Swimmers

I passed a killer on the road today.
He was walking, just walking. We only made eye contact for a few seconds. The moment passed and he was behind me. My feet pedaling and my breath sharp, scared. Because when I looked at his eyes I saw someone's ghost.
A spirit lived inside him, and their one freedom was being able to look out of the black in his eyes and tell strangers on the road, "this man is the reason I'm dead"
The killer's hair was grey, his body sagged and tired. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, and his brow was slightly furrowed. Living for two people had beed hard on his bones, it made them creak when he got up from the sofa.
He periodically found himself forgetting, laughing even. But during those moments when he actually felt something close to happiness the swimmer inside of him would flail, reminding him that it wasn't good enough. It wasn't fair.
The swimmer wanted to tell me how it happened, maybe that it wasn't even the ocean's fault. He didn't mean to, or he was doing his duty. Maybe it was war. He had to look the swimmer in the eye before putting a bullet in his head. It could've been love, or hate, or a broken heart. It may be that he didn't know why she was calling. She called three times but he didn't know. He was busy, and she always called. How was he supposed to know there was a rope hanging from the ceiling, a chair ready to be kicked. It could've been rain on the highway. One drink too many.
It could've been a hooker from the city in a dirty motel room with a shower curtain around her throat.

It didn't matter. The swimmer knew they were dead, and the ocean knew he was the killer.

the end.

They met each other on a Thursday night. It was unusual for either of them to be out on a Thursday because Thursdays aren't like Fridays and Saturdays. There was no pressure to be social and laying in bed was a perfectly acceptable Thursday night activity. But there they were, at a crappy coffee shop on a Thursday night, listening to some friend of a friend's mediocre garage band.

The first thing he noticed about her was her hair, and how it kind of gave the impression that her head was on fire. The first thing she saw when he walked in were the holes in the knees of his jeans. She couldn't stop thinking about how nice his knees were and wondering how he got those holes.
She spent the night sipping on her chamomile and sneaking glances at him behind her bangs. She tapped her foot to the music and silently wondered if he was looking at her too. He wasn't.
He was busy making jokes with his friends and thinking about how maybe he should've stayed home on this particular Thursday. But her red hair was always in the corner of his eye, begging for his attention. Slipping into his mind and calling him towards her.

Neither of them remember how they started talking. Who said what first and if the other one laughed or looked around awkwardly. But when the music was over and everyone was telling the band they did a great job, even though they didn't, somehow she found him. And he found her, though unaware that he was even looking. Two strangers in a run down coffee shop making small talk. That night he couldn't sleep, so he went to his desk and he drew her.

Its hard to say when exactly they fell in love with each other. It wasn't a lightning romance where he takes her home from that coffee shop without even learning her last name. It was a shy love. Uncharted territory.
She fell in love with the way he smiled and the way he sang. And even though she was tone deaf he never laughed at her when she sang along. She loved his stupid jokes and how he was one of the good guys. She'd been looking for him.
He loved her for her boldness and because when any of her friends had their hearts broken, she was the one they called. He loved the way she wore dresses while they played video games. She would whine about not being able to sit cross-legged on the ground. But she kept wearing dresses. He loved the part of her that was crushingly honest. He could tell you his favorite freckle on her face.

They spent their lives going on adventures. Slaying dragons one day and filing taxes the next. She got along with his friends and they'd throw weird little dinner parties. They fought mostly about stupid things and settled the unsettle-able arguments with rock paper scissors. At night he would count the freckles on her face, but every night he got a different number. He insisted that her freckles appeared and disappeared at will and that he wasn't miscounting.
They had periodic Alien marathons.
Each day was a new quest of their own strange world.
The freezer was always stocked with ice cream.
And every Thursday night, they went out.

For Her

It seems strange, how I haven't written about you. Poets would kill for a muse like you. Authors search for you in their characters. Maybe the reason is that I think you're too good for this blog. It's about kissing boys and break ups and girls made of glitter. You are this thing of beauty. My head in your lap as I tell you about everything I'm trying to become. Your fingers through my hair, your fragile nails. In my eyes, you are everything.
And it's about damn time people knew.

You were my first muse. You watched me from the window as I built houses for the fairies and you held me when they never came. When the terror took me in the night you ran up the stairs as soon as I started screaming. You laid couch cushions on the floor by your bed and held my hand until I stopped shaking and closed my eyes.
You taught me about God. You were there the first few times I talked to him and now He and I have our own late night conversations. We talk about you, mostly.
I don't know how the world may see me but I know that to you, I am beautiful. And I am strong. And I know how to love, because of you.

We conquered the world together. Annabelle was always crying and Ethan was throwing fits. Dad was never home. Danielle was states away and Costner was sick. Everything was shattering and the pieces were covering the floors. We walked on our tiptoes and promised each other it wouldn't be like this forever.
Working late hours and wondering where all the money kept going. Welfare checks and church members leaving bags of ill-fitting clothes on the doorstep. Broken hearts and moments of hopelessness. Screaming and crying and wanting it to be over.
Only you could make me miss all that.
Because even when everything was bad, we were ok. You'd come home and we would eat dinner on the couch. Making fun of all the guys on The Bachelorette and running to the store to buy Chunky Monkey. Sleepovers and late night talks. You made me love our little life. The way you squeal when you get excited and the way we grunt instead of talking sometimes. Dancing and singing in the kitchen. Road trips and disasters. Days off, burning in the sun.

Without you I wouldn't know how to laugh. I mean really laugh. Can't breathe, red in the face, falling over, laughter. I wouldn't be nearly as weird as I am, and that would be a shame. For us, happiness wasn't something that came along in life once in a while and then left us alone. We found it and we clung to it even when sadness was pounding on the door.
Kids always grow up to be disappointed in their parents. The realization that they aren't perfect leaves them wondering if anything is as it seemed. But to me, you are everything I want to be. Growing older only made me love you more. You held us up when we couldn't be strong. You made sure we knew that we were worth something.

You are love in its purest form.

Now you're far away and some days I would give anything to see you. To listen to you laugh at all my stupid jokes. To play with your hair and tell you over and over that everything is going to be ok. You are the blood in my veins, and if people look deep enough into my eyes they will see you.

Mother, in my eyes, you are everything.

That cliché "it's a whole new year" post

I started 2013 kind of high on lortab and a little more miserable than I would admit to myself. Honestly, I was just sad that 2012 was over. "Twenty twelve" is so fun to say.

I made the biggest mistake of my life this year. I let people treat me worse than they should have, and I cried a lot. Like, a lot. I got three new siblings and my family moved to a different state. I started, and stopped, going to college. My bff/roommate/soulmate moved out and I got a new one who LOVED sports. I went to a lot of movies by myself.

But I learned how to be happy, even when everything fell apart.

I like 2014 Emily a lot better than 2013 Emily.

This Emily laughs more. This Emily is moving to London. More importantly, this Emily has kissed boys old Emily only (literally) dreamed about kissing.

she

The girl was made of glitter.

Mostly silver but when the light hit her just right she looked like every color God could think of. 

She wasn't as talented as the other kids and the boys didn't really know what to think of her. 

She was different. She left trails of glitter wherever she went. That wasn't always a good thing.

She liked heavy metal in the mornings and something acoustic in the afternoon. Her notebook had nothing but fantasies and a list of reasons she should keep on living. She would write in it at night and if she couldn't find a reason to live, the razor was waiting by the bathtub. Sometimes she wanted to do it just for the beauty of the blood in the water. Red clouds of desperation. Her glitter skin too precious for suicide.

She doesn't fear death, and therefore she fears nothing. 

"Is the car not working?"

I almost died and my only thought was "That semi-truck is going to hit us."
Time slowed down, I accepted the fact that I was going to die.
And I felt nothing.

I never knew how unafraid of death I really was.

I didn't cry until I thought of you.
How you would react. If you would cry at the airport, waiting for the first flight home. What dress you would wear to my funeral and where would you tell the kids that I went. Christmas would make you sad and New Years would just be the year I never made it to. I thought about you wishing you hadn't stopped talking to me. Who would blame who. Would you pretend to love me even if I was horrible in your eyes. Would you make up stories about us. How many tears would you waste on me when I wasn't even worth crying over. Even if we didn't particularly care for each other you don't deserve that.

I wasn't scared of dying because dying isn't the scary part. Being left behind is.

$5 per tear

Boys can't cry the way girls can.

In every cheesy romantic movie that makes us believe in true love. It doesn't matter how many times we've seen Titanic. Jack is still dead and that's worth crying over.

Crying proves that we are alive.
The way the mascara stains my face and I wrap my arms across my chest too tightly because if I let go my body will fall apart, leaving a shadow in its place. Silently sobbing because the pain is too much for frail voices and we musn't waken the neighbors. Hold our hands over our stomachs, wish there was a knife in its place.
Just because we don't want to kill ourselves doesn't mean we don't want to die.

Boys refuse to cry like us.
They refuse to be broken. To let their thoughts drift into what used to be. To let the torture of knowing what could've been ruin what is.
They straighten their posture and show the world that they're gonna be fine.
Don't you dare grieve. Don't you for one second show us that you are weak.
Get yourself a rebound and pretend to give a shit, as long as it makes you forget for a while.

But if you don't let yourself cry when you're sad you're going to be out of practice when the good things come along. The moment will pass and you'll wonder why something so beautiful made you feel nothing. Because you shut off your sorrow and with it your happiness.
It seemed worth it at the time, but when joy passes without a single tear you wish you had taken our word for it and chosen to feel. Chosen to cry.

Everything good in life is worth crying over.

When the depression is too much and my body begins to cave in I take a break from the sadness and shed a tear for everyone who loves me. For the girl who fell asleep on my birthday last year and still feels bad about it. For my best friends who wear bff necklaces even though we aren't in elementary school. For the boy I've always loved a little bit. He always seems to know when I need him. For my little brother who crawls into bed with me at night. For the people I make mistakes with. For the people who keep my secrets. For everyone who has ever told me I deserve better.

 Cry because the snow is beautiful when it falls but gets ugly with time. Cry for first kisses and moments you wish could be rewinded. For Ben & Jerry's ice cream and poetry.
Cry with all the people who won't let go of each other at the airport because its been too damn long since they could touch.

Everyone looks a little more beautiful when their eyes water.