"

I love arguing for the sake of arguing
I thrive in debate, in the battle of language
I live for the moments when men falter in their thoughts
When women purse their lips and wonder where they went wrong
And I relish in the moment- the moment when the ground shakes
And the pulses rise and the gears in the brain
Spin like windmills.


I love arguing for the sake of questioning
Where the definitions of right and wrong
Dance so close
No one can tell where one begins and the other ends
I just want the electricity in your mind
To flow through a different circuit
And light up the world.

"


— a. m. s.  (via every-word-handwritten-45)

I get frustrated because I hate being lied to. I hate small talk because it feels like one giant lie and I know I am wasting my energy and my time and my life talking about weather we both clearly experienced. And I hate that other people expect to be lied to. They wait for the small talk like a lifeline because at least they’re socializing but I feel awkward and stupid because I don’t want to talk about the rain when we could talk about what your passions are, or your pet peeves, or those things you won’t even whisper to yourself in the night because you are afraid their very mentioning will bring them to life.

I have eyes, I can see the weather. But ti takes more than eyes to see you.

"Am I good enough for you yet?"

— an eight word story

When I was nine,
I had a friend who was always begging to be older.
Nothing wrong with that.
That’s what made her happy,
So I told her to go for it
When she was eleven,
she told me she couldn’t wait to get her period
because it would mean she was finally a woman.
I thought she was crazy.
Why the hell would anyone
want her period?

She started to wear the shortest skirts to school,
Peeling off her leggings as soon as
she made it to a bathroom,
and slipping them back on
before she left for home.

She told me one day
that she was jealous of me, and angry.
According to her, I could have
any guy in the school if I tried,
apparently I just didn’t try.

I laughed at her.
One, I most definitely could not
have any guy in the school
(despite what she thought, I had tried).
Two, a really attractive guy had told me
I looked like a Lord of the Rings elf.
Why would I want just “any guy?”
Mere mortals are beneath me.

"I just feel right when I’m writing. It’s not like I’m missing a piece of myself when I’m not writing or anything so dramatic as that. It’s mostly just that when I write, there’s just this kind of… I don’t know, like a settling inside of me. Like there’s this sort of discomfort when I’m not scribbling or doodling or running ink across a page. Usually, I hardly notice the discomfort, but when I sit down to write, I wonder how I ever made it through the day"

— me, when people ask why I love writing so much

Eyelashes

Ink black,
a fountain pen well
curving gently up to caress the ridge,
then down again to the purple pool.

You traitor.
Protector turned abuser.
Rather than life-guarding you jumped into the pool 
and drowned yourself.

I finally fish you out,
"Make a wish," they say.
I wish to never see you again,
and fling you to the ground,
watching you writhe like the worms beneath my feet.

Said the Gun to the Handcuffs

Sleek, small. 
I am steel and the Big Bang, 
I am powder lit at both ends.

You wach me breathe the hammer
back into myself and immediately
jump to stop me, the cold
bracelets biting my wrists and
people say, “don’t turn yourself into
a puddle just because he is afraid of
the sea.” But I am not a puddle and
I am not the sea. I am fire, and even
fire can be tamed, and if anyone deserves
to tame me, it would be you.

So I hold my explosion inside,
allowing your cold to sedate me.
It destroys everything I am,
but it was worth it
to see you smile again

Growing pains

When I was six years old,

I would still talk like a baby.

My mom always talked about

how much she loved their smell,

so I tried to act like one to make her happy.

When I was nine,

I had a friend

who was always begging to be older.

She started wearing make-up and short skirts at age ten.

I thought, “Nothing wrong with that,

she looks a little silly, but I that’s what makes her happy,

go for it, man.”

Then, when she was eleven, she told me she couldn’t wait to get her period

because it would man she was finally a woman.

I thought she was crazy.

Why on earth would anyone want her period?

Just the other day, at age twenty,

I made a joke to one of my friends

about how we “Shouldn’t say the double hockey sticks part.”

We spent the rest of dinner laughing like idiots at stupid jokes like

“What the he are you eating?”

“What the he are you trying to say?”

“What the he is wrong with you?”

I didn’t mean to grow up.

But then one day you came back from the doctor

who gave us the news that you,

one of the strongest women I knew,

one of the adults who molded the clay of my life into something useful,

someone who smiled through this news and every other,

you had a few months to live.

You smiled through your pain

and told your two beautiful daughters

it was gonna be alright.

But I knew it wasn’t.

And suddenly my body felt too small,

so I tried to carve my way out of it.

What the he is wrong with me?

It wasn’t my disease,

but I let it consume me anyway,

because you had a family to live for.

What did I have?

I prayed your cancer would transfer to me

as if life were little more than a bank account,

and living little more than the job that paid the bills.

I didn’t want to hurt myself, I just wanted to heal you.

I didn’t want to grow up,

didn’t want to bear the weight of your suicide as my cross,

but every pill you swallowed drove a nail deeper into my hand,

until my guilt spilled across my palm and pooled at my feet

growing deeper and deeper until it drowned me.

I avoided growing up because it hurt,

but then I came home to the news that

you were going to get the liver you so desperately needed

and so obviously deserved.

I thought, “Maybe this growing up thing is turning around,

Maybe I can do it after all.”

I woke up to the news that you had died on the table

that was supposed to save your life.

Given the track record,

I should have expected this.

And I’m sorry, but I was empty,

I had nothing left to feel.

I had exploded,

and even covered in blood,

the sticky steam coiling off me like the sunrise mist,

I still felt Nothing.

Nothing was all I had left.

Please, forgive me.

Their blue sparkles out at me, the same as my dad’s:

darker than crystal, but not quite as deep as the ocean.

You keep them glued to your children.

You smile, and blink slowly, and in that motion, I can see how tired you really are.

(Life is just a bank account and living little more than the job that pays the bills.)

Do your beautiful eyes ever feel as heavy as the rest of you?

You blink slowly. “I’m fine.” But you won’t look at me.

HW