Acknowledgement

I am Invisible Girl, heroine of the inconspicuous and unspoken. I walk through the world alone and unknown, like a shadow in the dark. Unseen, unheard, but not unscathed; I am burned by Possibility and her army of words unspoken. From the darkest corners, I watch others, flourishing in the light, while I remain under the cover of night.

But lately, it seems my cloak of darkness has been ripped away. Some mistress of Fate has decided it is my turn to flourish, leaving my spandex in tatters. I now feel the glances of others, percolating the force field I have carefully constructed, and I falter at the thought of their eyes on me.

I am not worthy. I am a nerd. What if they notice? What if my very person is shunned?

But do they see my dorkdom? Do they notice? Or do I appear different to them? Has my clever disguise got them fooled, the doubt merely a self-sabotage lead by Insecurity?

Under the bright sun of the known world, I feel their gazes, their judgments; like hot water on icy skin, I prepare for the stinging, the pain, the rejection.

I am not notable. I am not cool. I am not sexy. I do not matter.

My young wings are unprepared for this flight without my cape of Cimmerian shade.

Life was much easier alone in the dark when I was invisible.

The Big Blue Elephant in the Room

He didn't mean to.
"I love you so much...Just not like that."
"Never?" I ask in disbelief.
"Never," he replies softly,
"You know I don't want to hurt you,
I would never want to hurt you babe."
I smiled at his kind heart.
"This won't come between us," he reassured, "I won't let it."
"I know, I'm fine," I laugh to hold back the tears.
Nothing would ever be the same after this.
"I'm sorry," he said;
But he was too late,
He'd already broken my heart.

Cyber

He presses his lips to my chest,
Or so he types.
His previous words still spinning in my head:
"You are so pretty...Why don't you have a boyfriend?"
I laugh at the thought.
Foolish boy, I am invisible girl.
What is he thinking?
But then again, he will say anything to get me to cooperate.
I am only desirable to nameless, faceless internet boys-
Basement dwelling perverts and nerds.
They are my rebellion,
Fuel for the fire inside me which longs to be desired,
My bittersweet escape.

Retraction

So you know that boy, the one I just wrote about, my best friend in the whole world, the one I've liked for almost three years, loved for the past 10 months, the one I thought loved me? Well he doesn't. We're just friends. Didn't I know?

No, I didn't know.

It's Complicated...

I remember meeting you so clearly. You were wearing the stupidest hat I'd ever seen, but, like the scent of spring, something about you drew me in. It was as if I already knew you.

In all honesty, I never thought we'd be friends. I thought, he's cute and that's about it. I walked away that last January afternoon, your number safely tucked away in my phone and expected nothing more. But then we started talking. Everyday we talked, about music and movies and philosophy and life; until my phone bill had gone well past my texting limit. And somewhere along the way, you became my best friend and I became yours.

Two years have passed and with them, we have grown so much; but even so, through the time and distance and my mom and everything else coming between us, we got through it together. Without even knowing it, you helped me through my first heartbreak and my parents divorce. You were there for all the big moments, and almost a year ago now, you told me that you loved me; and, though I may not have acknowledged it at the time, I heard you loud and clear, every sweet sylable.

Sometimes I wonder about us. Between you and me, things are not always explicit. We don't say everything we mean, a lot is implied, and I rather like it that way; but sometimes it means I worry that this is all in my head. I feel really twisted sitting here, listening to you talk about your girlfriend, helping you plan the perfect date, when really, it tears me up inside. (Let's just say helping you fall in love with another girl is not exactly the best Saturday night I could ask for.) Yet, at the same time, I love you and I love how hard you work for these girls and I do want you to be happy, no matter what that means for me. But I can't say it isn't confusing to hear you say how much you like one girl one minute, and how much you love me the next. (...Cue Taylor Swift background music, anyone?)

I know that you care about me as much as I do you; but at the same time, I'm scared. Even though I know that nothing I could ever do would effect us, I worry. I worry that taking things to the next level might make it harder to be so far from you. I worry that being with you, means the end of possibility in my life, since, I know that being with you I'll never want to be with anyone else (because let's be honest here, your sister even thinks we are going to get married some day haha) And most of all, I worry that I might screw things up and loose my best friend and the best thing that has ever happened to me, you.

The hardest part of it all, is that there is no real word for you. Sometimes I call you my boyfriend, but that I know is a lie; and yet, best friend doesn't quite fit either. It's complicated and I hate it. I miss you. I miss your voice and your eyes and even your stupid hat. I miss your curly hair and your awesome facial expressions. I hate that my friends chatter about their stupid trivial romantic affairs and mock me for always being single, when I have you, but just too far for them to see.

Every night at 11:11 I wish for you, for us. I want to see your name in my relationship status, hang out with you and your sister in all your twin-tastic craziness. You are exactly my brand of heroin and I am heavily addicted. I cannot wait to see you again and, even if things don't ever work out for us, I look forward to having you in my top 8 when we're old and can't read computer screens anymore. You are my best friend and I love you forever, no matter what babe. <3

Friendly

I live for the affections of others. Not, the attention so much, but the praise. The smiles of friends are like my oxygen; to hear the words "You are so awesome, I love you," my saving grace. I will work for hours on birthday presents, so excited for my friends and looking for nothing in return but their laughter; or write them notes just to watch their eyes light up with delight. There is no time to much, no cost to great, no favor to inconvienient for the ones I love.

Broken

Sometimes I feel like I'm broken. I feel like there is a piece of me missing.

Perhaps as I was cooling from the heat of being fired in the kiln, I was dropped, shattered, pieces flying everywhere, hurting others, some thrown away, some never to be found again.

Or maybe it was before that. Maybe I was never whole to begin with. Maybe in configuring me, the artist made a drastic error. Perhaps I was too tainted for his pure hands. My clay, being recycled, didn't mold out to his design. So he tried to fix it. Ripping pieces apart, molding for hours, and I still didn't come out right.

Maybe, he didn't like me. Maybe when he saw what he had created he threw it in anger. Leaving the pieces on the floor to disintegrate, listening to their daily crunch beneath his heavy work shoes.

Regardless of how I ended up this way, the fact is that I am not like all the other vases on the shelf.

I can paint myself blue or pink to match the gorgeous colors of the others, but the paint bubbles, quickly peeling away to reveal my putrid exterior. I can add designs and patterns, colors and embellishments, but none of them last; they always fall away, revealing the crimson stain of my true colors.

Sitting on the shelf, I am overwhelmed with emotion. I wounder why I am broken, and why I cannot be fix. I wonder why I am not like the others, no matter how hard I try.
I watch people come into the shop, envying the pretty vases and purchasing for them for their kitchen tables. I see the joy of the artist as he makes a sale, sharing his little beauties with the world.

But come closing, I am still where I was yesterday and will be tomorrow. The artist turns off the light, he too giving up on me and leaving me alone in the darkness.

Solitary in the night I begin to wobble. Carefully throwing my weight against itself, struggling to tip over. I am so tired of standing upright.

Finally, I feel it, liberation. I am hurtling off the top shelf. The ground rapidly approaching. Faster and faster I fall, until finally, with a crash, I smash into the cold hard floor, pieces scattering all around. I exhale the stress and tension with the liberation from my structure.

Broken into a million pieces, the putrid color finally, permanently, erased from existence, I lay there in the silent shop. Despite the ruined labor of the hardworking artist, I am at peace. The world is unchanged by my removal and I finally got the one thing I always wanted: to be taken of the shelf.

Disappointment

Hi Blog-o-sphere! Welcome to my new blogspot: www.hello-there-sunshine.blogspot.com!

So, I realized something just now. I was texting one of my good friends, when I noticed a rising sense of paranoia. I found myself questioning what he said, what his motives were, and if he was lying. I have been doing this with him for quite a while now and I'm really wondering why. This friend is one of my best, who I have known for almost three years, and he is the sweetest nicest guy and would never possibly try to hurt me...so why the suspicion?
It isn't just him though, this happens with all my friends or the people in my life for that matter. After a certain period of knowing them, I just kind of freak out. I question everything they do or say and begin to wonder if I can trust them. Then, after a while, I become convinced that they, like everyone else, are out to get me.
Now that I'm typing this I realize I sound like a total and complete nutjob, but it's true. For some reason, I eventually just stop trusting people and shut them out. The best I can figure, is that I'm trying to hurt them and escape the relationship before they hurt me.
I think the source, which I go back to time and again in blogs, and it really is the source of all evil (or at least my evil anyway), is my childhood. I learned early on that (in the words of one P.Sawyer) "People always leave." I had other kids use me, my parents abandon me all but physically (my dad physically abandoning me last year), and never had a geniune friend at an early age.
Stepping out of infixable the past and into present, the reprecussions are obvious. I am so easy to meet people; eager to befriend them and let them in. (It all goes back to that need to be loved and accepted that I so prevelently have.) But the problem is, that in doing so, I either alienate them, by moving too quickly, or worse, let them in only to have them shatter me a short while later.
So it seems, at times like the present, when I am most lost and vulnerable and in need of these people, in some sort of self-preservation I shut them out; knowing that I am too weak to handle their disapointment.

Swim

The heat of the day leaving a soft layer of sweat on my skin,
My feet feel along the stony ground,
My toes dangle over the edge as I prepare to leap.
For a second I am free,
Glorious, weightless, above the water.
And then I hit.
The rush of cool water contrasting with the warmth of the air on my skin.
I feel the rush,
The water growing colder as I plunge into the depth.
Finally, my feet feel the familiar floor,
And I pause momentarily,
Enjoying a separate existence in an underwater world,
Hesitant, I wish to remain here a bit longer,
But the world above calls to me.
I push off the bottom.
Floating upwards,
Faster and faster,
Until I feel the air on my scalp.
I break the void between the water and the air,
And gasp in my first breath,
Refreshed and renewed by the water.

Eight

The screen flashes,
“1 new message” it reads.
Glimpsing at the letters of your name fills my heart with pure delight.

We talk for hours,
Until there is nothing more to talk about;
So we create more,
Just so we can keep talking.

Your words are like music to my ears,
I may not see or hear them as often as I would like,
But they are always with me.

But the best part of our conversations,
The purest visual ecstasy that you bring me,
Are the last eight letters that you always type,
“I love you,” it reads, and I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.