handle with Care


I want you to know, this is the hardest thing I have ever had to write. That because I can relate to this topic pretty damn well.  Death tells us: “A lot of people chase after me. More then you would think. They ask me to take them with me. And there are a small percentage who casually call me over and whisper ‘Have Me’. There was no stopping them. They were very frightened people, but it wasn’t me they were scared of. It was the fear of them messing up again and having to face themselves. And facing the world, and facing the likes of you.” I relate to this because there was a time, a long time ago, where I didn’t want to see the sun rise again. You feel like no one wants you, and that no one would care if you were absent. And the funny thing is, is that you have been absent. But, people are so self absorbed in there own fucking lives that they fail to notice the blank look on your face. I understand the feeling of thinking your [parent]s don’t want you.

Everyone fails to notice that your sad because your the one smiling and laughing, and maybe your even the one telling all the great jokes. But at night, when you are truly alone, a killer traps you in a corner and slowly eats away any shred of happiness you have. All that is left is pain, and then death. To me, and other people, this question is not easily answered. “Why do you have all these scars? What is that scar from? Why are you happy one minute and then sad the next?”  Do you honestly think we have an easy answer for that!? Or even one that we would want to share with strangers!? Some people want attention, so its easy for them to show and tell what happens at night. NOT ME!

I’m telling you this STORY because I want people to understand that people like me are in a box filled with the finest china. We have handle with care written all over us. Even the ones god forgot to mark with the sign “fragile” on there head.



Right and wrong


“This is wrong”

I thought I got rid of my mother voice from my head, but yet it was still echoing through my brain. It was muffled, but it was not silenced. At 14 years old I felt like my mind had been ignited. I wanted to know everything. I wanted to try everything.

Brush your teeth, clean your room, do your homework, clean the dishes, and other orders ingrained in me from childhood had finally stopped running through my skull. But one phrase had stuck: “This is wrong.”

Wrong means bad! Wrong means a BUNCH of red x’s scattered across a test like confetti. Wrong means your sinning and going to hell (But I stopped believing in that stuff). But, it still scared me like hell.

“This is wrong!”


Wrong is the look of confusion and pain in the eyes of the boy who slipped a note through my window at five in the morning because he wanted to know if I was thinking of him. And that he was thinking of me. Hes the boy who sat through ten showings of harry potter the day after my grandmother died. Even though neither one of us was really enjoying the movie. But there was a part in the movie where Maggie Smith’s mouth tips up to one side, just like grandmas did. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop grieving until I could watch that part with a smile, and not a sob.

Pain and confusion is covering his face. The pain of facing rejection, confusion and he can feel my body tense,  his hands are shifting restlessly, everything is moving with a want. How is it possible that a mere whisper is holding me back? He some how yanks me back into reality with no blinders to hide the darkness clouding his face.

This is wrong

A gradual change is happening.

A bound body is wrong, not the movements it might make is unshackled.

A silenced tongue is wrong, not the feelings it wants to express.

Hurting someone who loves you is wrong.

The words have not changed. But my consciousness is preserved, the influence destroyed.

“This is right!”



All my life I have been a people watcher. Not a creepy- look in your windows type of person. Countless shrinks and doctors have diagnosed me with many different things. Denationalization disorder- mostly. My mom drags me across the states to get medication and professional help- but I’m not crazy. Gazing at people with interest is not being a stalker- so I’m not crazy, my people watching has changed my life forever.

I was on my way to therapy riding in the elevator.  The doors opened a floor early and the most gorgeous looking boy I have ever seen stepped on. Kids my age aren’t interested in me.  I’m invisible to everyone.  I think that’s why I started watching people. Because I could jump up on a table and start singing the national anthem wearing nothing but a star-spangled banner draped around me and no one would even look twice. But, at this moment I was sure I was visible.  I watched him as he entered and he stared at me for a second to long. His hazel eyes were covered of a lock of dark messy hair. No one had ever looked at me like that before.

On the elevator I saw him again, and again, and again, every single Tuesday. I pretty sure when I saw him the first time it was love at first sight. Even though I’m quirky and strange- I’m still a girl. A girl who is wishing for a fairy tale ending- just like everyone else. And right there- the the dingy elevator- I knew I found my prince charming.

Soon I started living for Tuesdays. Tuesdays I would see him. I would watch him enter- and I would watch him leave- without ever saying a word. Every time I saw him All I could think was – Unattainable. 

Voosh- The doors slide open again. And like always it was my Tuesday ritual. It was the journey that made my heart fall down at my feet- a lame encounter with the love of my life. He stopped and looked at me again- his look making my crescent moon tattoo burn- and stated with plain casualness ” My name is Ryan. What’s yours?”

What!? What? I was paralyzed. My name, my name- what is it!?

Ryan looked at me whit a half smile on his face- “Your name- what is it?”