

And somewhere in the depths of elementary school, lodged somewhere between kickball and Pokemon, my hands held a number two pencil and my first ratty comp book.

"Michelle's a story teller," Mommy would say. And my hands would carry my pride.

My hands have been there for me, through tragedy and triumph. They slapped the pavement of three different states and traveled five different schools: from the homely south to the bitter north. In the rural abyss of middle school, my hands held the shame of being caught between the playground and the hold Rockaway mall.

I was still lost in my youth. And my hands didn't want out.