self-reflection vol IV

I know I haven't touched this blog in a million years, and it's not for lack of trying.  Anyway, here's a sort of messy post about self-reflection that I've been working on for a while.  Don't worry, I'll be back for good this time.

What I know is this: I am allowed to feel things in a way that might be suffocating for others. I am not easy to love, and I know that. I am fragile with bones like matchsticks. I break easily. My lungs are full of glass; my teeth fall out in my dreams. I have shaky hands when I'm nervous. I am wide-eyed and soft. I take forever to eat meals, and I don't care. I sit in the bathtub until the water gets cold, I eat oatmeal frequently, and I don't always say nice things.

I am a human body with human emotions that don't always make sense. I get jealous about things I shouldn't be jealous of. I miss people that I have no right missing. I cling onto things that I should really just let go. I'm not very good at moving on, but I'm very good at remembering. I'm excellent at falling for boys that don't matter, and boys that really do matter. I end up writing weird poems about each and every one of them, scribbling out words just to remember the feeling. I get carried away, I get ahead of myself often, but it's only because I can't love anything halfway.

I walk around like I own the place, but if you really looked at me, you'd see that I'm scared of a lot of things. For example: I am scared of horses, deep water, and the future. I'm good at creating catastrophes out of stupid things. I'm dramatic about my own life; when I'm alone I pretend I'm the only person in the world. I'm really good at writing on walls, scratching tally marks into my life. I've been alive for 8,543 days and counting. I wear just enough eyeliner to make you look twice, and dark nail polish to make you wonder where I've been. I laugh at my own lame jokes. I'm sassy and loud sometimes, but only if you know me. I tiptoe through movie theaters, I use my finger to draw on windows in the winter, I ride the train when snow covers the roads.

I don't try to make people love me the way I used to. Take me or leave me, it's up to you. I used to think I could make a person love me. I know now that I can't. I am learning to just be me, I can't expect love and devotion without first giving it to myself. I have flowers growing out of my heart, and I don't want them to die again. I've only kissed two boys in my life, and I'm not ashamed of that. I refuse to settle and I'm picky. That's okay.

I have soft hands that are good at tracing circles on your back; I have lips that are learning how to say your name properly. My ribcage pokes at you like knives, it's going to take a lot for me to let you in. I don't know how to let someone love me, but I'm an expert in how to be let down. My heart longs to give away all the years of love I've stored up, and I know that one day I'll explode with that love.

I am a good listener who may not give the greatest advice in the world, but damn I can listen to a problem or two. I may be clumsy to understand the way you touch me, or why you can't stop staring, but I think it's worth the awkward moments. I get cold easily, but that just means I own a lot of blankets. I can make a killer grilled cheese sandwich, even if I can't always be bothered to make any sort of meal at all.

Here's the thing: I will not apologize for being emotional, or for telling you exactly what I'm feeling. I will not apologize for being independent, or for not knowing what to say all the time. I will not apologize for texting first, for calling unexpectedly, for saying I miss you. I will not apologize for feeling things more deeply than you.

I'm a little bit awkward, and a little bit intense. And I'm finally okay with that.

"Things break. This is the first law of any beauty. Gravity. The way islands are made. I am the list of things you will break."

-Sampson Starkweather

xoxo,

rachel.

MIA, Et Cetera.

*disclaimer: i wrote this over like seventeen days. it's ugly. i keep revising it and revising it, but it's not getting any better. seriously, this post is a mess. also, it won't kill me if you never read it. whatever. it's more for me than anything, anyway.*

Oh, hey. Remember me? Sort of MIA for a while. I'm not entirely sure how to come back to this blogging-thang, or if I even want to. (I mean, I really want to, but I don't really know how.) There's been about 54 drafts since my last post, but you'll probably never see any of them in their half-written shining glory-puke.

The entire world isn't sparkly and bright and sexy like I wish it was, but whatever.  I'm lost in this weird semi-hidden void I call My Insane Mind That Won't Shut Up, which is filled with unwritten poetry, dried-out paint, and a blackhole the size of Oregon.  But the real live scary thing is this: There's no one there but me. I'm trying to get out of it, at least, I'm trying to remember how to talk to actual humans.  Do you want to know how many actual real friends I have right now in the exciting! land of Provo? Two. And one of them moved last week.

I mean, yeah, I know a lot of people. I talk to people (sometimes). But people I actually hang out with on a regular basis and make connections with and regularly talk to? There's not a whole lot.

I guess things are just easier when you can sit on your bedroom floor listening to The Arctic Monkeys and The Smiths and not talk to anyone, ever. (Also, you can do this in the school library. Except then you have to avoid couples that make out between bookshelves on the third floor. Holla.)

Oh, hi, my name is Rachel and I suck at making friends. I used to be really good at it, back in middle school or something. I had a lot of friends, and a Best Friend Group with nicknames and all that jazz. Then I went to high school and sort of kept those friends, and sort of didn't. It really depended on the day of the week. Then I did this thing where I started to quit caring what people thought about me and a lot of people walked out of my life for good, and a few really good wonderful people walked into it. I wish I knew those people better.

I guess what really happened was College: Year One, or The Year I Forgot How To Make Friends. This was the real beginning of my slow descent into becoming this weird dream-zombie girl with zero friends. I moved to Orem, and I started hating everyone just because they weren't people I already knew and loved and wanted to keep knowing. Or I was scared of them. I mean, I do this thing where I get really invested in people, and I make them out to be some glorified pretty version of themselves and when they leave, I get really sad and think I won't make any friends as good at them ever again. It's stupid. It's ridiculous. It's probably why I don't have that many super-good-best-friends. I'm too scared I'll get way too invested and they'll leave forever.

Provo was good to me in the beginning. College: Year Two started off with good people and good weather. I decided I'd make a million friends and find a good College Best Friends Forever group. And I thought I did. Then October happened and hey, I had two friends that stuck around and that was it. The good news: those two people are even better than the glorified pretty versions of themselves I created. They are the ones that actually wonder what happened when I disappear in my room for days without talking to anyone. They are the ones that actually stayed. Then one of them moved and I'm worried I'll forget how to still be friends.

What's weird for me is that out of all the people I've ever met, I keep finding pieces of people I've invested myself into in everything around me. His shoes are the same as my high school best friend's. Her earrings are something my middle school neighborhood BFF would buy if I still know her. The way that boy says the word 'anyway' is the same way a boy I knew in high school spoke to me. I keep finding little bits of everything I've loved in my friends, in other people. But I still can't force myself to make friends like that again because I sort of forgot how to.

The whole thing is confusing/strange/weird and I kind of feel like I'm just really disconnected from everyone. Ignoring people and refusing to make small-talk is one of those things I'm really, really good at. I know, I'm hard to love.*

Whatever.

I started writing again. And my heart felt like it was bleeding onto the pages of my journal. I picked the scab off and bled a lot of the words I couldn't say in the last few months. I tried to say them out loud, but nothing came out. I keep finding myself hiding behind the silence. It's easier, you know? Actually saying things out loud brings the pain to the surface, makes it more permanent, and what am I supposed to do with that? Actually admit that I'm lonely? 

A few nights ago I went to an event that made me nostalgic for days I haven't seen in two years and people I forgot I loved.  I fell in love with words again, and I started emerging from this weird dream-zombie state I've been living in since November.  I mean, it's going to be a process. And it's definitely going to be hard. But it's going to happen, because if it doesn't, I'll miss out on all the wonderful people that are around me right now. There's so many people with so many things that make them who they are. What's the point of it all if I miss out on really meeting people in my life? Yeah, I guarantee I'll make up some glorified pretty version of said person, but if I give it a chance, maybe I'll find myself some College Best Friends that will stick around. At least for a little while.

"You lick your lips. You taste like years of being alone." -warsan shire
xoxo,
rachel.


*I wrote a weird half-post about this way back in December 2013. Maybe if I'm brave enough, I'll dig it out of the archives and post it. Maybe. 

**I'm sorry if this came off as dramatic, angsty, or overall terrible. I don't mean it to be, but here it is. Take it as you will. It's my blog, after all. 

RE: Anxiety

*Disclaimer: I wrote this for my creative writing class at UVU. The prompt was to write a slam poem about something that scared you. Here's to fear.*

Here's my heart: a black hole capturing every emotion I've ever felt and trapping it for eternity.

The demons living inside my bones are constantly yanking on my heartstrings, begging me to collapse into something just short of death, just short of a coffin filled with flowers. Shake my ribcage, watch the panic roll off onto the street; glitter and dust and memories.

Here's my hands: shaking and trembling until I can't pick them apart from the trees shaking in the wind.

Anxiety takes those trembling hands, he leads me in a slow dance across the floor until my feet go numb and I can't move. Feel the pressure of perfection, feel the breath being knocked out from your lungs, stolen.

Here's my soul: shattered and continuously breaking into shards of fine china.

Darling, I know it's hard to understand why I can't just let things go they way the world always does. The bullets constantly being thrown at me don't disappear with the flick of a wrist, or the weight of another day. Shoot me in the hips and I'll collapse. Shoot me in the heart and I'll forget where I am.

God created me with a little too much panic, a little too much anxiety.

Quick, breathe.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale.

You'd think you'd never forget how to survive. Clammy hands and worn out dancing feet, anxiety isn't going home before midnight—he has no curfew. Anxiety isn't going anywhere anytime soon, he's too caught up in the moment, too self-absorbed to pay attention to anything else.

Good work, Anxiety, you've done it again. You've pulled me under the current until I felt the pull of the ocean stealing my sanity. Collapse, breathe, shake. What if I can't get out this time?

You were the hallelujah. 

xoxo,

rachel.

This is a PEACE treaty.

(ME: Standing on the ledge, ready to fall into something between a white flag and bloodshed. I'm ready to move on, I'm ready to stop this WAR.

YOU: Aiming the gun at my heart, ready to make one final move, the trigger pull that ends it all.)

We fight too much. This is a tragedy in the making, let's get it over with, stab me in the back if you have to, just make it quick.

I don't remember the day this WAR began, but that's what this is: WAR.

This is a WAR between me and you, this is a WAR between what we know is right, and what you long to do. Throw me under the bus, I'm not going to lie anymore. I've held still while you provoked me, I've lied about what I think; it doesn't really matter anyway. You'll try to cut my hair, you'll try to paint my skin in a thousand different shades of hate, but I won't ever hate you; best friends one day, sworn enemies the next.

This is for all the times you asked me if I needed help. I said “no” when what I meant was, “please help me tell me what to do this adult thing is hard”.

Look, please, I never wanted to be a WAR general, but here I am fighting for something I'm not quite sure if I believe in.

At the end of the day, at the end of the WAR, someone always has to give in. Give up the guns, give up the running, the chasing, the pocket lint collected since the beginning. I know this is hard. I know everything you've ever said to me won't disappear anytime soon. All those words are going to collect dust as they sit on the dresser. All those memories we made before this WAR are going to pile up in a drawer that I'm going to lock and never open again.

Hearts break during WAR. Hearts fall apart all the time, but what people don't realize, friends can be the ones to do the heartbreaking. Family can be the ones to do the heartbreaking. I can be the one to do the heartbreaking, and maybe the only WAR I'm in is a WAR with myself.

There's always going to be a small part of me wondering what would happen if I don't give up, if I never wave that white flag at the end of this WAR symbolizing everything I said I'd always do/everything I said I'd never do.

Here's the thing: If I don't start this truce, I'll only destroy myself in the end.

Stop throwing the stones, stop shooting the bullets. I'm done here, there's nothing left for either of us, and we both know this WAR can't end without someone stopping it. Too many people have tried to stop it. We're the only ones who can pull the trigger, we're the only ones who can destroy the stash of hidden bullets.

I'm sure treaties have conditions, even PEACE treaties. (This isn't meant to start another WAR, or to continue the WAR we have.) I'm giving up the guns, the bullets, the bow and arrow. I'm giving up the house I used to love. The city is yours, the streets are yours, the grass and the sky and the stars are yours. I don't want anything but to never see you again. 

Is that enough? Is that enough?

The bullets you've lodged into my ribcage aren't disappearing, and I fear they never will. This ends here with one foot dipped into your heart, the other into next week. 

This WAR is over.

Please, just remember:

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but at least those wounds heal.

Everything is changing. (Again.)

xoxo,

rachel.

I always seem to care too much. (Maybe that's my downfall.)



xoxo
rachel.

p.s. real blog post coming soon.

Watch this video.

Michael Lee is a poetry god and I've watched this about 13287 times in the last two days.

If you'd rather read it, here:


Pass On

When searching for the lost remember 8 things.

1.
We are vessels. We are circuit boards
swallowing the electricity of life upon birth.
It wheels through us creating every moment,
the pulse of a story, the soft hums of labor and love.
In our last moment it will come rushing
from our chests and be given back to the wind.
When we die. We go everywhere.

2. 
Newton said energy is neither created nor destroyed.
In the halls of my middle school I can still hear 
my friend Stephen singing his favorite song. 
In the gymnasium I can still hear 
the way he dribbled that basketball like it was a mallet 
and the earth was a xylophone.
With an ear to the Atlantic I can hear
the Titanic's band playing her to sleep,
Music. Wind. Music. Wind.

3. 
The day my grandfather passed away there was the strongest wind, 
I could feel his gentle hands blowing away from me. 
I knew then they were off to find someone
who needed them more than I did.
On average 1.8 people on earth die every second.
There is always a gust of wind somewhere.

4. 
The day Stephen was murdered
everything that made us love him rushed from his knife wounds
as though his chest were an auditorium
his life an audience leaving single file.
Every ounce of him has been 
wrapping around this world in a windstorm
I have been looking for him for 9 years.

5.
Our bodies are nothing more than hosts to a collection of brilliant things.
When someone dies I do not weep over polaroids or belongings,
I begin to look for the lightning that has left them,
I feel out the strongest breeze and take off running.

6.
After 9 years I found Stephen.
I passed a basketball court in Boston
the point guard dribbled like he had a stadium roaring in his palms
Wilt Chamberlain pumping in his feet,
his hands flashing like x-rays,
a cross-over, a wrap-around
rewinding, turn-tables cracking open,
camera-men turn flash bulbs to fireworks.
Seven games and he never missed a shot,
his hands were luminous.
Pulsing. Pulsing.
I asked him how long he'd been playing,
he said nine 9 years

7. 
The theory of six degrees of separation 

was never meant to show how many people we can find,
it was a set of directions for how to find the people we have lost.

I found your voice Stephen,
found it in a young boy in Michigan who was always singing,
his lungs flapping like sails
I found your smile in Australia, 
a young girls teeth shining like the opera house in your neck,
I saw your one true love come to life on the asphalt of Boston.

8. 
We are not created or destroyed,
we are constantly transferred, shifted and renewed.
Everything we are is given to us.
Death does not come when a body is too exhausted to live
Death comes, because the brilliance inside us can only be contained for so long.
We do not die. We pass on, pass on the lightning burning through our throats.
when you leave me I will not cry for you
I will run into the strongest wind I can find
and welcome you home.

xoxo,

rachel.

Bad News: I still don't remember how to breathe. 

xoxo,

rachel.

p.s. my heart is bleeding onto a canvas i don't remember buying. 

the days are running a marathon; i can't keep up. 

i was never a runner.

please, don't leave me behind again.

this was never in my plans. 

this was never supposed to happen.

INFAMY

Or the Top Ten Reasons Heaven & Hell Are at War.

ONE. God said, “let there be light,”

and earth was shrouded in sunlight

and the Devil sunburned easily.

pale-skinned, residing in the dark,

nocturnal & an insomniac,

he hasn't slept in three years.

TWO. the Devil couldn't get a part in hollywood,

so he went home,

wrote his feelings on a napkin,

and threw it away.

THREE. there were no clean shirts on tuesday,

and the dry-cleaner was closed due to budget cuts.

the homeless man sits on the corner begging for a dime,

fingerless gloves and cracked shoes,

even if the Devil wanted to, he couldn't give him anything,

there isn't money left for anyone at all.

FOUR. the days grew short,

rain hitting the ground.

God smiles on the beauty,

while the Devil howls in anguish

for love he can never have.

FIVE. shivering in the night, the Devil makes his way to Eden,

“just once more,” he says,

“just once more to see what i'm missing.”

but he knows that's not why he went.

SIX. Eve is picking flowers to put in her hair.

light rain falls on her hands.

the Devil hides in a tree.

SEVEN. God watches the Devil,

he watches the earth spin

round & round & round.

He takes a picture in his mind to save for

any other day.

God knows what's happened,

God knows exactly what the Devil wanted all along.

this is the way it had to be.

EIGHT. happy birthday universe,

it's your lucky day.

whatever you want you can have.

God smiles on Eden,

aware of fate and love and everything in between.

NINE. the Devil suddenly knows why he's here.

weeks and weeks of coming and going,

never getting what he wanted until now.

“the apple, the apple,” he croons.

and Eve takes it, her beautiful pale hand reaching up

from the ground.

he looks at her, eyes locking,

long-legged & red-lipped,

she bites the apple and the Devil smiles.

TEN. the Devil sheds a single tear

as Eve is taken from him again,

to live out her life with Adam.

the Devil cries out in rage,

“this is war, this is war.”

Eve never said a word, nothing but

“what's done is done.”

lightly kissing his lips she turns away, forever.

the world kept on spinning,

round & round & round again,

as the Devil vowed to make her love him.

i suppose that's all he ever really wanted.

the war raged on.

and Eve never said

“i love you.”

#summerblogs

Forever Yours,

Rachel.

*I am sorry this is so long.*

Hey, kids. I'm done with College: Year One. I'm done with the 'figure out how to deal with college' thing, but I still don't know how to deal with college. Is there a guidebook or something? I've heard that College is where you're supposed to find yourself*, or whatever. College: Year One was a lot of things, but mostly it was hard. I mean, there was a lot of paper-writing, and stupid assignments, and projects that sucked, but it was hard in the life-is-just-hard-sometimes way. 

Moving out was hard, because it meant leaving everything I knew back in Cedar Hills, but it was exciting, because it meant leaving everything I knew back in Cedar Hills. I don't know about you, but learning how to cope with roommates is just a hard thing, especially when said roommates don't even like you that much and keep eating your good food.** And yeah, the whole roommate thing gave me panic attacks before I moved, and sometimes still does, but roommates are just a thing that has to happen. Meeting new people, yeah? Learning how to cope with people who aren't on the same schedule as you, yeah? Walking in on a make-out in your kitchen, YEAH??? (This is a thing that has actually happened.) But here's the thing, sometimes people are just going to suck in general, and you have to learn to live with it. And I was expecting to meet people like this. And I did. I wasn't expecting the nostalgia to creep in, when I didn't even have a very good high school life, and I definitely wasn't expecting to want to go back to a year ago, because I actually definitely hated high school for most of the years I was there.***

This isn't about high school though, this is about College: Year One.

College is hard, and it kind of makes you want to vomit when your high school (fr)enemy number one ends up in your science class when you thought you'd never see her again after the first college semester that was actually some sort of revisited nightmare continuation of high school's junior year. And even though she still won't let you be, it's okay, life keeps moving and people keep changing. I keep changing. Sometimes I break down and lose it, but don't we all have our moments?

Yeah, College: Year One was really hard, but when there's hard things, there's always the small things that make hard things bearable, like really good novels, pop-tarts, the new Keaton Henson album, and poetry slams.

For instance, the girl I never thought would be more than a cousin became one of my very best friends in the entire universe, even though we are so different I never thought we'd do anything together ever. It turns out we both like watching old Boy Meets World reruns, and singing songs from when we idolized Hilary Duff in the fourth grade. (Seriously though, who didn't want to be her?) We're really good at singing in the car, and we're both really bad at goodbyes.

And then the boy who's the one person I need to keep me sane is the same boy that high school handed me. College made it better. I learned that it's okay if you freak-out at 1:30 am because of life, the universe and everything, because you have a best friend you can call in the middle of the night, and he's willing to talk with you on the phone whenever you want. And here's the thing: it's okay if everyone seems to be leaving you in the dust, while they continue on with their lives looking carefree and stuff, because you still have your BFF who you eat fries with at lunch. And when he leaves on a mission, and you can't actually call him with your anxious thoughts and restless nature, it's okay because at least there's letters on Tuesday.

It's okay if the only thing that even makes sense in your life is Scott Pilgrim vs. the World and you watch it on repeat, because at least something makes sense. (Which also goes for 80s movies.)

So here's to College: Year One, because I learned a valuable lesson—people who aren't going to be there for you don't deserve to be in your life. And I learned it the hard way. It makes sense that you have to get hurt to know what love is, and yeah, everything is the worst when someone you thought you knew turns all the rest of your friends against you. But it's okay, because the thing is this: I never have to see them again, because I can choose that. And I am choosing that.

I'm getting two new roommates this week, and I still don't know how I feel about that. Last year, I decided to stay in Orem and I signed my soul to a full 12 months. If I could go back in time, I think I'd undo it. But since I did something I can't change, I'll have to make the best of it, because there are beautiful things in life, if I only look for them.

(And I realize that this isn't at all what my usual blog posts are like, but it just kind of fit today, you know?)

Three more months.

Forever Yours,

Rachel.

*more on this later.

**due to this, I have a very good hidden stash of food in my bedroom.

***i will not elaborate on this, don't ask. high school was lame for (almost) the whole time i was there. hell probably has florescent lighting and tile floors.

Hey, Read This.

IN A BEAUTIFUL COUNTRY

By: Kevin Prufer

A good way to fall in love

is to turn off the headlights

and drive very fast down dark roads.

Another way to fall in love


is to say they are only mints 


and swallow them with a strong drink.

Then it is autumn in the body.


Your hands are cold.


Then it is winter and we are still at war.

The gold-haired girl is singing into your ear


about how we live in a beautiful country.


Snow sifts from the clouds

into your drink. It doesn’t matter about the war.


A good way to fall in love


is to close up the garage and turn the engine on,

then down you’ll fall through lovely mists


as a body might fall early one

morning 
from a high window into love. Love,

the broken glass. Love, the scissors


and the water basin. A good way to fall


is with a rope to catch you.

A good way is with something to drink


to help you march forward.


The gold-haired girl says, Don’t worry

about the armies, says, We live in a time

full of love. You’re thinking about this too much.

Slow down. Nothing bad will happen.

I didn't write this.

Forever Yours,

Rachel.

Stars all die.

We are the girls with gut-wrenching pain,

paralyzed by our own voices,

fingers that move across typewriter keys,

typing out everything we can't say out loud

to a world that doesn't want to hear our cries for help.

The dreamers,

the long-haired beauties reaching for infinity.

Papers and pens and words that spill out of our fingertips with reckless abandon.

The day the world ends is a day we'll all write about until the stars explode,

one after another,

right to left the skies will dim until the endless darkness swallows everything,

the giant balls of nitrogenous fire

disappearing with a flick of the wrist.

Running, running,

trees that fall when no one can hear them,

(Do they make a sound?

Do they make a sound?)
Gravestones that feel like oceans,

graveyards in the center of galaxies,

skeletons in the closet combusting with the force of an atomic bomb.

The end of the world is just another dot on the timeline of infinite youth.

Invincible, and pale-skinned,

girls that don't understand the meaning of 'no',

because we'll do whatever it takes just to get to the day that tells us who we are

and where we're going.

Yeah, we're independent,

we don't need a male to help us survive,

but we do need a boy to kiss our lips,

and tell us everything will be fine in the dark hours of the early morning

when insomnia takes our breath away,

and the panic sets in

and we'll wonder why we're even here in the first place.

He'll kiss the pale wrists,

kiss the feathers drawn there,

whispering breaths,

saying:

“Remember this, remember this,

the secret to life, the universe, and everything:

Eve fell for the apple first.”

Shaking hands.

Forever Yours,

Rachel.

Speak For Yourself

(Or the time I paid a lot of money to be published in a real, live, poetry book.)

Hey kids, this is for real. Speak For Yourself is publishing a book. And a lot of amazing poets are in it.  Buy one, maybe?

Okay, that's all.

Here's one of the poems I read at Thursday's poetry slam:

November 12.

Nineteen years, 31 days, and I'm still breathing

the same air I've always tasted,

clouds and oxygen tainted
with flecks of a blue-green mist.

This isn't the first time I've wondered what the world is made of,

and it isn't the second time, either.

And I mean, what is the earth made of, beside dirt and clouds we can't touch?

I'm counting leaves that fall off the trees,

because every winter everything dies.

Everything dies and we all die just a little bit more every day.

This isn't a cry for salvation, everyone know you have to

whisper for salvation.

You have to try without asking, earn those angel wings on your own.

You can't cheat on this one.

My hands are turning purple.

Touch me again and I might crack

into a thousand slivers of ice covered in blood.

I need you to keep your distance,

and I need you to breathe out my name every day,

even a small whisper will do, darling.

I've cried out your name in my dreams

3 nights; 87 times.

I just need your hand to hold mine,

because I found out what the sky tastes like,

it tastes like a hallelujah.

But this, this right now, this is what a hallelujah looks like.

This is what a hallelujah feels like.

Yeah, I'm a coward who's afraid of fear and hope and rejection and you

But I'm a coward who's touched the ice with bare fingertips,

only to find herself inside of a miracle.

So here's to you, darling.

Hallelujah.

Forever Yours,

Rachel.

Re: Anxious Toasts.

You can't go wrong with making a toast, even if it's made with cheap bottled-water you poured into a red plastic cup, because the world doesn't revolve around you and you don't actually drink. Listen up, this is toast to the present day, the present hour, even if you spend a few hours crying; darling, you don't need to cry, you just need to breathe. (Trust me on this one.) I can't recall the exact moment the universe began to hate for the sake of hating, but I can recall the exact moment I knew we had all the potential in the world to become something great.

The day my car battery died, I had somewhere to be for the first time in a long time. This isn't my idea of spectacular, and this isn't your idea of fun, but what do I know about the inner workings of your mind? I'll tell you what I know: I know you're obsessed with the north, and you can't stop the poetry from bleeding out of your fingertips; words are the same as blood and I still can't write on the walls without punishment. You created a world of perfection, and my bus stopped there, the guards let me through and I still don't understand why.

If you knew me the way I wish I knew you, I think the stars would start shining brighter and I think I might quit writing about death and lost hope, even if all the world went dark and you were the only thing left. Sometimes my world does grow dark, and you are the only thing left, but you don't know that and I leave the road with skinned knees.

Your collarbones, your hair, the way you whisper my name when you think no one can hear you. The moment you showed me my potential and I believed you. Tuesday, and I still hear your voice reading and re-reading – perfecting.

Is this the end of something and the beginning of typos, errors, mistakes? I'll figure it all out one day, but for now, I'm going to worry about my soul being taken by money and bank statements. I'm going to worry about the possible spiders in my closet that could kill me. I'm going to worry if I can spend my life searching the corners of the universe trying to find the meaning of everything, without ever finding anything. I'm going to worry about what we could have been, because I was too big of a coward.

You win, fear. You win, anxiety. You win, shaking hands, closed up throat, messed up fantasies. You win this round.

But I want to remind you that this is a toast made with cheap bottled-water, and this is a toast for the little things that make you tick, because you wouldn't be you without them. Here's to anxiety-ridden daydreams and trembling knees. Yes, I know I'm messed up, but that's what makes me, me. And if you can't accept that, don't bother pretending you 'get it'. You don't, and that's what makes you, you.

So thank you, society. Thank you, anxiety. Thank you, flaws. Thank you, wild hair and soft hands. Thank you, boy full of dreams – boy who taught me everything without really knowing it. Thank you, for making everything come together, to make me, me.

One day, it will all make perfect sense.

Forever Yours,

Rachel.

Speak for Yourself.

(Last SFYS of 2012. Here's a poem I read.)

I came into this world kicking and shouting

the words, “I'm invincible, I'm invincible!”

I remember the day I realized that if I tried

hard enough, I could touch the sky with my

trembling fingertips. And I almost did.

Floating through life, I ended up in a sea of

words, with no way out. The day I learned to

use those words, was the day I met you; White

winter winds and chaotic silence surrounding

everything we've ever loved.

Ink stained fingertips are my love song to

everything I've ever wanted. I closed my eyes

and threw a penny in the fountain of dreams

and came back with a wish bigger than it

could handle, a love song much too long to do

anything but smear the ink across pages

and pages.

Your wish was simple: to escape from death,

and escaping from death is easy, if you know

the right people. Call me your angel, I can

help you find the secret to life in this

world of explosions and liars.

You're blood and bones, dying to cheat Death

out of what she's due. But, you owe her. It's

not going to be easy, nothing is ever easy.

I take my lead from the people I used to know:

Fall in love, and you'll never get anywhere

you think you should be. You can't commit sin

if you never fall in love with the way a person

walks down an empty hallway, the sun hitting

their face in just the right way.

Following the map of our palms, running past

the river of hope, hiking up the

skyscrapers towards Heaven, we're headed for

salvation, we're headed for eternity.

That was the day you began to fed me matches,

and I swallowed them, one by one until I felt

as if I'd self-destruct; an atomic bomb, leaving

me in the grasp of eternity, a skeleton who

still remembers how to breathe.

Inhale, Exhale. Repeat.

You threw out the empty matchbox, and I watched

as you picked up your dusty ribcage, blew off

the cobwebs, and placed it back around your

heart, where it belongs. I didn't say a word;

I should have said something. The day you left

was the day I fell in love.

I was never out for blood, I was out for

someone to want me.

It turns out they're the same thing.

Here's to Poetry.

Forever Yours,

Rachel.