Saturday, January 7, 2012

the air up there




I've been alive for 6,498 days and that's a little defeating because 6,498 days isn't very many days at all. I haven't made a dent in this world yet. 

I've got time. But what if I don't? I don't want to spend my life walking on my hands, and I don't want to spend my life lying over the Internet because it helps me sleep at night.

Look at me. Look at me. I've got a lot of blood on my hands for someone so young and fair-skinned.

This is about telling the truth. One hand on the Bible and one hand in the bread-box, I'm horrible at accepting change, I'm afraid of everything at least a little bit, I'm half-convinced that I made you up. It's funny to me that I'm so used to the sound of you saying my name.

I don't know about "love" but I sure do like the sound my heart makes.

Okay, maybe this isn't exactly about telling the truth. Maybe it's about skipping around the truth and pickpocketing it for its spare change because I can and maybe it's about being so obvious that I condemn myself.

This is about you. (And you. And you. And you. And you.)

Let me lay you in wet cement, let me throw you hissing hot into the water to set you in stone. I don't want to feel malleable, you know? I don't want to feel like fingerprints could change me. I'm not wet clay, I'm skin and blood and I'm dying to know your middle name. If I'm going to be glass, I at least want to be bullet-proof.


You've torn the crusts off far too many goodbyes, and I might be the one with a short attention span, but you're the one who never remembers your lines. I care about the weather forecast, you know? And I care about wiping my feet at the door. You'd better be ready for a whole lot of the silent treatment. Because if my middle name is "Let Me In" then your middle name is "Look But Don't Touch". And I obey the rules.

Don't open your hand-me-down copy of Webster's and try to define "love" for me. I'm sick of theoretical chemical patterns and soul mates and biology. This is what it is. I know about love and I'm seventeen-years-old, not going to die today but maybe tomorrow, not going to grow up now but maybe tomorrow, and I know about love. Don't expect a love letter, though.

I get a lot of crap for having long hair. I get a lot of crap for using long words. And I know for a fact that I'm hated. 

But somehow you must love me, too, because you would never have climbed the trellis if you didn't, would you, Romeo? You would never have held the boombox under my window if you didn't, would you, John Cusack? You would never have dragged yourself out of that ninth pit in, what did you call it again?, oh yeah, Hell, if you didn't, would you, Dante? You would have never said a single word if you didn't. Oh yes, you really love me.

Somehow, I forgot what I was trying to say. It might have just been: I love you. (And you. And you. And you. And you.) Take care of yourself.








Stagger.
-Avery Jalaine



1 comment:

  1. I love thissssssssssss. Just so you know. I totally know how you feel. I love your writing style. Don't change it. And I hate it when people say don't change, because change is good. But I still like your writing. Anyway. Ciao.


    lindseyliechty.blogspot.com

    ReplyDelete

Oh thanks. You're pretty.