“What is this bullshit about what kind of person I am? Maybe I am someone who gives up! I don’t know! Why would you know what kind of person I am? Everyone is like: ‘what kind of person are you? you have to know who you are!’ What a fucking cliche.”
I want to write like you so bad my heart kind of hurts. I want to move mountains the way you do with your words.
don’t write like me. don’t write like anyone else. write like you.
write like the time you broke your tooth. like riding a bike without handlebars. like when the dog bit you even after you thought it liked you. like who buried the hamster. like having your hair pulled. like having to say sorry. like a mistake you never forgot and like compliments you never got. like your mother’s lipstick and your first car. like what was under the couch. like who lived in the closet.
i write a lot. it’s a lot of practice. i’ve written a lot of things i think are bad and that’s okay. five thousand poems later and some of it is going to be junk. but it’s mine. every word of it came from me trying to find out who i was going to write like. and it turns out the best way to write is to write like my dreams and nightmares and silly heartstrings.
you are already carrying everything you need to move mountains. you’ve got your own words, don’t you?
It takes a while—but with the cocooning of her royal purple duvet that creates a little bubble around her and the light given off from her phone and the lightweight tranquility settled in her lungs of hearing Lucas’s voice even through the static—Riley learns to accept late night calls and midnight conversations.
(She never stays up this late. Ever. Things like this that took place when the sky was dark never sat right with her, and she found these things borderline repulsive. God, what was this boy doing to her?)
It’s become a daily routine (since they just can’t get enough of each other) and it gets so bad that sometimes her mother would have to wake her and she’d find the brunette with her powder pink headphones tangled around her head and her phone devoid of battery life. But when you have a mind like Riley’s that’s constantly over-evaluating her mere existence and questioning every fiber of her being and wondering why there were always discrepancies about what people actually think of her, it’s a blessing to have someone who’s always open to talk.
(Even if she doesn’t bring up the ceaseless perplexity revolving around her shaky, inconsistent confidence.)
Half of the time she doesn’t even know what they’re talking about, but that doesn’t matter; just as long as the words are rolling and the petty bliss satisfies them both.
I’m in the first session of my grad program right now for education and I’m in this class called “Teaching in the Middle School” and so we had to write this paper reflecting on our middle school experiences. And honestly? I had about as good a middle school experience as anyone could hope to have. I was loved, I was protected, I had friends, I loved my teachers and they loved me, my parents cared about my education and me as a person, I was challenged by my material, I was happy. The fact that I know I’m an outlier breaks my heart.