Sometimes I feel as though I’m being kept around just for the chaos factor. Chaos loves me. It’s easy for me to cause mayhem (Intentionally or not) and maybe that’s all I am to some people- a part of the recipe that equals fun slowly crossing the border to danger.
Archive for the 'Prose' Category
When someone I care about is crying I can never say anything, so I jut hold their hand or kiss them. I always wondered why physical contact between people was such a comforting thing: as if when we’re born we know that being held could fix everything, for a moment.
One of my teachers mentioned that it would be wonderful if we were like native plants so that we could regenerate after we burned, and we’d be better than before. I imagined sprouting strong scar free hands after accidents that I would gesture wildly with, even more than I do.
Once someone was bending my wrist back so that it like it would break. I panicked and said “You’re hurting me, stop!” etc. Eventually he stopped and a few hours later I thought about it and realized I literally felt ashamed for being in pain, when someone was hurting me.
Once I had a dream where my feet were humongous. They were monstrous. I had trouble putting them in my bed, because they were so big they kept falling out, and my blanket was only able to cover one at a time. I couldn’t get up to tell someone what had happened to me. My feet were too big to walk in. The rest of my body was normal teenage girl sized, but my feet were strange things at the end of my legs. Then my shins seemed to get longer, because my feet got farther away. I tried to reach down and touch them but my damn legs were too long. My toes were as long as my fingers. When I woke up my sheets were twisted around my ankles, and I felt so disoriented.
I always have the same dream when I am delirious with a fever. People are in a calm looking muted meadow, my friends and family, and they are yelling things at me and I can’t hear them. It is like a jumble of words that should be loud and piercing but are actually soft. The meadow is very beautiful, like a proper dream, and I can’t hear what they are saying. Sometimes my hands are so big that they make me awkward. This dream always feels very real.
I’ve come to the realization that I hang out with the bad crowd sometimes.
You know those people. A lot of these people smoke and drink underage, a few of them are gay, all of them swear their motherfuckin’ heads off, some of them put getting as high as a kite on their to do list regularly, a fair bit of them have taken joy rides on abandonned trolleys on highways at 10:00pm (Don’t ask how I know this), my parents would hate them if they knew about them. With good reason. I don’t do any of these things.
Except maybe smoke, if my friends are feeling generous. And there’s nothing wrong with a joyride. I think.
But I hang out with them sometimes because they are a good time. They make me laugh, and they like me for who I am. I don’t care about substance abuse if you’re like this. If you’re a sex/food/drug/whatever addict, I don’t care, as long you’re not a dickhead. Then it’s alright. My morals are pretty weak. But it’s okay, because I turned out okay.
So the sky is fading slowly into orange and we both look out our hands, the ground. And now you’re doing your shrinking act, pulling your legs into your chest and glancing at me with refined concealed trepidation.
