Extrovert

Perhaps the worst thing about being an introvert is desperately wanting to be an extrovert.

Tonight I feel so dreadfully alone, it has become hard to breath.

My best friend and I are no longer best friends.  There is a strange hollow in my chest that is somehow tight. It takes hold of my lungs and shortens my breath. I do not miss her, but I miss having a her.

I have spent the majority of my high school career in the shadows, waiting patiently for someone to turn on the light. I realize now that no one will turn on the light: only I can. The only problem is, I can’t find the switch.

I want to be able to talk to people without feeling like I’m doing it wrong.

An update

Just to start things off, we hit 40 followers! I know that might not seem like a lot to some bigger bloggers, but to me this means everything. I  started this blog as a way to relieve some stress, but now people are actually reading some of the stuff I write. Im not going to lie, thats both terrifying and exhilarating. Anyway thank you.

Let’s talk about school:

I joined a writing club at school. It’s really informal and my english teacher is just letting kids come and write poetry, but I really love it. I’m entering some of the things I’ve written on this blog in a poetry contest. If anyone has any feedback on any of my poems that would be very helpful.

Junior year has been hard. Pressure from my parents to do well has increased to a point where I can’t do anything without thinking about my future. I’m taking the SAT soon, so let’s all cross our fingers that I do well.

Another note:

I’m not as depressed as I was. I’m genuinely happier. I write about a lot of depressing posts, but I write those when I can feel that little dark part of my mind grow. When I write, that darkness seems to shrink into a manageable size. Thank you all for reading.

Emma

Without you

The promise of a new hope
Stole you from my weakened arms
You ran with them in the wind
But left me behind to rot
With skin long gone from decay
I bite my tongue now stained red
From the blood filling my mouth
I begged you not to leave me
I tried to hold on to you
But my hands grew stiff and numb
From the ice that left your lips
A bitterness plagues my mind
I contracted it from yours
I allowed it to fester
I let it cloud my judgement
But I will rise above you
I won’t pick you up again
When they let you fall to Earth
I will grow back healthier
Than I ever was with you

e.r.b

A bit of imagery

The moon hung on a string as stars, like drops of silver, danced around it. The cool mid-autumn air whispered through the evergreen trees whose sap filled the space with a clean, sweet scent. The night held the living forest with a fondness. Cradled within the velvet dark, creatures who dwell in the thick night sing a song only heard by those who venture with the moon. Cars, whose headlight rip through the peaceful dark , dive on a near empty road. The sound of their engines stir the melodious song conducted by the unseen, but the forest sings on. The moon continues its journey across the sky, bringing with it dawn. The promise of light calms the ever living night. 

e.r.b

 

Writing

I love to write, but the only writing pieces that I can finish, are the sad ones. The ones where I explain that little pit of black in the back of my brain. I want to write about the beauty in this world because there is so much of it. Instead, only words filled with anger and something so suffocating fill the page. I hate that I can’t seem to put the good into words, but the bad comes so easily. I’ve tried to think and write positively, but it’s so much easier to write about the negative because it’s so much easier to see. Each piece of positively is sloppy and is not worth anyones time, but the depressing one’s are better. More relatable, I guess. It’s easier to fall into to that black pit and let it’s claws guide my hands on the paper. I know that I am a negative person and can only see a few steps ahead. I want to change that, but I don’t know how.

e.r.b

Pancakes

A burn on my hand sings in hot pain. The skin has already become a pale pink and shines a bit more than the rest. Pancakes. A burn for pancakes. Seems like a fair trade to me. I whisk together more of the mixture and water, scraping at the bottom of the bowl. When the off-white liquid becomes the same viscosity of glue, I pour it on the griddle. Steam rises and sizzles as the pancake cooks. I quickly add chocolate chips to the top and they sink a bit into the already thickening liquid.

My grandmother says I eat too much food because it’s the only thing in my life that I can control. That the amount of food I allow into my body is the one thing that only I can change. She’s right, but I’ll never tell her that. I don’t eat lunch or dinner or breakfast. Instead, I graze throughout the day. Sometimes, when I’m bored, I eat so much my stomach aches. Other days I don’t eat anything at all. I like to tell myself that I have control in other aspects like my emotions. That I can control the way my surroundings affect me, but we all know that’s far from the truth. My brain feels like a  snow globe. Small, glittering flakes whirl around a tiny, glass container. Than, they settle on the bottom until someone comes back to shake up the globe again. They are dependent on everything, but me.

The edges of the pancakes change from shiny to matte. I pick up the black spatula and flip them. The surface of the almost-perfect circle is a delicious golden brown. I allow the pancake to bake a bit more and remove it from the black, hot surface. Waiting for the pancake to cool is hardest part, so I usually skip it. I eat the one that isn’t going to completely burn my tongue first. Almost-molten chocolate coats the roof of my mouth as I enjoy the pancake.

e.r.b

3:05

Weary eyes refuse to close for long. The sweet sleep that I used to know so well has left and refuses to return. I toss and turn as the inky dark of the room threatens to swallow me whole. I reach out from the safety of my warm blanket to grab my phone. The white light of the screen rips through the velvet night as the clock reads 3:05. I need to sleep. Instead, I let my thumps graze over letters in a keyboard. Each letter joins to create a word and each word a sentence. Soon, I have a piece of writing about my inability to fall asleep. Maybe now my eyes can give into the pleas of rest. 

e.r.b

Days

There are days where I don’t feel like I’m really there. I feel like the day just passes by and I’m a bystander. I just watch. The actions are not my own. My feet are their own person. I watch TV but the sound from it is just noise that doesn’t even register in my brain, but I stare at it anyway. There is a motor in my stomach that pushes me forward. I walk to work each day. Than walk back home. That’s it. That’s my day. I converse with my mom, but don’t really listen and answer with a voice that isn’t mine. By the end of the day, I don’t remember what I did. I don’t remember who I talked to at work or what I ate. I just remember that I got up, went to work, and now I’m home. No details. No memories.

e.r.b

Hello

Hello. I can see you creeping up to me. I can see your skeletal hands beckoning me. I want to welcome you. I want to go with your cold arms wrapped around mine. To see what is beyond this reality I’ve been stuck in. You’re closer now. So close I can smell the rot of your breath and see the decay on your skin. If I go with you, will I be able to see the world like I did when I was young? I can feel your thin fingers pierce the delicate skin on my wrist as you pull me to come, but I don’t want to follow you. I can still turn this around. I don’t need you yet. I’ve managed to shake you off. Your crumpled, defeated frame lays at my feet. The glint in your eye telling me it’s not over yet. I run. Cold air burns in my lungs and my feet struggle to keep up, but I’ve escaped. The terrain has become uneven. My foot catches on a root of a tree long dead, causing my knee to slam into the hard ground. Dirt cakes into the creases of my hands and my knee protests, but I still stand. You’ve caught up. The allure of your offer sits in the air. Give up and come with you or fight. If I give up, will my sisters be alright? If I give up, will it be easier? No. My sisters will not be ok if I go. It will not be easier if I follow you. I will fight.

Dear Lolly,

Dear Lolly,

Your arctic ice eyes could bring the world down with just a glance. The passion in your heart will always bring a smile to my face. The freckles you hate are the mark of the sun that kissed your skin. I will always miss you. I will miss that summer we swang on the metal swing set and looked up the stars, hoping we could fly away. I will miss your laugh that filled the room. Last I saw you, those eyes still shone brighter than any star that shone above us. Your passion made me want to hold your thin frame, in hopes that a fraction would fade into me. Your freckles were more prominent than ever. All your features still held true without me. You are doing fine without me. If you had really looked at me that night in May, you wouldn’t be surprised. My eyes still glaze over when I talk to people. My face is still pale and sickly. My passion is still dwindling. I wish I still had you. I wish I could still call you a friend. I wish you saw me as a friend. Please don’t ever change. Please continue to give the world the hell it deserves. Please always be the kind and strong girl I love.

Your friend,

Emma