n/a

My heart used to sink when I'd see her.

Mom coming in the doors with a single brown paper bag of groceries. Her white knuckles clenched so tightly around a day's worth of food that we'd stretch for a week if we had to. Always figured it to be funny that her hair had some grey streaks in it 'cause she was still so young. She used to call them ghost threads and put her hair in front of her face. She'd chase us around and try to make funny faces and noises to scare us. My brother and I would run and hide in the closet and laugh.

We weren't scared though.

I think she did it to keep herself from being the scared one. When Dad wasn't at the mines he was at home breaking glasses in the kitchen. I'd hear Mom cry and scream and cover my little brother's ears and wrap the couple blankets we had around us in our single bed. He'd always call her a worthless mistake and then hours later cry and beg for someone to save us.

I think those times are what scared Mom the most.

note: the past few entries and (more than likely) the coming ones are just me fleshing out some potential short story. none of it is even close to finalized or fully formed. deal with the vagueness, the simplicity, whatever, for however long.

n/a

So I sat in the wet grass thinking about the life we could've lived. Your mother's old curtains draped around our bedroom windows. My father's war medals sitting in some lightly dusted display case in our closet. Your closet, really, since I don't have much to wear.

My bony fingers slide across the grooves at the top of the wet whiskey bottle.

I remember when you and I ran to the pier to watch the boats sail into the horizon. "Red in the morning, sailor's warning" you'd always say. "Red at night, sailor's delight" I'd always respond. Hold hands and talk down the sunset and move along.

I remember when my skin held color.

I put the glass to my pale blue lips and then sang your favorite song.

n/a

I can't stand the sight of your stone.

I climb over cemetery gates and drink 'til I'm gone. I grieve and I grieve. My withering frame turns in the - rain and a funeral passes my way. It's so wet and so quiet. There is no God in my heart. The falling rain makes my head hurt. I try hiding under my coat but I just end up praying for death.

It's quiet when the pain comes.

n/a

A cigarette in my mouth. Lighter to cigarette. My five dollar fifty-three cent addiction. I let the cigarette smoke burn my eyes with wispy fingers until I wince. Fingers from my right hand to itch my eye. Let the smoke burn them again. Itch. Burn. Itch. Burn.

My cathartic six minutes and thirty-seven seconds.

I'm laughing.

n/a

I think we all need to sit down and embrace our dark side every once and a while.

n/a

I love that I'm alive and feeling normal again. Like the wind is at my back and the Sun hangs overhead all the time. Spring Break is only 6 weeks away, Summer is 12. I can't wait to ride bikes, be at the beach, and hang out with everyone who's ever mattered.

Hey negativity, I'll see you never.

blueberry coffee

"blueberry coffee"

across the room you're changing

clothes.

i watched you from the corner of my

eye. kind of

on purpose.

curious eyes behind honest

hands.

there are words for this.