18 and life to go

And we all come out just the same.

He plays poetry. It gurgles from his mouth in little bounces, and swirls and bubbles. It prances in a circle around my head, before leaping off, screeching laughter. Sometimes I can picture it steering a pirate ship through a tossing storm so strong I can feel the spray. Sometimes they fall like a drip in a puddle. Sometimes, they collect in a delicate stack of milk bubbles, blown through a straw by an entranced little girl.

She said that it’s our freedom of choice that hinders us. It cuts us at the knees, and leaves us at the mercy of Anxiety. That cheap bitch, addicted to cheap weed, sells us out to Conformity. And he’ll name us Rupunzel, and swallow the key. Keep us in boxes. “Safe? Perfectly.”

At least university has taught me to question why I gave those gender roles specifically.

I read that a girl died in Surrey. A student, a model, an actor, with aspirations of being a doctor.

(Maybe Billy Joel is right, if so I’m to die around 45. That no-man’s-land, referred to as Dull, mocked by the stronger stances.)

A well to-do girl from Surrey?  I wonder what things she forgot to do, because she said, “I’ll do that later. Maybe after college.” 

I wonder if she ever saw the Eiffel tower. 

I wonder if she wanted to. 

Did she enjoy school? Or if someone had told her “time’s up at 19” would she have done something better with her duration? Do you think she ever cried herself to sleep at night? A beautiful model, with the brains of a doctor. 

I wonder how many other girls cried themselves to sleep, wishing they were her.

I wonder if she was a virgin. If she’d ever been in love. If she’d planned out her wedding and cake, and how many children she wanted to have, and her yard, and the blue and white hammock, and the rickety picket fence, and name of their cat.

I wonder if there was ever a boy to whom she said ‘lets wait’, and she planned on re-meeting him when she was 25, when she would charm him, and they would have the most beautiful marriage to date. But she never got to tell him “I love you”, and now he’ll never know as he walks with that leggy blonde. They’ll probably own a dog.

I wonder what was written in her day planner for the day after. How many assignments she didn’t get finished, and what will happen to her lab partner on Monday when only half the work is done?

And I? I am left, blowing a tower of milk bubbles, listening to him play his poetry from a distance, praying that I can create something to say. 
Because I am nearly 18, with life to go.

Though I dare say, you never really know.

still dazzled by his smile when I shoplift there

Mostly, I can't seem to write anymore.

I'm ashamed to say this, because I don't believe in writer's block. But I wouldn't call this writer's block. If it's a block, it assumes there's something past the block. 

But all I see an empty expanse of desert, as fuzzy as my television screen. As fuzzy as my foot that's fallen fast asleep. I stand in the desert, confused and dazed, and all that's left is a box of jumbled up words at my feet. I pick up the box and look around the desert, and wish to fucking god that there was a block somewhere, and that I could consequently climb on top, and maybe spot a direction worth heading for.

But I pick up a stick, and start to write in the sand. Nobody will ever see it, it'll just be our little secret. A secret all for me, but you're welcome to look if you want to.

I don't think I'll ever fall in love. It's just not written on my heart. After all, I only want to fall in love out of sheer curiosity. I plan to be the cold hearted bitch who uses the poor boy, and then publishes a paper on his misfortune. 

Secretly, I sort of dream of being the cold hearted bitch.

And there I was angst-ing about the gay boy using me. If I read what's written on my heart, I maybe did deserve to be the subject of his highly praised, poorly written paper. 

I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love. In order to love, I have to connect, and in order to connect, I have to be vulnerable. And I won’t, I won’t be that vulnerable.

(secretly, I wish I was brave enough to be that vulnerable. I’ll try, I’ll try to be brave enough.)

But a cold hearted queen is just so appealing.

My head is in the oven, my feet are in the freezer. And they’re telling me my body temperature is average. 

Somehow I am always too good for the boy, and not good enough for a relationship. That’s a recipe for restless loneliness. I suppose that’s my average.

He mustn’t look forty. He looks too old. His chin is not strong enough. His arms lack definition. His arms are grossly over-defined. He is too boring. Too smart. He doesn’t talk enough. He doesn’t laugh enough. He is never quite what I want. I am never quite what I want, either, so I shouldn’t be so unforgiving.

He’s only ever perfect when he doesn’t want me anymore.

I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love. They say that people change, so here’s to hoping that I change. But. Essence is static, so can people really change?