going, going, gone

Figures fading out of sight

Merely shadows 'gainst the night

Can only hope we did it right

But we're walking, walking on

Drink the poison, stop our ears

Now just wait for sixty years

Please come faster, end our fears

And we're treading, treading on

Pain and hate but no more grief

Walk 'tween faith and disbelief

Hope that moment will be brief

Still we're plodding, plodding on

Cross the threshold, close the door

We can't turn back anymore

Won the battle, lost the war

Yet we're marching, marching on

So do we walk toward black or white?

And will we pass from peace or fight?

Someone tell us of the plight!

Help us struggle, struggle on

But we won't know until we try

If we'll fall or if we'll fly

Fin'lly learning how to die

So we're moving, moving on

A life we're not designed to keep

Dust to dust, eternal sleep

Just an echo o'er the deep

Now we're going, going, gone

house of horrors

Tight spaces.  Sharp corners. 

I see faces.  I see scars. 

I can't get out.  I can't stop this. 

We try to run, we don't get far. 

Every wall contains a person,

Every person looks the same. 

Wide-eyed terrified and running

I know each story, know each name. 

They seem to all close in around me

I push to find a space to breathe. 

A missing wall--I follow through it.

And for a bit I think I'm free. 

But no!  This looks just like the others,

It doesn't matter where I go.

I'm trapped inside this house of horrors,

Where fear and guilt are all I know. 

But I still try to outrun myself,

Escape the things I cannot hide,

The dirty, shameful parts of me,

All my regrets that haven't died.

At every turn I face my failures,

The past, the present, future, all. 

At last I know it's time to give up,

We bend our knees and take the fall. 

And now, my hands upon the glass,

My own eyes staring back at me,

I realize in this maze of mirrors

I'm facing my worst enemy.

There's only one way to escape;

One last chance to end all of this!

The shards of glass rain all around me,

I feel the blood drip down my fists.

I plunge the glass into my chest,

And finally my nightmare's done.

But though I'm no longer in pain,

I don't know if I've lost or won.

on june and being alive

If you were to ask me what living was, I would tell you that it's biking down a hill,

Tongue out, hands held high, trying to taste and feel the breeze with every inch of my body,

Standing up, gripping the seat with my knees, not bothering to pedal as gravity does the work for me,

My phone wedged between the straps of my backpack, the music it plays seemingly coming right out of my chest,

As if I'm living and breathing in relation to the beat of a drum, not of a heart.

My helmet, strapped to the back of my bag, is rendered useless, because what's the point of it if you can't even feel the  wind flowing through your hair?

It feels like I have freedom flowing through my veins and breathing easy summer joy in my lungs.

And reaching the bottom of the hill, I'm back singing along with the music and riding towards the edge of the sky.
That, my friend, is being alive.

end

And so we run swiftly

Into the arms of Death

In the way that a child rides down an empty street,

Yelling "Look Mom! No hands!"

Too excited that we're flying

To be afraid of falling

cloves and stock

She stepped on his porch, glancing once again over both shoulders to make sure his car was nowhere in sight.  It was a beautiful day in March, the kind that would have felt cool had it been in May, but after a long and cold winter almost felt like summertime.  And although the grass was still brown and dry, and the trees still cold and bare, she swore she could smell a hint of growth in the air.  However, as nice as the day was, she didn't feel that same sunshine in her heart.  She turned around and sat down on the steps, willing herself to hold it together.  She never planned for it to end up this way--she was never supposed to tell him like this!  He was supposed to tell her first, or figure it out on his own, or maybe she could have even told him in a grand way and he would understand.  Yet instead here she was, leaving an abandoned, coded message on his porch, only to run away once again.  Speaking of running away--she checked her watch--the train would leave soon.  She'd better be going.  She looked down at her hands, where she held a bouquet that she had made herself.  It was filled with cloves, cyclamens, white monte casinos, stock, and red and pink carnations.*  Holding her bundle of flowers up to her face, she finally let a few tears fall from her eyes, trailing onto the petals.  She breathed in the sweet scent of them, and breathed out a goodbye.  She set them down on the porch and turned to go, pulling an index card out of her pocket.  He probably would not find the message in the flowers, but the words on the card were something that both he, a reader, and she, a writer, would understand.  You, my friend, she read out loud, were the worst, most awful character I could dream up in my own life story.  Not because you were easy to hate, but because you were so easy to love.  And I was not so easy to love in return.  And with that, she walked away without a second glance, leaving her own tragedy on the way to catch her train.

*The meanings of the flowers are as follows, using Victoria's Dictionary of Flowers from The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh

Clove - I have loved you and you have not known it

White Monte Casino - patience

Cyclamen - timid hope

Red Carnation - my heart breaks

Pink Carnation - I will never forget you

Stock - you will always be beautiful to me

If you enjoyed this, check out my new blog http://imperfectlyandwithoutroots.wordpress.com/, where I'll be writing short stories on the meanings of different kinds of flowers.  But don't worry, I'll still be posting on here too!

some wings are made of carbon steel

There she is, in the center

A beautiful blur against the dark

Eyes glowing, hair flowing

Accidently, unknowingly, the star of tonight

Physically, she blends in with the crowd

But her intensity stands out

Her vibrant life is spilling out of her

Shining for anyone to see

And yet, she is still unaware

Captivating all those around her

She cuts around people

Weaving in and out of the smallest spaces

Yet never touching anyone, never interfering

She seems completely unconcerned with what the world thinks of her

She somehow hung onto that carefree attitude we once had as children

And there's something oddly compelling about it

And as she glides and weaves and cuts and turns

You feel as if you're seeing her

In her truest form, her natural habitat

You begin to understand that it's actually subtly brave

To give a glimpse of her most real self in front of all these strangers

She's strong

She's beautiful

She's alive

She's free

And even though you're just on the outside looking in

She makes you feel all these things too

And suddenly it's obvious

As you see her incredible joy out there

That she skates

Not just because she feels powerful on the ice

But because it's the closest she can get

To flying

three years later

It's not even rush hour, but I take my alternate route anyway. You'd probably laugh at me if you knew that three years later, I still haven't given up the habits that started with you. That I still go out of my way to drive past your house, because it was once an excuse to try to run into you. Because maybe, just maybe, I'd see your crappy old car in the driveway. And then maybe, just maybe, you'd be just walking in, or getting your mail, or coming back from a run. And then, of course, I'd have to stop in and talk with you. You'd joke about how I had caught you just at the right time, not knowing that I had actually planned it that way. You'd offer me coffee, and then sit there drinking yours--black, as always. I always made fun of you for how gross it tasted, but I secretly thought that it made you that much more manly and attractive. You'd turn on the TV, but we'd always do more talking than watching. We'd debate politics, we'd debate sports. I'd try to keep up, but you were always smarter than I. I mean, you still are. Then there would come a point when you would say that you really do need to get work done, and that you'd see me next time. Filled with hope, I would smile and ask "When is next time?" But you'd let me down, shrugging and saying "I don't know." And I would drive home, both pleased and frustrated. Because as much as I cherished those times with you, I knew that they would never mean to you what they meant to me. Because our friendship was beautiful, but my thirst for more was ruining my perception of it. Because I don't just want your coffee, your conversation, or even just your time. I want you. And that want will never be satisfied. And as I think this, I realize that I'm once again sitting outside your house. But your crappy car isn't in the driveway, and you won't be walking outside for anything. Because you're gone, but the memories aren't. And three years later, I can't stop thinking about you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rUONo7dPTGI

for when I get jealous

When I really think about it
If my love is really true
When you say she makes you happy
Then I guess I'm happy too

11:11

There was a time when I made wishes
But wishes don't come true
So now on eleven-eleven
I say your name and think of you

warriors for Christ

Voices. 

Hundreds of voices. 

Lifted up in one song, and all praising the name of one God. 

Somehow, even though some of us can't sing very well,

It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard. 

That amazingly, God blends

Imperfect voice

With imperfect voice

With my imperfect voice

To create the euphonious sound

Of believers in earnest worship.

I can't quite explain how exhilarating and humbling it is

To be one with all the voices.

To be singing at the top of your lungs

Yet not be able to hear yourself

Or any individual, for that matter.

It's beautiful because nobody stands out

No one is the star;

We are only making His name known,

Our God is the center of it all.

As the music from the practically invisible musicians

Moves my body

My hands lift in the air in thanks

And the words on the screen,

The only brightly lit thing in the room

Move my mind

My thoughts are drawn to Christ

Who died for me

But it is the Spirit

That moves my heart

And I not only belt out the words

Even louder

But I mean them so much more.

And suddenly

The music drops out

We are left only with our voices

And His Presence

And the chapel rings with words

That excite me and give me goose bumps

Together, the redeemed cry out:

"And as He stands

in victory

Sin's curse has lost

its grip on me,

For I am His

and He is mine

Bought with the precious

blood of Christ."

And as I sing to my Savior,

Closing my eyes,

I can't help but think

About the one day

When we will gather around the throne

And that this is just the tiniest

Glimpse

Of heaven.

(lyrics: In Christ Alone by Stuart Townend)

[your name]

Sometimes I wonder what you would do if you knew.  How you would react if you understood how I feel.  What you would think if you knew that right now I'm standing here in the shower, banging my proverbial head against the wall, because it's 2 am and I just can't stop thinking about you.  And I try to push these thoughts away, but I can't.  The stupid thoughts remind me of the stupid acne that pops up on my face whenever I'm stressed, and just like the thoughts of you, no matter how I try they just keep coming back. 

I wish it wasn't like this.  If I could, I would write all of my feelings down into books and put them on the shelf.  Then I wouldn't have to think about you unless I read them.  And even then, it would be like trying to imagine someone else's life; you would just be a character in a story, not an actual person that I care about.  You couldn't affect me.

I wish I could package up all my emotions into boxes and hide them away somewhere.  I'd put them in my closet on the top shelf, so nobody could get at them easily, and only take them out when I had to prove to someone that I am indeed a person.  They would sit up there, forgotten and collecting dust, just like the memory of you. 

Maybe I could just re-program myself to not think of you;  write over the code in my brain, deleting every mention of your name and every image of your face.  Maybe the next time someone mentions you, it won't send me into a infinite loop of thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking about you.  You'd just be a red little error message; a command that I don't understand.

Or perhaps I could take them and transform them into drugs.  It would be appropriate, since you're certainly more addicting than heroine anyway.  I would stay away from them most of the time, maybe take them once a year.  Yes, that's it: I'd have a holiday to celebrate my independence from feelings, and would inject myself with them for one short day just to remind myself how horrible it was to feel.

But unfortunately, that's not how it works.  That's not where the thoughts of you lie. 

Instead, they're in the icy wind that blows against my face as I run alone.  I pass by all the places that we walked together, and I can't decide which is more painful: the cold in my face or the cold in my heart.

Instead, they're in the silence that I've now grown used to as I drive home.  I can't turn on the radio anymore, because they'll only be playing stupid, annoying songs about people being in love.  Either that or they'll play that one that makes me think of you, and it'll wreck me.

Instead, they're in the streams of water flowing out of my showerhead, cleaning me, covering me.  Part of me is terrified of drowning in them, and another part of me welcomes it.  But both parts agree that it's nice that it hides our tears.

Instead they're in every one of those little shades of color in your eyes, that somehow mix together to create a masterpiece that is nearly impossible to look away from.  And as you stare back at me with eyes that look like they could see into my soul, I wonder, what if it was true?  What would you do, if you knew?

things i miss about my best friend

• That daily text telling me when she'll get off work

• The fact that she doesn't even tell me that I should come over--I'll be there when she gets home

• Walking into her house and hanging out with her family and dog until she gets there

• Singing loudly and badly in the car

• Snuggling on the couch. . .or in her bed. . .or my bed. . .or anywhere really
• The fact that she's always cold. . .which makes her want to snuggle more
• Watching stupid TV shows and talking about character dynamics the whole time
• Watching good TV shows and pausing it so we can talk without missing anything
• Staying up until 2 am so I have to stay the night at her house even though I didn't intend to
• Her family feeding me.  All the time.  And even telling me when they make my favorite foods so I can come over
• Her telling me that I can't have any milk because they're running out (but it's okay, because I brought my own from home since I knew this was going to happen)
• Analyzing everything about our favorite book characters
• Trying to guess what the personality types of our friends are
• Hearing (and sometimes feeling) her feet rub together as she falls asleep
• The fact that we have to write down all the things we need to talk about when we have a conversation, or else we'll forget
• Going to parties that a lot of our friends are at, but then just sitting on the couch and talking to each other the whole time
• Playing games when we're on the same team and winning by a lot just because we know each other so well
• Giving each other looks during conversations when we can't say something out loud, but knowing exactly what each other are thinking
• Visiting her at work and laughing when I see her write my nickname on my cup without me even telling her
• Planning our post-college trip to Alaska
• Her mispronounced words and mixed up sentences
• Our discussions about what books the other needs to read and how good they are
• Her random hand massages
• The fact that she can always be counted on to agree with me when I say emotions suck
• Her obvious love for the people around her--even strangers
• Her smell of coffee when she gets home from work, even though she hates it

• All the little things, all the big things, and all the things we do together. I just miss her.