Pumpkins

He has blonde hair and hazel eyes. Not brown. There's a sort of light that stays in them, that keeps them from becoming completely brown. They're beautiful. He's tall and when he wraps his arms around me I fit inside his shape perfectly. When he laughs it makes my heart jump. Faintly. Discreetly. Politely. When I do something he thinks is cute he wrinkles his nose. He wears a bracelet on his left wrist that makes him look manly. He's the guy every girl wants to love her. Dominate. Attractive. Polite. Gentlemanly. Sweet. Who knows how to kick someones ass but also knows how to keep their cool so they don't have to. The bad boy with the good heart. The Hollywood icon.

Until him. I felt this need to rush into love. If love was cliff diving, I took a running start. I closed my eyes. And I leapt. I felt the exhilaration of the fall and the painful landing. It would take months to completely heal from it. Not only the pain from the inevitable impact, but the pain from allowing myself to leap again. To fall in love without thinking. To impose identities onto the men I loved who they weren't, and more than likely would never be.

The love I have for him breaks the mold I had made for myself. I walked slowly to the edge, allowing myself to take in the scenery. I let my toes hang off the edge and grip the ground beneath me. Held my arms out. Left my eyes open. Tipped my head back, and breathed deep. I let the wind move my hair, heard the rustling of leaves around me. And then I suddenly knew. With him, I didn't need the dive to feel the fall. The experience of knowing all the details, of learning things slowly and processing them, of realizing that I'm in love with the man and not just an idea of him.

His eyes are the shade you get when you mix chocolate and caramel. And every time we lock eyes, it reminds me that I'm falling, even though I'm still completely grounded. That every preconceived notion I had about love is essentially wrong. That I not only know his past but want to know more of it. That I not only hear it but accept it and love it because it makes him who he is today. That I don't have to be flawless to be thought of as perfect. That men can listen (yes really listen) and still love you. That he can see me. Every slip up, every mistake, every regret in my past, and still think I'm his princess.

That sometimes, happily ever after's aren't just made for fairytales,
And sometimes, your prince does come.

Numb

I remember certain things, though the whole picture doesn't quite come together the way it should. Like a jigsaw puzzle, pieces are missing. Pieces that have the ability to make the story sensible.
I remember that I was sixteen. I was blond. I had arms that liked holding his when we were in bed together. We took naps, after school. When he wasn't angry, when he wasn't mean, being around him was enjoyable. Comforting even. As if somehow a day going by where I didn't make him upset made me more worthwhile.
And there were bad days. I remember this one day. This one day his alarm clock had stopped working. He had to get up to check his sisters clock. Just shifting wrong was all it took. He got up, disappeared, and I heard something fall. I remember the hammering my heart would easily resume, as if it knew the steady thump thump thump was merely precautionary, that something dangerous was always looming around the corner in the dark. He came at me. He was yelling and though I heard him, they were words I did not understand. Nothing had happened to make him so angry. And then he was grabbing me. Yanking me towards the door. He was upset and I couldn't calm him down. He screamed that he hated me. That if I ever came back to his house he would slit my throat and leave me for his parents to find. He kept screaming at me to get out. To get out and never come back. 

And I left. I left and with every step I took my heart broke because I couldn't understand what I had possibly done to make him turn into the person I was scared of. I came home and fell into my bed and cried until I couldn't see out of my eyes. And then I just laid still. Hoping if I could stay still enough my chest would stop aching.

Hours later, I got a phone call. And he asked where I had gone. And he started promising me he had a rage black out. That he had hardly remembered what he had said. When I told him he sounded so crushed. He told me how much he loved me. How sorry he was. How he would never do anything like that to me again. How important I was to him. To please forgive him. That I couldn't possibly understand what it felt like to even go a second thinking I walked away from him. That nothing like that had happened before and nothing like that would ever happen again.

And of course I should have known better. It was not the first time he had done something so hurtful. But I foolishly believed him. Hoping, needing him to have meant it this time when he said he was sorry.

I took him  back. The next time he got mad he threw a white board at me and caused an injury so bad I still have calcified blood in my leg from it.

I realize our stories are different. I realize your stories are much more intense. Much more violent. And scarier.

But don't you ever tell me I don't understand your relationship. I walked away. I know how hard it is. And right now, the only thing that makes us different is that I'm obviously much stronger than you.

Digital

Here is a digital story I made as my signature assignment for my technology K-12 class. I figured all creative things should be placed here.

Cardboard

The wind was cool but the sun was warm, and if this day had been any other day, he would have thought the weather was perfect. He stood straight and proud, and though his breathing was steady, his fingers, they trembled just slightly as he held onto the cardboard. His sign, though it declared the truth, gave permission to everyone around him to judge him, and as three cars passed by he could feel his cheeks grow warm.
He didn't blame them, for hadn't he been the same way years ago? Back when he was a young thirty-something businessman, hellbent on success and too busy to give a glance to anyone beneath his level. He remembered that when stopping next to men like the one he was now, he would lock the car door and silently pray that they did not approach him, that they did not scuff the paint on his Lexus, his BMW, his Mercedes.
All of that was gone now, and a sad smile played around his lips while he thought about how fleeting success could be. How he lost everything with a couple of bad decisions. How the mortality rate of success is never talked about in debriefing meetings. As a car drove by and honked on its horn he blinked. Though he had never touched a drug in his life he understood why people in his position did...To numb the embarrassment of asking for help, the peacefulness of a dull mind. He could understand why people give in to those vices.
He momentarily held his breath as the light changed color and his knuckles grew white as he clutched at his sign. "Not drunk or lazy" it read. "Just going through a really hard time."

She was running late for work and it slightly irritated her, that she had slipped into the habit of leaving too late. She pulled off the freeway and drummed her fingers on her steering wheel as she started braking for the red light.  She was tuning out from the world, the anxiety of a busy work night lingering in the back of her mind. As she waited for the lights to change, from the corner of her eye she saw a man holding a sign. "Not drunk or lazy" it said. "Just going through a really hard time." You and me both, buddy. She thought to herself as she checked her watch. She heard the familiar plucking of heart strings. She was used to wanting to help everyone, but her optimistic attitude about helping the helpless had grown dimmer over time, for as she aged she realized that most of the people she gave her hard earned money to probably wouldn't even remember her the next day. Their eyes were constantly glazed with the residue of chemicals and sadness, and it was a pain that she knew she alone could not erase. But as she read his sign, her fingers stopped drumming on the wheel. She rolled her eyes, mostly to herself as she reached out for her bag. Her shoulders slumped a little as she realized she only had one dollar left in her wallet, she had wanted to give him more. She rolled down the window and held it out. She was surprised at the smile that erupted from his face, and sense of relief swept through them both. He walked to the car and thanked her, thanked her so much for helping out.

And his eyes. His eyes shocked her as she told him "you're welcome". His eyes had her asking him how his day was going, and if possible they grew even brighter. They had a small conversation, a conversation that said nothing and meant everything. His eyes were bright blue and so clear. They startled her, they were kind eyes. Eyes that had fatherly love, or brotherly adoration inside of them. They were some of the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen, and they belonged to a man who wasn't drunk or lazy, no. She knew in that moment he was just going through a hard time.  As the light turned green and she started to accelerate she could feel the tears gathering in her eyes. She turned the radio up and let the tears come steadily down her face. It was only for a moment. With a deep breath, she was able to recompose herself.

But oh if the world allowed us to look back, she would have seen that his face was wet as well.

Midnight

Still scared to look at the scars, like examining them brings the pain to the surface. Time doesn't heal scars, it just pounds them into you until they're on the inside out- and they creep into dreams and streams of subconscious.
 Sometimes I feel like everything I know is crumbling around me.

 I'll tell you a secret.
I'm gonna change the world with my lips

Blink

Even with the truth staring us in the face, we crave the lie. Our hearts pump out of sync, beating faster until we can tightly grasp at the untruth that will pacify us. You really aren't cheating, you really won't leave me, you really do still love me.

Lies. The morphine of our inner turmoil.

Less full.

I am usually unwanted and for this I am grateful and ashamed. There are pieces of myself that have not come to fruition yet, that are waiting, tender detailed pieces that are underdeveloped and meek.
It occurred to me today how mindless human beings are. How the selfish nature of our species prevents us from truly feeling the core of someone else. How when we are mindless we take away a gentleness that should be left intact.
My heart is hurting and full and it's a contradiction that mostly leaves me not only breathless but speechless. I feel, more than the average human. My empathetic nature makes me sense and observe more than I should.

And yet I still want to be more mindful. Mindful of people's positions and feelings. I feel mindfulness could take away a lot of the pain we put each other and ourselves through.

A commitment of thought. A commitment of processing that your actions have consequences on not only yourself but others as well.

I am angry and grateful. I am broken and sane.
It's a juxtaposition that constantly leaves me feeling like I want more. Like I need to know more. Like I need to teach myself to control...
Everything.