Dreaming in Metaphors
I will give you everything I have. I am an open target; arms outstretched; head thrown back; chest exposed. I will not move. I stand in trembling fear, matched with excitement, flinching slightly as you start toward me— terrified and ecstatic at what might happen. I will no longer hide from the world. I force my eyes shut against the second thoughts invading me. I will not hide myself away from what could be.
My naked soul shivers as you stop, just inches from me. My sore arms scream to wrap themselves around you. My eyes burn to cry one more time. I open my lids, and you stand there. Expressionless. I do not move. Rather, I clear from my mind a single thought clawing to get out,
Love me or kill me; I am yours to do with as you wish.
He only looks at me, tiredly, then walks away without looking back. My mouth hangs open in silent anguish. Still, I do not move. I stand as an open target, waiting for him to return. My heart bleeds willingly in my chest, dampening the soft gray dirt with raw hopelessness. I cannot silence myself any longer.
What is life without pain? What is life without the waiting and waiting and waiting? I wouldn’t give anything for love— I would give everything.
Letter to Chris Miller
I always knew my intuition would be right. That doesn’t make it any easier. I really thought I had found my soul mate, which is stupid because I don’t even believe in that crap. It turns out that you’re just here to test me and see if I can allow myself to be vulnerable and wounded instead of responding reflexively with armor and anger. So, along with my vow to allow my heart to bleed joyfully and WILLINGLY, I swear to you I WILL NOT FIGHT YOU.
Mourning Glory
It pinches; the delicate purple petals drawn up like curtains- and wrinkles like the fat face of a toddler moments before a tantrum breaks loose. It's as if the door of dryness has opened and crumpled the heavy rug of dew so lovingly placed there by the Night. This is Nature's way of rewarding those of us who get up an hour and a half early to go for a jog. But the punishment of the beautiful comes when the rest of the world is awake to witness the degradation of Glory.
Letter to Johnny
I miss you. You have impacted my life; you make me want to be good. You make me want to change, and I love you for that because no one else has ever been able to. That’s not self-pity, that’s just the truth. You taught me to put everyone else before myself. I can’t do it fully but you can, which is amazing, and my failure at it doesn’t make you upset, it just makes me try harder. God has given you to me- the gift of a friend- and I thank Him every day for it. You will always be with me in some form or another.
I finally understand what you’ve been trying to get me to learn. I used to wish I could die so that I didn’t have to experience life anymore. Now I wish to die because I want to be with God, even though I know that that is probably not His will right now. Maybe I need to stay here and preach the Word, but wanting to die is not wicked. Not if it’s for the right reason.
Untitled
Sometimes I think that maybe God and I could walk together again. Because I’ve never felt like this before, and I’ve never shaken violently like that in prayer. Never have I felt so close to the One I need. I have gained a distinct distaste for the evil in the right half of my body. I can feel it in my heart and in my soul— rejecting passionately that which seeks to take over me. I pray not that I have strength to reject them, but that they will shrink from my mind as the Holy Spirit fills me.
The Courts of Heaven
God shakes His Head and tries not to laugh as I once again chain myself to the wall, because the cuffs are unlocked. Still, I cling to them, as if somehow the icy metal feigning captivity could give me something MORE. The only thing actually holding me in this dank, cold cell is my mind and the shame of it all. The bitter humiliation mixes with taunts from phantoms in my head. The jailers crawl all over me, laughing and jeering, and it is the most disgusting thing I have ever felt— them touching my brain with such filthy thoughts.
God just reaches out His Hand. I take it, and the chains that never really secured me clatter to the floor. As the demons at my feet scream, He covers my ears to their roaring cries and kisses away my tears. I sob as I nail my sins to the cross, wondering at the love the Greatest King holds for an anonymous servant girl.
Letter to God
Father I failed You. Despite the strengths you have allotted me out of love, I failed You. I didn’t study Your Word as you instructed— Your Word which gives me hope and guidance in my daily spiritual warfare. I neglected to stay away from the carriers of darkness for my own foolish, mortal reasons. All I can do is lay myself at Your Feet and declare in truth that I am not worthy and never will be. Still, I cling to that bit of hope that You might forgive and renew me. I am intensely humbled and filled with sorrow at my own shortcomings. When will I realize that accomplishments don’t matter at all? All that is good and righteous in me comes from You.
Letter to Raven
You intrigue me. I think, is there anything I can give this person? Will God work through me to shine in his darkness as he sits alone? He sits in that corner every day as I watch the flowers under my feet that he calls “weeds.” I know he is watching me, and I long to look him in the eye. For some reason they will not raise themselves to his as he watches me walk to the steps. He is hiding in that corner just as I wish to do.
I would not be so cruel as to bother him. I can not trespass the safety of that hovel, though it makes him an unnerving observer. He is so much included in everything else, but cannot see it. He pretends nothing and stares openly. It makes me nervous. He moves about with the uncanny manner of a cat: slow and deliberate and casual. Each motion has a direct purpose and is unhurried. What can I give to these people?
Karen confessed to me today that she never felt spiritually full. I know what that is like. I can rejoice in my previous sufferings, because now God is using them! We are barely alive in this bleak environment. I spent so long in pain that when joy filled me, it had a HUGE space to fill. Even then it overflowed to others who know nothing but emptiness. When I look around, everyone is so needy. I will offer them what I have and share it with gratefulness. God has given me life and the truth will set me free.
Letter to Ryker
I know. I know that you’re running away from yourself— afraid not just of being hurt, but of feeling at all. It sounds very familiar. I’m at such a loss as to how to act towards you. You seem willing to be friends again. You’ve actually opened yourself up to me, so the question is not whether or not you want me, but whether or not I can trust you. I’ll probably end up completely emotionally supporting you and basically being the forgotten side of a one-sided relationship, but that’s okay. I’m used to that.
I suppose I can be the perfect friend. Caring, loving, kind, supportive, who listens forever and remains unselfish and self-sacrificing. Yes, I will, regardless of whether or not you return the gifts I give to you. In fact, I hope you won’t, because then I’ll owe you nothing. I won’t use that to extort from you love or affection. God, give me strength enough to disarm myself for this broken, starving boy.
Letter to Chris Miller
I posed a simple, coy question, “May I help you?” but your response told me that this was no game. Chris, how am I supposed to help you? I know what it is like to want nothing but to die. I know that well. But I am not wise. I am not insightful. Right now is a very hard time for me because of all the stress I am under. May God help you by giving me the best questions to ask and the right words to speak. Let my actions speak loudly of God’s Love and Grace.
Dreams
I hate it when other people dream about me. Dreams make me terribly uncomfortable. I’m not exactly sure what to make of them. For instance, every time I dream about Ryker, there is always a sexual connotation. Two nights ago, I dreamt that his girlfriend died while he was having sex with her in the bathtub. It felt like he had died, but then he was my brother and not Ryker, which symbolizes that he is a part of me. Chris Miller said he dreamed about me last night. I find that disturbing. What am I doing in other peoples’ dreams? I feel like dreams are a part of my conscious being, rather than my deep, hidden thoughts and feelings. I wish I could remember everyone as vividly as I do when I dream them.
Sadness
I am tired of trying to fight this thing. My body collapses into tears of exhaustion as I realize that I cannot stand my vigil any longer. It will come in my sleep like a coward and a thief. Now matter how long I stay awake, it blinds me while we fight and I never fail to lose. My heart has been stripped of its last vestiges of safety and bleeds before it. Fighting is not worth it because I fight in vain.
I run to God, who strokes my hair and cradles me, explaining that it is like a shot that will make me stronger. I wrench in pain, finding no comfort in His Words.
He is Inadequate.
The pain has been worse, before— so bad I can barely remember a month of my life, but tonight will be quite sufficient. Yes, it will serve its purpose well. I have given up.
Letter to an Anonymous Friend
For once I thought that maybe I had a friend who actually knew the real me, who would get close to me and let me get close to them. I guess I was wrong. I wish that, for once, someone I was close to wouldn’t screw me over. You’ve done it, what, four or five times, now? Did you think you could have me but when I said “No” you thought you could pretend this never happened? We can’t go back to the way it was.
You should have let me love you. My love is good love, and you are a fool not to take it.
This Day
I cannot begin to describe how I feel today, but I’m going to try, anyhow. A combination of embarrassment and deep, quiet sorrow. I wish to be alone to pray and cry. To write.
I don’t know how to be beautiful. I fall on my knees in exhaustion and sob in hopeless prayer tears that refuse to serve their purpose. I try to keep my eyes on God but they are swollen shut with weeping. I know He is supposed to be all I need, but it is so lonely, here, drowning in despair. They don’t want to see the sadness. I will not do them the disservice of unburdening my tears on them.
The sun pierces through the broken limbs, warming my broken soul. They don’t want to see me crying. “Take a new grip with your tired hands, stand firm on your shaky legs,” says the Word. I want to stand so badly to meet Him, but collapse in a heap of tears. They don’t want to see me fall. “Mark out a straight, smooth path for your feet. Though they are lame, they’ll not be broken; though they may be weary, they shall not fall.” Even God doesn’t want to see the tears. What DO they want?
The Girl who Lives Forever
I am tired of living. I want to die so badly I can taste it. It is wicked for me to wish for Death, for it is not God’s will for me yet. I keep giving my heart out and giving my heart out, and still people crush it with a whim. And I hurt. And I fall on my knees with my broken heart bleeding on my trembling hands and cry out to my Lord.
You know what He says?
He says, “That’s how I feel every time you sin against me.”
I hang my head in dark shame. I set the remains of the shattered heart (that should not belong to a fourteen year old girl) back out into the open. I wince every time somebody walks by. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done: not to snatch it back and lock it safely inside of me. To die. To no longer have to deal with this world.
I feel like I’m already dead. I’m dead to this world, anyhow. It offers me nothing, and I don’t care. I died the day I was born. A deep sadness preoccupies me. How can you not notice? That far off look in my eyes between the crazy stunts I pull to make other people laugh. Thank God I can feel at all, though— it’s better than the Emptiness.
I am so blessed to have this good life. Nonetheless, it does not feel that it belongs to me. I should be in a third world country, widowed and tortured and beaten with the sorrow that I feel. I should have lost children and husbands. I strive to do God’s will and pray that I will meet Him Face to face, and explore His torn Hands, and pray and hope that day will come to release me from the grip this world has on my soul.
Letter to Chris Miller
What do you want from me? I can smell you— the scent of cigarettes and your cologne seeping into the pores of my skin. When the wind blows, that minute piece of you that belongs to me sweeps over my senses and throws me back into your embrace. You don’t have to laugh with me, but smile. You don’t have to cry with me, but kiss my tears away. You don’t have to love me, just let me believe that you do.
Magnificat
Truly a haven for the tortured, the music of the angels pales in comparison to the praises to the Holy One floating from the mouths of these children. It is so pure and beautiful that my ears do not deserve the privilege of hearing it. Voices emanate, holy and perfect, in chorus to God. The phrases rise from this dirty and ungodly world to the heavens.
It is my inspiration. It is my soul. Music is my shelter, my pleasure, and my only hope. Yes, the notes are beautiful, but it is the Glory that cleanses them that makes them whole. Music is so powerful: it heals the torn, broken, lost souls with these melodies on their lips. It soothes lips that proclaim the troubles of their hearts— their shattered hearts that the Lord pieces back together with each note.
Don’t Touch
He bit me. He bit me on the neck, and growled. You see, I have a problem with biting. No, not that kind of problem… THAT kind of problem. Then he wrapped me in his black leather trench-coat, grinding his teeth harder into my neck. I struggled at first, but finally went limp in his arms as he lowered me to the ground. Struggling is so much more fun. And then, he did it again the next day. That time, he carried me to his friends and offered me to them. I only fight it until I melt and collapse. I really don’t have a problem with the most gorgeous, popular guy in school biting me; I have a problem with pleasure. I feel like I should not know pleasure at all— only punishment and pain. The problem is that punishment and pain are beginning to give me pleasure.
Just think… If I can get information from looking at something, imagine what I can do if I hold it.
(signed, Chris Miller)
Post script: Keep it. It will be worth big $$$ someday!
Letter to Chris Miller
I find myself uneasy around you. It’s because of your mind games. I mustn’t allow myself to be so childish and silly. Of course you couldn’t possibly be able to read my journal just by touching it… could you? Am I crazy? Are you crazy? When I’m near you or thinking about you, I feel as if, at any time, the world around me could shatter and fall to ruins because of some boy and his assumptions. Very good assumptions. I used to be safe. I am frightened to be alone because I know that when I’m alone, I’m not.
There are terrible things.
Suicide- A Meditation
“God will give him life unless he has sinned that one fatal sin; the sin that ends in death.”
1 John 5:16-17
It hits me like a ton of bricks: SUICIDE. I’ve never been able to get a straight answer from the church. They’ve vaguely hinted that it’s a sin but they don’t like to talk about souls they can’t fix. When a congregation member takes their life, the clergy ignores it and comforts the aggrieved just the same.
Suicide is a sin. It is the one unforgivable sin because you are not alive to plead God’s Mercy. It’s done, and you’re before the throne with that sin etched into your heart. I contemplate suicide constantly but I’m certain I could never do it. I should be thankful to take part in this wonderful life. But I’m not. I am selfish, conceited, and proud. The fact that I hate living and am in constant suffering still shouldn’t affect my duty to show the Love of God to others.
The Voice
I feel rushed, as if there’s something I need to get done right now, at this very moment. I have a Nirvana song stuck in my head: “Breed.” Something deep, deep within my soul tells me I have no time. Time for what? Show me, somehow, what it is that I’m supposed to do. I feel desperate and irrational. Something is trying to crawl from the unintelligible muck of my subconscious and into my mind where I could do something about it. But the light is too dim to read the message, and so I wrack my mind to no avail. My search is in vain.
A Letter of Apology to my Heart
I must stop playing the piano. I have to give it up. I’ve been using it as a vehicle to show off and brag. Well, I’m still going to play in private, but I’m never going to play it in public again. Ugh, I make myself sick with my martyrdom. I’m not being a martyr; I am trying to flush myself of pride. Oh, Amelia is going to have a secret passion that no one knows about. Wow, it must be so special that she has to hide it all to herself. That is so freaking conceited. Look, it is probably the most self-absorbed thing I’ve ever done, but I believe it will be the best thing in the end. Then I can continue working secretly by myself— oh yes, you saint. I can’t even believe I’m doing something so childish. It’s almost embarrassing because of what may happen afterwards. You are a foolish little girl.
Random Thoughts
June still loves Chris because he played Romeo and she was Juliet and says you get sucked into some roles. Did you ever do elephants have bellybuttons? notice that everyone either hates him or loves him? Blue leprechauns can’t be blue. How is ‘leprechaun’ spelled? I don’t know. He’s going to shave his head and get a nose ring. I want to do it for him. He always asks me for sex and to strip. Man, what is it with guys asking me to strip? Like six guys have asked me to strip for them! He also said my breasts would make nice pillows. I agree. Twitching is bad. My sleeve is bothering me! I’ll save a braid of it and cry. Karen is looking at me and talking about dogs. My dog licks herself and that’s weird. I wouldn’t mind being able to lick myself if you know what I mean. Chris asked me if we could make out. I hate kissing. Not really, but that’s what I told him and he bit me and that makes me mad because I want to have sex with him which means we would have to get married. Pants should be worn upon the head. I put sweatpants on my head in dance class and everyone laughed except Dr. Nickel. I hate poodles. I think we should use poodles instead of torpedoes. Torpoodles. My hand hurts. It pisses me off when guys turn me on. Oatmeal, when I eat rocks I’m not in control. A desk sounds good if you eat it with a fork. I haven’t laughed at someone who looks like a monster in a long time. I don’t feel well. Have rehearsal after school; my partner has nodes so knock on wood. They’ll give me Kool-Aid breath and then my teeth would be too orange to kiss. Mrs. Weiss probably doesn’t have huge breasts like Mrs. Roberts. We should get her a Danish so she won’t be so mean all the time. Speaking of breasts, it’s too bad that June still wants Chris. Because he’s mine.
Letter to Ryker
Nothing you have ever done, nothing you are, and nothing that could ever happen would make me care less for you. I still love you. Let me help you bear your cross. I couldn’t help Johnny with his burden because I would defile his life by touching it. I will take your tears; let me take them. May they augment the few that belong to me. I need them. I cannot cry anymore. I need you to cry for me.
Random Thoughts
Yesterday Derrick asked gerbils should not have noses that are purple if he could have a videotape of Max and I having sex. I said no, but Karen offered to videotape it. That’s nice. Chris cut off his beautiful long blond hair. I’m bored and drinking water. Leprechaun IS spelled e and not ae! That’s good; it’s in alphabetical order. Wouldn’t it be funny if Kenny was a giant chicken with bulging knees and a mustache? I’m wearing socks that remind me of snowflakes. I’m glad they’re not made out of live squirrels because then my feet would be all squirmy. I hate having cold feet. I’m a compulsive liar. Not really. See? Ha ha! I am glad that no one has tried to kill me with a pick axe. That would freaking hurt if it went into my eye. Then I’d be blind. I like cornflakes; they’re good to snort up your nose, sometimes. They do not go down the esophagus. I did not wear green on St. Patrick’s Day because I only wear black, white, grey, and red. I think ants are taking over the world. There’s a queen ant in Antarctica just popping them out. I’m not allowed to have caffeine. I have teeth so that I can chew things like bugs and Skittles. Except, I’m not allowed to have Skittles anymore because I gave up sugar for Lent. I remember when Ryker and I met— I gave him pocket lint in exchange for my shoe. Shoes are silly. I look like a leprechaun when I wear them on my ears and do a little jig. That is a nice word but it’s not pretty. I’d like it if all the dancers sprouted trunks and tails and turned into little elephants. I would laugh and poke them repeatedly with forks. I like impaling people if that’s what you call them. Dancers are weird.
Breakdown
I don’t know exactly when it happened. I just know that as the nervous music took over me, I rocked back and forth mumbling incoherently. So I’m dead or insane— I just can’t tell which. I’m breathing, so I must be alive. Then again, I’m writing, so I must be sane.
Today I wrote, “And I know my praise rises above the deafening crash of the waves to ring in my God’s Ears / the Holy wings of a song,” in the sand. I still feel God’s Love. That is good. Yes, that is very nice. Funny, I thought only normal people listened to classical music.
I really don’t feel anything at all. Maybe it is the lack of sleep. Or, it could be that I’m a freaking worthless, pathetic psycho. Sorry, sometimes I get a little upset. I hate being crazy. I’m not. I won’t be. Can’t help it, though. I suppose I should buck up and accept it or some motivational crap like that. The word “sucks” sounds so uneducated, don’t you think?
Did you know that I hear voices in my head? I do. I argue with myself— it’s very stupid, actually, but I have to live with it. “Darling, if you want to commit suicide, do it in my arms.” That was nice of him to say. We all have our little quirks. Elisabeth is OCD, Karen hates her body, Bonnie is bipolar, Chris LaRoche has an inferiority complex, Nickie is an enabler, Chris Miller is a compulsive liar, June has violent hormonal mood swings, and Craig is beaten by his parents. I fit in there somewhere, but in a less charming way. I am a useless misfit reject psychopath.
A Letter from Right: To Left
You let me do this to you. You let me do this to you. You let me do this to you. You let me do this to you. You let me do this to you. You let me do this to you. You let me do this to you. You let me do this to you. You let me do this to you. You let me do this to you. You let me do this to you. You let me do this to you. You let me do this to you. You let me do this to you. You let me do this to you. You let me do this to you. You let me do this to you.
Letter to a Friend
I took a nice long walk on the beach, yesterday, and thought a lot about life. I thought a lot about death. I wrote random poetry in the sand… something about waves and sea foam. You know, being alone is much less lonely than being with people. Two of my acquaintances from last year were at the coffee shop, so we talked. I told them about becoming a Christian and giving up all that stuff in my past, and they were floored. It’s cool to witness to people who can see the change. Anyway, I walked home on the beach and thought more about pain and death, and you. Somehow, the three all fit together.
Letter to Johnny
Funny, isn’t it? How life leads us on, letting us believe whatever our hearts dream up? If you lie to yourself for long enough, you start to believe it. How did this happen? I’m so stupid for allowing this. You are too good for me. I should just stick to losers and hurting rejects who all seem to find their ways to me. What could I possibly give you? What was I thinking?
I guess I should be content just to be your friend. I should be in shock that you even associate with the likes of me. No, that’s not true. You are not like that. Forgive me; I’m just searching so hard for a reason or someone to blame outside of myself. I ask God why, and He says, “Isn’t that enough? Isn’t it enough that I sent you a companion and friend?” Well no! It’s not enough! I know I’m being self-serving but I am so tired of being unwanted. Still, I have to continue to be vulnerable. My heart is not broken like it has been, before. Love is patient.
March 25th
If you want a friend, be a friend. Well, yeah shut up. What should you do when you need to talk to a person and know that you won’t? Please, another person can talk to him. I don’t want to. I think it’s a big conspiracy. I never should have done that silly play. What did I gain? What have I lost? I’ve had my fill of low theatre. God I can’t wait to get out of here. And as for Chris: don’t play games with those who love you. I hear a voice that says, “I love you. I will kill you, but I will always love you.” Her bangs are too short.
- June McCharen
Writer’s Block
I have an intense case of writer’s block. I feel everything and nothing must be said. I try to will my feelings, thoughts, and words here, but they will not travel from my brain to my fingertips. I think they get stuck in my heart. It’s kind of an interceptor, I suppose. I don’t want to make a fool of myself. We wouldn’t like that, would we. We? Who’s we? Shut up! We’re the same person, you know. Duh, don’t act like I’m stupid.
I hate it when I have conversations with myself; it scares me. I hurt him. I hurt him so badly and I find myself not caring. I’ve killed him. Good job. Shut up! It’s not my fault. STOP IT!!! I hate it when you guys fight like that. Man, I am so tired. I’ve got Spring Fever really badly.
I just want to go home and sleep. I need to be by myself. To be someone else or somewhere else, in context. I’m babbling like an idiot. And that would be different… how? Aha ha. Shut up! Is that the only thing you can ever think of to say? STOP! God, they piss me off. Speaking of God, I relived an old sin, yesterday. I felt stupid, afterwards. In my heart, I know that telling Ryker no is the right thing to do. So why does it hurt me? It hurts me to hurt him.
Untitled
How am I supposed to explain this to you? If I tell the truth, you’ll think I’m crazy. If I lie, I’ll be a liar, which I hate more than anything else. No matter what I say, I will be humiliated. You will not be able to understand and I will have to say it over and over and over again. You’ll say I do it for attention.
You think I want people to know how fucked up I am? I simply have no other way to manage the pain but to make it literal. So I can see what’s wrong with me. While you could never comprehend purposefully hurting yourself, I understand so clearly. I wouldn’t want you to understand. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.
I sit in the ashes, alone. Yet some of me remains somehow. I will tell someone, someday. And they won’t understand, but that won’t be necessary. Don’t try to understand me— just love me. He will break the chains that hold me, resurrect me from this hell, and he will take my hand, raise me from the rubble, and marry me. And never, ever, ever understand or need to understand. I’ll try my hardest to live that long. Some people would call this faith, but faith is only hoping that you’re right.