This and everything else.
You know what is the most tragic thing is about writing? Is that no one is really interested in reading it. Not even the people closest to you. Maybe, but not really. No one ever asks if they can read your work, unless they are a writer themselves.

You think that through writing you are somehow more liberated than most people. That your desire to be understood will be fulfilled because you know how to express yourself. But, really, you're just more transparent. And thus taken for granted. Actually, you're not taken for granted any more than anyone else is usually. But, it just hurts more because you figure: I have this awesome gift and because I'm awesome people are going to be interested in me and want to figure me out.

And you are severely mistaken. Because there's nothing really in it for anyone to waste that time on you, unless they need something from you too. It's very selfish, this writing thing. An inherent trait that people just can never get away from. It's the same with everything else. Everything.

(no subject)
Feeling rather anxious today. A sudden flip of disposition. Wish I could shake it off. Or pull it out. God, something.

Text. Draft. Dump.
My typical feeling towards anything I write in hindsight is disdain, except for when I write angry.

I wonder what that says about me.

The "drafts" in my phone have reached a number of 50. All fragmented thoughts. A result of not having my notebook with me.

I give in to the scheme of things,
the way the planets do that aligning
thing. And the tell-tale signing
of your hands. Let's wear masks
and let the truth drip from our lips
like sand, like time running out.

There comes a point when you realize that writing is like giving head. We do sex for the same reason that we do everything else: so we don't feel like we are dying. Well, I write, sing, dance, tell jokes so that we can feel alive. To get us off. Then later the memory of it penetrates your mind. You're fucked, your being pregnant with the things I create.

I take forever to figure anything out.
And my excuses are never really good enough.
Please don't count on my good intentions.
And I'd quit while I'm ahead,
if I could just get there.

It's a cold war under those sheets. The way the fastest went about it. Dammit I am changing again.

Then hope burns out. And the fear seeps deep down and drives you gone.

Pride. Bring it down hard. Scales falling from our eyes. And now that I see, you are not at all what you painted. You are just as human as me.

This is what I call an itchy thought. Like a mosquito idea that somehow found the bottom of my foot. Something occurring in transit, from my car to the class room. I wish that hadn't come up.

Like a sudden stop. Pisses me off. An alarming jolt. You interrupt my favorite thoughts.

(no subject)

I want to erase your number. Run the other away like a girl on fire.

You entrusted me your story and my heart broke and I wanted to be the one to fix their mistakes. Such is the silly nature of a woman. Some woman. This one, sometimes. Dammit, this time. And in the back of my mind was the intrinsic buzz of something foretelling. I already know how it ends. I'll find out again the hard way, I guess.

Your arms are oceans
long when I'm held
at their length.

I saw the cold that you are capable of. And jokes that hint resentfully at my female mind. Silly girl with her feelings. Emotional bullshit, as my father would call it. And then he'd ramble about how his tax dollars are wasted on my generation while we all chew our gum like cows.

You've changed. I tried to tell you. But you see, it came out bitter and wasted and now I can't ever explain. That's my fault.

I think we moved too fast. We stripped down quick and utilized, consumed it all. Tore to pieces. It was delicious, but after that, what else is there to say?

Clumsy ass draft - Stick to the plan.
"Surprise me," I said, when she asked me what I want.
"You like sweet drinks?" She cocked her adorable head.
I smiled sheepishly and nodded. She handed me something
that tasted like candy with teeth. I think I had about
five of those. I was only going to have two, but
I soon decided otherwise.

Because it was past midnight.
And now it was MY birthday.
My phone dead still in my pocket.
My hips compensating. Whatever song it was,
I was fucking dancing it. Patience, I thought,
would be good to me. I had another candy drink.
My third. I felt it bite on my head
at the same time that it reached
down my throat. One A.M.
Two twenty-seven A.M.
A quarter after three.

You let it get to you, you know.
All those pleasant surprises. What?
You expected consistency? Real promises?
Stick to the plan.

He can't hurt what he can't get his hands on.

A bunch of walking ridiculous, talking silliness.

It's pretty embarrassing when
I insist on pulling,
more than one time, on
a door that says "PUSH,"
in big letters.
I do this often. I pull
on doors that require pushing.
And visa versa.

It happened again today, but
in my defense, that door
did not say anything.
So I tugged. Pulled again.
Shit... PUSH

...She totally saw that.


Fickle Flame
Can you outshine the sun?

someone i once was could have loved you

no its the circumstance
our candle's fickle flame
could have been a fire
but we didnt want to take the pain

A voice, a vehicle for our minds
Not a single word was said
but I could tell just by your actions
its not my crazy head
no need for verbal confirmation
we speak in tones,
ambiguous texts
indirect communication

I am just a shadow
a vehicle for our minds
and when this finally fades out
I'll still be satisfied
it was more than enough

i want to
i dont want you
to persist
yeah I know what I said about self control
but this is... really something else.
Tags: , ,

The Window
The Window

The gas stations and streets of Orlando
passed through in my foggy window,
where I was going to draw a heart, but didn't,
for fear of defining it.
Hazy surfaces do attract such childish symbols.
Hearts, stars, smiley faces, confessions.
Just signs. Automatic doodles
of the uncensored mind.
But not this, the medium open and waiting
in front of me, for a message much too charged.
Then, from the back seat, I watched
as he drew in his own window,
the initials of our our band.
His way of saying,
"I'm really gonna miss you."

a late-night memoir unfinished
it would be so much easier if we lived in a world where all you had to do was tell someone "I want to be closer friends with you" and then they let you in. usually opposite happens. expressing your desires to get inside is against the rules. unacceptable. a big no no. what made you think that was okay? you cant just... say it. geez.

when I was a kid, I assumed that everyone around me was in my head. they all could hear my thoughts too. so I would often not finish my sentences or leave out rather essential explanations.

"the pancake. I ate it," young RyAnne says.
"so?" my kindergarten teacher would ask.
"I ate it," I'd repeat. A long pause. My teacher stares at me with her head cocked.
"So... Are you still hungry?"
Then later I'd hear her and her assistant murmuring in low tones, but loud enough for other students to laugh too, "she... I think... retarded... mildly..."
Other students treated me differently after that, as if retardation was contagious and began a downward spiral of teasing. Because my name sounded like a boy's name, other students began to doubt that I was a girl. One time, I was forced out of the line for the little girl's bathroom and into the boy's line.

To this day I am extremely tempted to write her a letter saying, "did you know that Kindergarten means a place where good things are grown? you made my experience horrible. you didn't think that I heard you when you called me retarded but it made me so angry that I grew up and killed people." there, I think that would make us even. although she is probably on her death bed now and this sort of letter would most likely stop her heart. i should have written it earlier.

one thing that I could say about my childhood was that I was misunderstood 98% of the time. And in no way do I mean that to come off as emo. I really wasn't communicating very effectively when I was a child because I spent most of my time either talking to refrigerator magnets at my grandmother's house or watching "Rocko's Modern Life," while sitting only five inches away from the TV. i wear glasses now. when i take them off, everyone's faces just look like ovular blobs with dark blemishes that move. blurry, like cities that I don't know. I've never left here.

I take that back. When I was 9, I went to PA to visit a relative who owned a kiosk that sold roasted nuts in the mall (up until the point when I realized that the world is much bigger and more complicated than I perceived it, I thought this was the only mall in PA). I was put to work. my job was to look cute and ask people if they would like to try a free sample, in hopes that they would buy some. It worked most of the time. The first day on the job, however, I pigged out on them, despite my mother's warnings of becoming constipated. I was severely constipated the next morning.


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