Hush, Be Still

He wraps his warm arms

Around my shaking shoulders,

Sharing his heat with me

As we hide together

Under a quilt sewn

By someone long dead.

I can just make out

The bright glittering

Of his dark blue eyes,

Can barely see the curve of his lips

Just before they descend

Upon my creased brow.

“Hush,” he mutters,

“Hush, be still.

Horrors felt shall soon disperse

Amongst those who deserve

Our terror more than us.”

Unable to calm myself,

I curl closer to his chest

And let the steady rhythm

Of his thumping heart

Lull me into a fitful sleep

Made sweeter by his presence.

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Settle Down

My parents, younger siblings and I went apple picking today, something we haven’t done in a while. Certainly not in three years; we haven’t gone and picked apples since we moved.

I’m typically a fairly predictable person: I don’t want to go outside, I don’t want to associate with anybody, I just want to stay in my bedroom and read/write/be generally antisocial. I enjoy my life as a hermit, thank you very much.

Apple picking, though, brings out a different Carissa. There are quite a few things that make me react as drastically as the pristine perfection of a nice, gritty apple plucked from a bowing tree, but few have the same nostalgic affect (effect? I don’t know…); I have more than a handful of bubbly, happy memories of reaching ever higher for that absolutely gorgeous red apple, biting into the crisp white flesh of an unwashed fruit, surrounded by towering trees that dwarf my small frame……

I must admit, though, that this time was a slight disappointment to those memories.

That’s not to say that the apples weren’t delicious, that I didn’t thoroughly enjoy myself. I did. However, the apple farm (is that what they’re called?) has become industrialized, marketed, whatever you want to call it, since the last time we visited. They rely on dumb tourists now, who want to watch pig races and milk cows and taste-test cider and ride ziplines and maybe pick a couple apples for the hell of it.

We went to pick apples because it’s fun to feel self-sufficient, to wash and polish those imperfect perfections rather than buying some waxed mess from the supermarket. I mean, it’s not as though we aren’t going to actually USE the apples; my mom plans on making apple cider, apple crisps, apple fritters, apple pies, apple juice… But this particular apple place (B.J. Reece Orchards, in Elijay) had only one tiny little portion of their orchard open, and the apples there were either too small to bother with, too high to pick, or splattered on the ground. Luckily, we managed to get a peck of half-decent apples, but the rest we just bought pre-packaged in their apple house.

Downsides to this trip: we drove a few hours to pick apples for about thirty minutes, they did not even have Granny Smith apples (at ALL!), and it was warm for October. And my siblings were extremely obnoxious in the car, which caused a headache and a bruise on my ribs.

Upsides to this trip: there were multiple, but most importantly: APPLE DONUTS. On top of that, we bought delicious apples, cold apple cider, raw peanuts (we make our own boiled peanuts now- yum!), an enormous cabbage, a trip into memory lane, and the realization that not every good experience ought to remain untainted by reality, because sometimes disappointment is liberating.

If the good is not quite as wonderful as we remember, is not everything better than it feels?

Save the Man

Darkness

Darkness so absolute

The sun strains to break free

Of the black bonds that hold it.

Darkness so complete,

So consuming,

We hide beneath our blankets

And hope we’ll be saved.

We won’t.

For who can save themselves

From a foe with no fears.

No regrets.

No sorrows.

A foe so indifferent

The evilest of men

Cowers in its sight.

A foe so disgusted by us,

The stain of humanity,

It picks us off

One.

By.

One.

The darkness slips into us,

Tainting our souls,

Creating monsters,

Shadows,

Black reflections of what we once were.

There’s something about darkness

That wears us to the bone,

Stripping away years

Of carefully constructed walls

And allowing the poison to seep in.

Seep into our dreams,

Our nightmares.

There’s something about darkness

That draws us in.

Who can save us from the evil?

And the burning

Of a soldier who just wasn’t quick enough;

Of a baby who just wasn’t ready.

The burning of past, present, and future:

Because somewhere, everywhere,

There’s always something burning.

Burning.

Drowning.

Drowning in a sea of iniquities.

Save the man

The man who told his ailing wife

That to die would not be such a terrible thing

If they were to do so together.

So that night,

Under the stars they danced to,

They do.

The next morning,

With the daylight dew;

Three bullets-

Two bodies-

One love.

Policed declared it suicide,

But those of us who know

(Who know the darkness)

We called it beautiful.

Should I Stay or Should I Go

We’re having a Sadie Hawkin’s dance on Halloween and I decided to be a gross sappy girlfriend and do a gross, sappy invitation for Garrett. I have been working for literally hours, but finally…

Picture0001 Picture0002

YAY!

I still have to write my words along the side and whatnot, but the worst is over. Now I think I’m going to go to bed before I decide to do anything else crazy. Or my hand falls off. (It really does hurt. I’m a perfectionist AND my colored pencils weren’t sharpened AND my sharpener was broken. Though admittedly I did take a break to watch X Men: Days of Future Past. Good movie, I’d recommend it for anybody.)

I hope that doesn’t constitute as complaining… oh well.

I’m still extremely proud of myself.

Willow

I’m one of THOSE people… you know, those writers who start writing a book then get discouraged and/or start a new story and give up on the first. At least THIS time I have a pretty good excuse: my mom got pissed off because I curse (a lot…) in Existentially Fraught and I’m forbidden from writing books with curse words. And since half of the story line in EF revolves around said cursing… -.-

Anyway, I’ve started a new book called Reliquit, about a girl who’s run away and meets this man who helps her accept her past, yada yada yada. (It’s not romance, I swear. She’s 16 and he’s like 24 or something- not entirely sure what age I’m going with for him as of yet.) I’m not sure where it’s going, but I like the beginning and I’m incorporating a few of my favorite things: Latin, guitars, cats named after ancient philosophers, and road trips.

That’s all I have to say. I just wanted to share.

Afterlife

OMIGOD GUYS I’M NOT GOING TO COMPLAIN RIGHT NOW BE PROUD OF ME!

Anyway, I just want to express how hard the reality of all this *waves hands noncommittally* hit me like half a minute ago.

I was looking at my blog’s stats and finally comprehended what the numbers were telling me: my first post was 22 days ago.

TWENTY-TWO DAYS.

Here are more numbers for you: 25 posts, 130 views, 67 visitors, THIRTY-TWO FOLLOWERS.

Now, I might be freaking out for no reason: for all I know, that’s pretty typical for blogs on WordPress. I’ve only ever used Blogspot before, and I didn’t get noticed AT ALL. I was just another blog in an enormous blogosphere (that’s a thing, right?)- and just a kid on top of that, which meant not a Mommy Blogger or Foodie Blogger or Video-Gamey Blogger or DIYie Blogger or any of the other “eeeee” bloggers that spent half their lives living and the other half editorializing that living.

Basically, I want to say thanks to all of you lovely people who read my awful poetry and put up with my endless complaining.

You’re why I keep posting 🙂

(Well, that and I have no life… but we’ll just nicely overlook that unfortunate fact for now.)

Four In the Morning

Four in the morning

Can’t sleep for the thoughts

And regrets and emotions

And possibilities that swim

Through the deepest corners

Of my drowsy mind

Four in the morning

Haven’t closed my eyes

Haven’t turning off the light

For darkness breeds

The blackest things

Monsters with fangs

Made of broken dreams

Four in the morning

Tried humming but the lyrics

Fall short of combating silence

That blankets my lungs

In cloth made of quiet

Four in the morning

Counting the minutes

Drawing nearer to when

My alarm will ring

Waking those who find

Sleep comes like an old lover

I’m always the last awake

Sleepily roaming halls

Four in the morning

Oppressive worries keep me up

Way past delirium

And almost until

Five in the morning

Gives You Hell

If there’s one thing I despise, it’s when people slut-shame others, be they male or female- though I’ll admit it’s more likely for the shamed to be female and the shamer to be male, at least in my experience.

I’m speaking specifically of one boy at my school, who will go unnamed for my own sake (just thinking about his stupid name makes me want to punch something inanimate; actually typing it might cause my computer to burst into flames). This boy, this child, calls me a slut and a whore every time he sees me. He makes snide, sexual comments, and if he isn’t alluding to sex than he’s insulting me, whether it’s physically (i.e. “ugly hoe”), mentally (“dumb blonde”), or socially (“friendless whore”).

I’m sick of it.

Yes, in the very beginning of this shit (about a year ago?) I was fairly calm about everything; I tried to just joke around, roll my eyes, etc. I’m not a ridiculously kind person, and I just figured I’d said something that made him angry and he was slowly getting revenge. I felt I deserved it either way. (I was in a darker place than I am today.) Besides, we occasionally hung out during class, and I trade petty insults with some of my friends so I thought perhaps he’d picked up on that.

Now it’s pissing me off.

This boy and I do not associate with each other aside from a few chance meetings in the hallways, and our shared lunch period. We do not move in the same social circles (though I despise cliques, I’ll admit that there are certain groups I do not want to hang out with), and we do not have any shared classes.

Yet every damned day it’s “hey, whore” or “*cough* slut” or any one of the million ways he manages to work in an insult as we pass each other. I’m not one to stand down when somebody talks shit about me, but I’m at the point where I can’t even muster up a good “fuck off, asshole.” any longer. Hell, I don’t even bother flicking him off. What’s the point? Nothing I say or do will make him stop.

I am not a slut.

I am not a whore.

I am, however, a bitch. Keep fucking with me, and I’ll make sure it’s anatomically impossible for you to procreate.

Bite My Tongue

There are teardrops dripping

Over my ever-smiling lips;

Their salty sweetness

Is so familiar a taste

I could almost describe it

In my deepest sleep-

That is, I could

If only I ever slept.

My cheeks ache

With the echoes of a million

Fake grins and hollow laughter.

Nothing holds my attention;

How could it, when I am so empty

That even the warmth

Of his strongest hugs

Can’t fight away the darkness

Eating away at my heart,

The way they used to

When my eyes were dry.

Unsteady

I plan on complaining right now. Go figure, right?

So, for those who don’t know (and none of you do), I have an absolutely shitty relationship with my mom. I suppose that there have been a couple pretty big mistakes I’ve made that lended to this, but all in all I’m not honestly that bad of a kid, in comparison to some of the crap people I know do. I mean, I spend 80% of my free time writing. There’s not much trouble to get into just writing all the time (unless you’re somebody like E. L. James, who I am most certainly not).

And, seriously, I’m fifteen. I’m supposed to make stupid mistakes and fall in love and ignore authority and figure out who the hell I am as an individual.

There’s a lot done in my house that severely undermines my ability to figure that out. First of all, the laptop I’m working right now is sitting in my kitchen. In my kitchen. You try enjoying some (occasionally naughty) fanfiction while you’re sitting in your goddamn kitchen with your parents and two siblings walking past constantly. Second, my mom has some spy software on the computer that gives her access to everything I do online. I don’t know the extent of what she can and cannot see, but let me just point out that she’s made an account on almost every single website I’m on just to keep up with what I’m doing. Third, I’m not allowed to go anywhere. It takes a million years of begging and pleading to do anything, and even then I often have to pull out of whatever the plans were at the last minute. I haven’t gone anywhere with friends, just me and friends, since January. I haven’t had a sleepover since December of 2012. Fourth, I have no privacy. My parents come into my room at all hours of the night and occasionally decide to ransack my belongings. These are seriously a few grains of salt to the dozens of other examples I could give.

But I seriously think I’ve reached the end of my rope.

I’ve known for a while that Mom gets a notification whenever I text or get a text. She uses it to make sure I’m not texting during school, which I guess I sort of understand but at the same time, if my teachers don’t care then I personally don’t think she should, either.

However, it has recently come to my attention that Mom also has the ability to read every. single. one. of my text messages.

Of course, my first thought was an enormous Oh. Fuck. My second thought was a garbled mess. My third: Garrett’s going to panic.

See, I’m a teenager. I like to flirt with my boyfriend and complain to my best friends and discuss sex and tattoos and moving out and college and I curse. A lot. More than all that, though, I like to have a little bit of fucking privacy.

I’m not perfect. Nor have I ever pretended to be. But this… this crosses a line. When my thoughts and my emotions can’t be private, I’m ready to fuck over everything and just leave.