I – Insecure

When you hold me, I am not fully there

I am not…I am not aware of all that is between us

Stuck in my own head I grin and bear it

Suck it up and pretend to love it

Your soft whispers and Your wondering eyes

Your hands that hold, gently touching mine

To insecure to let you know

I stopped loving you a long time ago

I used to crave your every word

Lusted for you when the nights were cold

But something changed inside of me

Slowly, slowly I started to grieve

I am not beautiful as you say

Nor am I smart

Wise

Kind

Or brave

I am not a women worthy of your lies

But I guess this shouldn’t come as a suprise

I was never happy with myself

So I pinned it on everyone else

Found my heart in broken things

As if fixing them would fix me

You were just as lost as me

Yet here you stand as proud as can be

I resent this love you feel so deep

Because it can no longer placate me

As you whisper

As you hold

I can feel my heart growing cold

I do not love you anymore

Of this I am aware

Yet I will go on pretending

Praying with all my heart that you can fix me

A/N this took awhile. Sorry about that.

G – Gripping

I am not a fan of writing cliches, acually, I am a huge fan but I am not always tolerant of them.

The basic bad boy who turns his life around thanks to naive little pretty girl who think she is ugly.

Of course they have the techy (or sassy) best friend who is constantly by their side.

They are cliches because they work. We see the princess ready to leave her dull and unappreciative world behind and we wiggle in our seats. We see the handsome warrior who could kill with a single touch bow down to a common women.

“Love is a fickle thing” , we sigh into our drink cups. Clutching our books closer to our face.

But

There is still a problem with them.

Cliches allow readers to a greater understanding of where the story might be going. Rarely do we get stories that pan out a different way. YAs usually end with the girl getting with the outcast. The only times she ends up with the guy who “socially acceptable” is when the other ends up being a villian or is a tool.

The young boy who is trying to avenge his family will manage to do so but it will always come at a cost. His mentor or a family member will die within the first few books, maybe even the first few chapters. He may end up with a love interest but rarely will they stay together.

So I always know what story I am getting when I start to read. I know how it will end even if I do not know all the details that will lead to that point.

As I said before, cliche are considered such because they are overused but because they also work. There are only so many ways a story can go and patterns are really hard to deviate from. Yet, many readers and publishing companies expect writers to always be original no matter what. If they are not then there is a good chance their book will not be accepted.

Should we celebrate that fact?

I do not think so.

I despise cliches but I also love them. I am comforted by the fact that I can see the ending a mile away. Because I live for the journey. I live for those moments where the author gives me something I was not expecting. Like a book in which the sick person truly does die at the end.

Or a story where the boy was not able to avenge his family.

A story where the couple breaks up at the end

Or maybe one where, dispite the odds stacked against them, the villian is the one who wins.

I love those moments of uncertainty and I love those moments of clarity.

I guess it is the weirdo in me.

After Motherhood

I once cursed a friend for not caring. She laid her hand on my growing belly and told me I was lying about the pain. Stretch marked marred my flesh and yet she begged me to cry. Said it would help if I just downplayed my emotions.

Feelings hurt the baby you see.

Every laugh

Every cry

The baby feels it.

She felt that I was lying about the pain. Said it would go away as she stroked my aching breast. The one dripping milk upon her dust filled carpet. Tugging away only brought her closer. Her words like ember upon my burning flesh.

A child lay dying inside of me and yet she said it was worth it.

I should be happy with the gift given to me. The chance to explore feelings once more. My happiness at being with child destroyed its very soul.

There should be no pain, at least that is what she is telling me.

Running her hand along my slit as I force the heart from my body. Grey tones and broken bones but I should feel no pain. It isn’t worth it, she said, it’s all a lie.

I cursed a friend for not caring. For saying that my pain was fake. She told me I was lying as I laid my heart to rest. But I guess the curse was worth it.

Updaters

I did not post anything December which is kind of a first for me in a long time. I have tried blog something at least once every month for the past year or so. I am not really sure what happened since the holidays is not exactly a good enough excuse not to write. This has actually been one where I didn’t have a lot going on. I mainly sat home with my daughter so yea.

I have been trying a new style of writing but I am not exactly sure if I like it. Mainly because I have no idea if I can consider it a new style when I didn’t really have one in the first place XD. I have always been all over the place when it came to writing and I highly doubt that will ever change.

This sounds a bit stilted so I am going to end this here but I thank everyone who has been on this journey with me and wish you all a happy near year…days overdue I know…I am not really all that sorry.

Oh goodness this sounds horrible. I feel like I am typing literal trash. Not figurative trash but literal trash. I need to stop. Brain cells are dying.

Current event

I don’t want to do anything. Everything feels like to much of a hassle. Dulled compared to what it used to be. At least I think it did. Hard to tell what’s normal now. What used to be.

I think I was happy. Once

I think I smiled and liked to joke about horrible things. Things that made others pause and question my sanity. I know I giggled once when someone accused me of being a conservative. As though my ability to find humor in a horrible situation made it so I applauded the suffering of loved one. I do not know why I wasn’t insulted though.

But now. Things are different. Days blend into one another. They slowly become something I despise. These days and there repeating events, day in and day out. I think I am afraid of change but I remember a time when I welcomed it. Not with open arms but with open eyes. Recognized it as vital but now

Now I sit and bask in the glory that is nothing. At least, that is the more preferable lie.

A friend like me

A/N for some odd reason this posted as a blank page. So lets see if we can try this again.

I wanted to hurt you
So I wouldn’t be alone
Wanted to make you hate
So I wouldn’t do it on my own
I ignored all the signs
That said you where near your end
In my rush to find a like minded friend
I destroyed what made you good
I just wanted someone beside me
Who would suffer as I did
I didn’t see it as a problem
I felt that, overtime, our pain would solve them
I didn’t see you gasp for help
Was to busy cutting you like everyone else
As you lay bleeding in my image
I felt that we could win this
What a terrible friend was I
To live you alone to die
I just wanter you to suffer
Wanted you like no other
But I never wanted to be alone

A letter

Dear Father,

I never really liked my name. As a kid I hated how it meant that I was your child. I felt that the title didn’t explain all that I was in life. Jessica, child of Jesse, a common nobody that not even her father could bring himself to love. As a child I convinced myself that the best thing to do is hate before others had the chance to hate me. I remember the few times of happiness I felt I would instantly try and force it down. I didn’t deserve happiness.

When I was 10 I decided I would give myself 10 more years of life before I killed myself. I decided this after you had yelled at me for one reason or another. I remember holding a mini funeral for myself…my little self.

I killed the part of me that made me Jessica.

Jessica was unloved and unwanted. I thought this would make life easier.

But then came the voices…and the shadows.

I hated being in small spaces. I was fine with animals lurking about but small places like bathroom and closets gave me nightmares. I could feel people staring at me. I could hear people whispering. They wanted to hurt me. They convinced me that you wanted to do the same. I couldn’t trust anyone.

Killing myself did not go as planned but it was to late to go back now.

After while the shadow became that of a little girl. Jessica had came seekimg her revenge. It got to the point where being alone was the only way to keep her at bay. I hating sleeping because she was always there. I had nightmares all the time. I would wake up crying and had to sneak into my sister bed just so I could sleep. She wasnt a huge fan of that so I would often sleep under her bed. People didn’t crawl on me or grab me when I was under her bed. During storms I would sleep under the window. It probably wasn’t the safest places but no one hurt me when it rained but they screamed, oh god did they scream so loud.

When my sister was gone I just didn’t sleep. I begin to fear the dark so stayed up crying or writing or reading. Hurting myself whenever sleep got to close.

I spent my days sleeping or reading because she couldn’t reach me during the day time. She wouldn’t dare… The consequences of my fears made it so people hated me anyways. I couldn’t prove to others that the voices where there. No one else saw the shadows.

After awhile the whispers stopped. They didn’t go away completely but they did stop.

Father, I grew up believing you hated me. This was probably because I hated myself. Even now I do not understand how you can even talk to someome as damaged as me.

I look at my daughter and I pray to whatever god is listening that she doesn’t turn out like me.

As I have aged I no longer fear the dark. Small places comfort me, especially if there is a furbaby to keep me company.

I haven’t told anyone about the voices. No one important anyways. Over the years I have actually denied them being there. But they are here. No longer yelling or whispering but I can feel them judging me. I know what it means to see or hear things.

Dear Father

I really don’t know what to do anymore. I guess I could tell you that I am fucked up but you already know it.

At least, that is what she is telling me.