a room for you

this room's too small without you
the light's too bright without you
the bed's too big without you
this life's too long without you.


eyes too deep
too tired to sleep
undone by trying to count sheep
playing around with no soul to keep.


so big
so small
you took it all
with your funny grin
and whispers in bed.


drip drip drip drip
my tears into this drink
bang bang bang bang
goes my heart over the brink.



<3

I Want a Famous Face

something about a girl who wants famous face. she wants desperately to be beautiful, only to be stopped by the very actress she wants to look like. taken through the paces, shown that what she wants in a lie. a deceit, an air-brushed fantasy. now that she knews the truth is really a lie, where can she go? what can she do now?a famous face is all she ever knew, all she ever wanted. "a famous looking face and i'll be a star, a dream, the biggest thing since sliced bread." it's gone now, and she has to live a real life with real friends.

please,

i ask for a lot i know. but this is something i really want. i really want it. just please, let me qualify and let me get into pearson college. i think i could really do a lot of good there.

please.

A Deal's a Deal, even with a Dirty Dealer. Pt. 1

When I was 19, I sold my soul to the Devil for the life of my then true love.

I was young, brash, and desperate. She was beautiful, kind, and terminally ill. A match made in heaven.

They say the Devil's in the details. Who would think that behind the cliched phrase so many people would find the truth? I'll tell you dear reader, if more people took that sentence to heart, there'd be a lot less pain in the world today.

Everything feels so much colder these days...there are less colors, less happiness. It's been that way for six years. Ever since she/he/it came into my life. I wander the streets now; not because I don't have a home or a life, just because I can't find anything else to do. The hours just seem to drag on now. I don't sleep anymore, couldn't really find any point in it. All those restless hours waiting for sleep to come, lying there, making patterns in the ceiling. So now I walk through these streets, drifting listlessly from place to place. I'm the one your mother warns you about, the young kid with ancient eyes and a blank expression. I've seen parents yank their kids out of my path with a fearful glance towards me.

Not that I really care. I just wander the streets, looking for somewhere to rest.

I pause for a moment; I could've sworn I saw her on the street. But I'm mistaken and I keep walking. The sky's blue today, a clear, riveting, electric blue. Like her eyes. Those huge blue eyes that seemed stare straight through me. I shiver and look down again; I still remember the endless nights those first couple years. The only thing on my mind, in my soul, was her. Then, as the years passed, the memories and the pain faded, but never the emptiness. The terrible ache is always there. It's like six years ago, someone slipped in during the night and stole my heart. Oh wait, they did, only thing is, they did it with my permission.

Something catches my eye and I glance up; my stomach drops out from under me. I'm standing in front of my old building. I haven't been near this building in six years. In a split second second, the memories flood back into my consciousness. My knees almost drop out from the force of the onslaught. I didn't think I had it in me.

Six years ago to this day, I signed away my soul for the life of one Kathryn Marie Sanders, age 20 at the time and diagnosed with a cluster of gioblastoma tumors in her brain. At that point, she had about a month to live. By that time, the doctors and everyone else, including Katie had given up all hope. She'd been taken out of the hospital and sent home to die in the peace and comfort of familiar surroundings. Most people had already been by to express their condolences, assuming she was already gone. After a while, I just got tired of contradicting them and just nodded and smiled.

We were all exhausted in those days, myself, Katie, her mother and father. At that point, we all just wanted it to end in one way or another.

It was Febuary 10, four days to Valentine's Day and we were all on edge. I came straight over from the little university she and I'd been attending before she was diagnosed. An icy, yet sunny day with the threat of a storm, the wind sliced through the thin coat I'd just barely been able to afford. The doctor's predictions had been becoming decidedly darker, her lifespan shrinking from a month to maybe a few weeks. No one could really blame them, Katie had stopped all forms of coventional medicine nearly five months ago. She said she just wanted to slip into the other world free of all tubes and needles and drugs. It was an argument she and I had been having ever since she first decided.

But I trusted her opinion.

Shedding my coat, I slipped through the little apartment we'd been sharing, careful not to make any noise in case Katie was sleeping. Jeanette, her mother glanced at me from the sink, as I checked the fridge for a smidgen of something to eat. I grimaced at the prospects. An ancient carton of yogurt or an rotted banana. Foregoing the food, I gave Jeanette a kiss on the cheek and a hug. I know that by this point, I would've been out on the street screaming at light poles without her. Jeanette smiled, it was a tired smile though. She'd been taking care of Katie while I was at school; I'd wanted to quit and be with Katie full time, but both the Sanders women had adamantly refused on that one.

I gave Jeanette's shoulder a final squeeze and headed down the hall to the bedroom Katie and I shared as well. My shoes were left by the door and I tiptoed in, poking my head in; my breath was stolen away once more at the sight of her. She was sleeping, curled up tightly under the comforter, head tucked neatly in. Her golden blonde hair shone in the light from the small window near the sofa-bed. The shadows played over her face in an interesting pattern. Quiet as I could, I crept over to the bed and slipped under the covers. Gathering her into my arms, I gently kissed the crown of her head. Katie stirred for a moment, looking up at me and giving me the smile I'd fallen in love with before nestling her head in the crook of my neck. Clenching my jaw, I held my love tight and willed the tears not to fall. I could not lose her.

With who I assumed was God as my witness, I vowed to find some way to keep her alive and well. No matter what it took.

END PART ONE.

I just realized it.


I'm still in love with her.

Not as much as before. But, I'm still in love with her.



shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. fuck. shit. shit.


i haven't thought seriously about her for three months. and now, with school looming back on the horizon, there she is again.



SHIT.

i am me. but who is me?

i am me. but who am i? what is my purpose? why do i exist on this earth? what is my main goal in life? i don't even have one. i don't know what i want to do with my life. i see so many of my friends, they've got it all planned out. what colleges they're going to, what they're going to do there, what jobs they're going to have. i. have. no. fucking. clue. what do i do with my life? if i don't even know who i am, how am i supposed to know what i want to do?

i am me.

but who is me? who am i? who am i? my heart, it beats. my soul, it speaks. but, it's in a language i've forgotten, a dialect i no longer know. it is the ancient language we have all lost. i am lost. i am without direction. i'm being pulled in so many ways, and i don't know what to choose.

i just don't fucking know who i am.


i think i once knew. once in a blue moon i'll remember it.

character study inspired from a Stephen King story.

The threat of the storm seemed to have sucked the color from everything; trees that were once filled with leaves that were a collage of fiery reds and yellows had been reduced to grey skeletons, like the ghostly specters of a child's nightmare. A vast pumpkin field sat in the mist, the gourds themselves reduced to rotting corpses, smelling of death. A willow tree's branches whipped in the wind, delicate branches swept up to the sky. Underneath the tree, something resembling a piece of paper fluttered apathetically against the root it had entangled itself in. The wind shot through the old town, slicing through the thick coats of the few brave souls couragous enough to walk down Main Street before a storm. Barely visible against the dark sky, a thin wisp of smoke curled up from the chimney of Old Buck's Store. Inside the Old Store, the older occupants watched with self-righteous indignance as what they referred to as "the young people" scurried through town in an attempt to get out of the icy mid-November wind. In their opinion, anyone with sense would've already been inside by this time.

The inside of the store was a good forty degrees warmer than the outside. Last time the thermostat was checked, it read 79 degrees. Every once in a while, the old stove would crackle and pop, sending up a fresh wave of heat. All the smells permeated through the floorboards and walls, old coffee and tea, spices and baked bread, mixed with the stench of old tobacco and wet wool. A few lanterns and lamps were strategically placed around the store, providing just enough light for everyone to see without killing themselves. Some newfangled music was playing over the sound system Annie had hooked up back in the summer when she was bored. The three men and one woman sat in their respective seats, glancing out the front window, the lettering now faded and posters half-torn, to watch the sky with grim interest.

Claire Grace presided over the long, gleaming, mahogany counter, relaxing in the old swivel chair she'd swiped from the back room. She still looked pretty good for being 56, with a country woman's frame and a city woman's face, her blonde hair barely streaked with white. She'd inherited the Store from her Daddy, Buck Grace, after he died, and the apartment above the Store and not much else. There'd already been rumors flying when she arrived in Blue Hill, thirty years past, a fresh-faced, blue-eyed twenty-six year old straight out of Atlanta. Somehow she'd survived the hostile glances and vicious whispers of being the illegitamate child of Buck Grace and Wendy Fields, the mayor's daughter, who'd fled to Georgia to escape the wrath of her father. The past three decades had softened her thick southern drawl and the hearts of most of the town, but it'd had hardened her southern hospitality into a cool wariness of strangers.

Settling back into her chair, Claire gave the store a quick cursory glance before giving the sky a covert look. The whole thing was a muddy gray, twisting with the threat of a storm. It'd yet to rain, but the wind was already worrying her enough. She'd made sure to close all the windows and lock all the doors that had a bad way of banging in the breeze. The roof was what was bothering her. Already, more than a few shingles had been blown off, and she knew that if anymore blew off, she'd be facing a wet bed. With a sigh, Claire resigned the issue to fate; she wasn't going to do much good sitting there and worrying about it.

Arnie Hatfield sat with his feet propped up on the edge of the stove, letting the heat warm his tired feet. At 68, he was the second youngest of the bunch, and the most easy-going. A hulking man of six-foot-four-inches, he resembled a walking mountain. With a thatch of salt-white hair and a beard to match, Arnie had been Santa Claus to the local kids for a good long while. He'd been coming to the store since he was a wee kid with his father back when Buck's daddy used to own the place. Through the years, he'd come to the store for many things, first for Cokes as a kid for he and his friends, then to con cigs out of Buck as a teenager, finally to buy diapers and such when his own kids came around. He'd been one of the first people to make an acquataince with Claire when she first came down. But now, after the kids had left and Janet was up in heaven with the Lord after that bad soat with cancer, Arnie had found himself drifting down the store, mumbling excuses for this and that, just looking for some company. It was only until Claire had Annie put a chair out for him that he stopped with the excuses and just came down, every day, to sit in the back near the stove and prop his feet up on the warm edge.

Closing his eyes, Arnie coughed and prepared to spit before thinking better of it. He excused himself to the tiny bathroom near the stove and quickly spat the phlegm into the sink. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the dirty mirror. His hair was starting thin quite a bit near his forehead and his eyes seemed a little more bloodshot than normal. Christ, was he really getting old? Wasn't it just last week he was escorting Janet through the door after Jackie was born? That was nearly thirty years ago. Arnie bent his head, thinking on it. No, it was thirty, nearly to the day. It was the day Buck died in the accident. Two weeks before Claire moved in. He remembered it clear as a bell. Arnie chuckled wryly to himself as he went back to his seat. He may be old, but his mind was still like a steel trap.

random

I awake to a sensation unfamiliar to me. Instead of the chill wind whipping through my body, I feel warmth and security. I know I should be worried as to why I'm not in the alley anymore, but somehow, my fear has left me in my sleep. This is wholly unnusual for me, for until this moment, I have not known a time when I was not afraid. From my childhood at the orphanage, to my adolescence haunting the streets of the city, to these past few years searching desperately for work.

Cautiously, I let my eyes slide open and I am overwhelmed by what I see. I am laying in a soft bed, in a large room, with a balcony overlooking fresh, green fields. The sun is just beginning to rise over the hills and the air is crisp and fresh as a breeze slips through the doors opening out onto the balcony. Lifting my head just a bit, I look around at my new surroundings and that is when I see you. Apparently, I have been lying on top of you, using you as a pillow, and you do not seem to have minded. I don't immediately recognize you, but in my heart, I feel that you mean me no harm. You are beautiful, but there is a worn quality to your appearance; you have seen many battles and have lived through many horrors. There is a wary peace in your sleep, your brow is smooth, but you frown. I discover I have draped a protective arm round your waist, my other tucked under myself; your own arm is lying softly on my shoulder, the other laid across your chest. You trust me, enough to allow me into your bed, though for what reason, I cannot fathom. I am a thief, a harlot, a scoundrel, and the scourge of the streets. I do not belong in a noblewoman's bed, least of all with her in it as well.

There is a tugging in the corner of my mind, telling me I need to escape before I'm discovered, but I cannot leave you. I'm trapped here, watching you sleep. The sun crests the hill and rises into the morning sky, setting your golden hair alight. Soft light spills over your face, giving it depth and detail. My fingers tremblingly follow my eyes as I gently trace your features. The fine jaw, high forehead, cheekbones like razors, cupid's bow lips. I have seen you before, but I don't know where. As I rack my mind to remember your face, you stir, drawing in breath. My muscles tense to bolt, but I don't move, captivated by you. I want to run, slip out before I'm thrown out, but I just can't, I can't seem to make my legs move as I watch your eyes open. Two eyes, bluer than sapphires, still hazy with sleep fell upon my frozen form.

I open my mouth to speak, but words seem to have forsaken me as a smile graces your lips.

all the little girls

skinny girl
fat girl
tall girl
short girl
ugly girl
pretty girl

too skinny
doesn't eat
(anorexic)

too fat
so fat the chair broke
(fatty)

too tall
bumps her head on the ceiling
(giant)

too short
looks like a freak
(midget)

ugly, so ugly
needs a bag over her head
(freak)

pretty, too pretty
slept with all the guys in school
(slut)


everyone hears the whispers, the taunts, the jeers.
no one feels the hearts breaking, the knees shaking, the falling of tears.

everyone whispers their thoughts to their friends as they walk by.
no says a kind word when they see them cry.

everyone lies and says they're their friends for all time.
no one knows the pain they feel when "they" turn on a dime.

scared little girls, all alone in this big, bad world.
no one to save them from themselves.

random things

god i'm tired. i'm always tired. probably because of my sleep patterns, but i'll probably end up doing something about it sometime this week. watched The Mummy last night. my god, rachel weisz is hot. smokin' hot almost. well, there's no almost about it. rachel weisz was and still is smokin' hot. and she's got green eyes, that's a plus for me. they're like a dark green, and kind of smoky (god I need to extend my vocabulary.) and they keep changing colors, indicative of actual green eyes. i hate it when people say someone's eyes are green when they're so obviously blue or brown. but i'm getting off the subject. who cares? no one's reading this. at least, i hope no one is. that would suck. oh well. anyway, she's got the greatest voice too, just smooth and not too whiny and not too high-pitched. although when it comes to voices, there are several other people who top the list.

1.) Kate Winslet. i love her voice. it's so deep and elegant. especially when she's not acting, but being interviewed or something, and it gets really deep and soft. *shivers*

2.) Johnny Depp. mmmmm.....especially that sexy scottish accent he had in Finding Neverland. never thought a scottish accent could be so hot.

3.) Meryl Streep. amazing, i know. but when she's not yelling or whispering, or acting, she has a very pleasant voice. it's a singer's voice, i can tell, but it's so soft and smooth, like....cream, really. especially in The Devil Wears Prada when she never ever raises her voice, and it's almost disturbingly soft. i dunno what it was about it, but it was soooooo cool. literally.

4.) Nicole Kidman. especially when she's got the accent. i love the accent. and when her voice isn't all weird and high-pitched. that's kind of creepy, but when it's that sort of raspy, deep voice that she has sometimes, god that's great.

5.) Clive Owen. mmmm...yummy yummy clive owen with his baritone(?) british accent. i could listen to it all day.....and night. ;)

6.) George Clooney. i honestly don't think i could have enough room to write all the wonderful things about george clooney's voice. it's that great.

7.) Angelina Jolie. yes, she had to be somewhere on this list. as much as i love her body and personality, it's that lovely, wonderful voice that gets me everytime. especially that laugh. god knows, i love her laugh.

and...i think that's it. i can't think of anyone else, and i have nothing else to write about right now, so....bye.