But the truth isn’t my fault, it’s just an accurate depiction of how I see these people. These puppets with faces twisted into one look: shame. 

And am I shameful for intertwining these realities within my stories? Am I shameful for listening to the age old advice of “writing what you know”?

So this is it, this is where I am after graduating. Still in the same wannabe big city I was born in. Still hanging around the same people I’ve known since I was either 11 or 14 because San Francisco isn’t that big and I went to high school with a handful of people I went to middle school with. And my university? Right next to my high school. For those who think the city is big, think again, because in reality it’s small as shit and everyone knows everyone and it becomes the makings of a bad teenage over-dramatic free for all all throughout life. The cliques become bigger over time and there’s a higher chance of being shunned by people who know all of your eccentricies and strange quirks when they realize you’re not like them. The gossip mill spins quicker throughout your whole life if you stay here, but it’s a city still. There’s shit to do, tourists to make fun of, bipolar weather than baffles everyone and a prevailing sense of West Coast / San Franciscan pride that makes it worth it to stay.

childlike nostalgia keeps my tank from reaching empty when things get hard. when we’re children, people ask us what do we want to be when we grow up. and the children around me always said they wanted to be firemen, policewomen, astronauts that jump around on the moon defying gravity tethered to a spaceship. but I always held onto this impractical dream, this dream of writing, as if it were a robin that needed nursing back to health. writing came easily to me, nature’s gift to my hands that don’t do much of anything else; i can’t cook a four course meal, i shrink the laundry every other time i do it. all i do (easily) is read and write. when i was in kindergarten and first grade, i ate books like they were breakfast, lunch and dinner. and by the time second grade came (minus the flaming fire of harry potter that blazed upon us children) i knew that i wanted to be a writer (this dream turned into journalism but then i realized my hands weren’t as good at depicting real life as it was at capturing moments in a reality created by myself). a constant stream of verse, poems, and prose find their way into my hands and fingertips, dripping from a pen or becoming words on a bright computer screen. creating constantly firing synapses and the occasional foreign design of ideas. i’m rearranging histories that we’ve known, recreating stories that we’re fond of. and even though it’s not practical. and even though i risk becoming a homeless vagrant wondering the streets trying to hustle. i live to write. childlike nostalgia, don’t fail me now.

Sometimes she felt as if she was living in a dream. Where things were too perfect; perfect to the point where people started questioning whether they were on the edge of unrivaled happiness or the brink of disaster waiting at the wrong turn. She’d wake up and find herself staring into his breathtaking eyes; those eyes that changed color and she never knew whether to expect a brilliant blue or an enchanting green. She cherished that feeling every morning she was with him as she traced the outline of his jaw and saw a grin slowly creeping across his mouth even though he was still half asleep, but he still felt her small fingers touching him. Their love was spontaneous; so fast that before she blinked an eye she found herself falling for him. She loved the little things about him; his tendency to babble, the way he caught himself babbling, the way he didn’t wait for streetlights to change before walking across (but he was always careful, so she didn’t mind one bit), how he’d take every chance to hug her before they left each other. The list went on and on. But most of all, she loved the way her opening up to him was like a rose blooming.

She’s stealing my soul. 
The more I use her, the more she abuses me and my body. She doesn’t care about the poisons and smoke she puts into my body every single night when she comes out— she just cares about the thrills and the fun.
I can’t control her. She comes along and shuts down my ability to move and speak outloud. All I can do is argue with her in my mind and she laughs and puts me in my place by reminding me who is in control and who is the one who can’t escape. 
And I’m just there floating as her subconscious in my own body whispering for her to stop, but she ignores me because she grabs me by the throat and chokes me into silence. She wraps those fingers around my neck and shuts me up quickly… and she’s able to get away with more than I would ever allow from myself.

quirkytidbits:

HELLO EVERYONE I’m editor-in-chief of a new online literary / pop culture magazine called NOISEMaker. We are seeking submissions for our first issue set to come out in December. The theme is “noise.” Take it as you will, interpret it how you want to, we’re not trying to put limitations on this. We’ll take anything from photosets, artwork, poetry, short stories, pop culture related goodies, opinion, political pieces, videos of you singing or dancing, reviews and anything else as long as it somehow related to the theme. Be creative, fearless and crank up the noise. Pass this on to your creative friends, reblog it, and submit your own pieces! Email submissions to noisemakermag@gmail.com & the deadline is NOW NOVEMBER 25TH. Get started making that noise!

visit us at https://www.facebook.com/noisemakermag and follow us on tumblr at www.noisemakermag.com!

(via quirkytidbits)

quirkytidbits:

HELLO EVERYONE I’m editor-in-chief of a new online literary / pop culture magazine called NOISEMaker. We are seeking submissions for our first issue set to come out in December. The theme is “noise.” Take it as you will, interpret it how you want to, we’re not trying to put limitations on this. We’ll take anything from photosets, artwork, poetry, short stories, pop culture related goodies, opinion, political pieces, videos of you singing or dancing, reviews and anything else as long as it somehow related to the theme. Be creative, fearless and crank up the noise. Pass this on to your creative friends, reblog it, and submit your own pieces! Email submissions to noisemakermag@gmail.com & the deadline is NOW NOVEMBER 25TH. Get started making that noise!

visit us at https://www.facebook.com/noisemakermag and follow us on tumblr at www.noisemakermag.com!

(via quirkytidbits)

quirkytidbits:

HELLO EVERYONE I’m editor-in-chief of a new online literary / pop culture magazine called NOISEMaker. We are seeking submissions for our first issue set to come out in December. The theme is “noise.” Take it as you will, interpret it how you want to, we’re not trying to put limitations on this. We’ll take anything from photosets, artwork, poetry, short stories, pop culture related goodies, opinion, political pieces, videos of you singing or dancing, reviews and anything else as long as it somehow related to the theme. Be creative, fearless and crank up the noise. Pass this on to your creative friends, reblog it, and submit your own pieces! Email submissions to noisemakermag@gmail.com & the deadline is November 20th, 2012. Get started making that noise!

visit us at https://www.facebook.com/noisemakermag as our live site isn’t up and running yet

HELLO EVERYONE I’m editor-in-chief of a new online literary / pop culture magazine called NOISEMaker. We are seeking submissions for our first issue set to come out in December. The theme is “noise.” Take it as you will, interpret it how you want to, we’re not trying to put limitations on this. We’ll take anything from photosets, artwork, poetry, short stories, pop culture related goodies, opinion, political pieces, videos of you singing or dancing, reviews and anything else as long as it somehow related to the theme. Be creative, fearless and crank up the noise. Pass this on to your creative friends, reblog it, and submit your own pieces! Email submissions to noisemakermag@gmail.com & the deadline is November 20th, 2012. Get started making that noise!

visit us at https://www.facebook.com/noisemakermag as our live site isn’t up and running yet

We hid in the shadows. Momma will never find us, I swore to myself. She’d never find our limbs intertwined like two sticks of wobbly licorice at the bottom of the snack bag that my two year old little sister played with before I left her with our older brother. We would never have to tell Momma we kissed and made lust underneath the sun that kissed the backs of our necks.  But I should stop thinking about her rules— I’ve already been liberated. I feel like a sea maiden who set off on her most recent voyage of self exploration, because I didn’t know what lust felt like until I found you. It felt like waves broke and crashed deep within my twisted soul, twisted like knots that only a boy scout could untie (luckily, you were certified and qualified for this task). You unraveled things about myself that even I couldn’t find, things trapped underneath layers and layers of insecurities acquired over the years. You pushed past what I thought were boyish hips and stick like thighs and made me realize that every curve and inch of my body was, in reality, a beautiful site destined to be lovetouched by someone (you or someone or anyone worthy).

You drive through the roadblocks in my mind, knocking down one barrier after another. But you get to the end and there’s much more at stake. You risk both of our lives to bury yourself in the depths of my mind. 

Call me splendid, call me artifice, call me all the glamour sucked from the world that you want me to place in yours. Call me whatever you want to. I’ll break you the minute you insult me, so go ahead and test my limits. Jealousy isn’t a very beautiful emotion, but I know you’re jealous of me. It’s in your eyes that gleam green with envy, your cheeks that glow red with anger because your god didn’t trust you with these gifts— he placed them all upon me. Thrusted them into my lap even just because he didn’t want you to have them.