6th Grade - 11 years old

July

I look at my thighs. Bigger than most girls’.

I look at my chest. Bigger than most girls’.

I look at my arms. They don’t fit my body--too small compared to the little tummy that sticks out; bigger than most girls’.

I don’t like it. My cheeks are too chubby--I look like a friggin chipmunk.

Some days I look in the mirror--not even at my body, just my face--and hate. I pick out every wrong and blemish, every piece out of place and everything that might make me look different from the other girls. Fat, ugly, annoying, stupid, normal, out of the ordinary, nothing I do will ever be special, tears roll down my face and I choke on the words I spit at my reflection.

Hate. So much hate I throw at myself and I know, I know I deserve it and I know, I know I don’t, and I know this is stupid but I can’t stop feeling it.

Some days I put on a dress and pretend to be someone I’m not. Some days I put on jeans and a rock t-shirt and pretend to be someone I’m not. I can’t just choose one, of course.

Today I put on a pair of jeans, a stupid training bra, a tank top with a shelf bra, a long sleeve shirt, and a jacket. I try as hard as I can to cover up the abnormal hair on my arms and conceal the bumps on my chest that are too big for my age. I’m not supposed to be like this, I’m wrong, no one likes me anyway.

I’m not beautiful or special or unique or creative or cool or funny or nice or smart or ambitious and I’m definitely not like them and like them in the worst ways possible. I’m not beautiful. No one said it, so how could it be true?

People only say you do.

Moms don't count.

But other people think they’re beautiful, right?

8th Grade - 14 years old

Colin

I leave my house and the sky is grey or maybe it’s a pale blue but I can’t tell because the clouds are too bright. Dad said bye. Mom said see-ya. I ate a granola bar as I walked to the bus stop listening to my music on shuffle and I don’t listen to it.

I look out the window until the bus gets to school and I read the words on the page in the middle of a book I forgot the title of and the words pass under my eyes and I look at the letters and I don’t read them. The kid that I’ve gone to school with my whole life sits next to me and out of the corner of my eye I see the side of his face and it makes my heart beat in my throat and I can’t breathe for a second and I need to look again and I look again and it’s not him. It’s the kid that I’ve gone to school with my whole life.

I read the book I forgot the title of until the science teacher puts a new slide of notes up. I stop mid-sentence and write the chemical equation for photosynthesis and read another four clusters of letters and hear his words in my mind and he’s whispering in my ear and I can feel his breath on my neck and I want to scream and I’m so afraid and the knot in my throat is almost fatal and my vision is speckley and black around the edges but I’m in science class.

Third period. 11:27. I look behind me and there’s a styrofoam model of the element for titanium or some shit like that that some overachiever made for four points of extra credit. The hairs on the back of my neck are still standing up and the science teacher is still droning on about C6H12O6 and she makes the class say it back to her and the drone is reflected and on and on and on.

I put earbuds in and my music on shuffle and look out the window. The sky is definitely blue now but I’m not sure if I like it. No one sat next to me even though the bus is overfilled and some kids were four-to-a-seat even though we’re not supposed to do that. Whatever. They always glare at me anyway for some reason.

Mom said hi sweetie and Dad isn’t home yet but Mom is on her lunch break. I said hi back and got a yoghurt from the fridge and put my backpack on a chair in the dining room and I close my door and take off my shoes and my jeans and almost change into sweats from my dirty laundry but then I remember he touched those and I cry. I wanted to collapse dramatically to the floor but I know that would hurt and Mom would hear so I crawl into a little ball at the back of my closet where my old tennis shoes are and I cry and I cry and I cry and I cried until my chest hurt and I realized that the knot in my throat would never go away and my sobs were hollow. Is my chest hollow too?

I see him and we’re having fun I guess but I’m not sure. He tells me to do something and I shake my head and I want it to be over already and he says now and I shake my head again so he says now again but he’s not smiling anymore and his brow is furrowed. I don’t want to but I don’t want him to think I don’t like him so I don’t say no I just do it. I just give in I surrender but I feel the knot in my throat and I shove my face in the pillow and try to act like its good because yeah its good but no. I pretend to like it and wait and wait and wait and he’s still not done so I try to act like the guys in the videos because I’ve seen them but not on purpose. I can’t take it anymore and it hurts and I want to stop I never wanted this.

My chest hurts and the sobs will never stop and I am hollow and he took my fire.

I am hollow and I am smoke without fire.

SRC

Every so often, I write about Hell.

I think about death a lot,

can't you tell?

Heaven is another story

Hint: story

Eternal living doesn't quite sound 

like my kind of paradise

But

Weather that I can change 

From clear, bright blue skies

to familiar grey clouds

and the heavy anticipation of rain,

Empty, carpeted rooms

Lit by fairy lights

Filled with books, blank canvases

Records and maps of favorite places,

Ukuleles and out-of-tune street pianos

Wherever I go

Green converse and Doc Marten's

I can wear a flannel and a jacket and not be too warm

Tea and coffee that doesn't affect my sleep

Where I can close my eyes wherever I need

I can read without getting distracted

Headphones that feel the bass and don't hurt my ears

Green plants and air that smells of rain

and fresh;y washed clothes

Your heart and mine intertwined

Holding hands wherever we like

The faintness of the ocean only a few miles away

No need to do math or science or English essays

Only writing in notebooks and painting stars with you

Talking through the night until our cheeks hurt from laughing

Sounds like bliss.

But that doesn't matter,

I'm going to Hell anyway.

SRC

What the Hell?

I can barely speak

My mind has left me so unwell

For words, I can only seek

An image of the sea

Blue and grey

Sits in front of me

What a pretty little bay

I stare at fairy lights

Where have you gone?

Wishing you were here in my nights

It's already dawn

These stanzas are unrelated

These lines have nothing to do

So unsophisticated, what I have created

With anything but you.

SRC

Exactly 9 months ago today

I met death.

He held the form of every breath

I took in his presence 

And every step he trampled my heart unknowingly.

His cold hands ripped me to shreds,

This devil could make visions of heaven dance in my head.

The first time I saw him I knew

My heart would be blue

'Till you

Forever more nevermore

My pride was gone

Exactly 9 months ago today

I fell in love with the reaper at first sight

Coming to take me dead wrists into his arms

Held me tight

Exactly 9 months ago today

Oh, that fateful Monday

The angel of eternal darkness 

Stole my heart away

So his could forever fade in decay.

SRC

The moisture of the mist enveloping her swimsuit-clad body was so cold, yet so inviting. She let it grasp her, engulfing her with it's strange brightness that felt so dark. 

The deck was numbing and wet, but she didn't mind it. So young, so naive, she didn't know that you could catch a cold. 

She looked out at the water but she couldn't see more than five feet in front of the dock. She desperately tried to feel the fog, as she did the clouds on a sunny day, trying to run her fingers through it but no matter how high on her tippy-toes, she could never reach. How sad it was, she could not reach, so she gave up. 

She sat back down, this time with her toes in the chilling water. It was so still, which felt wrong to her, so she swung her legs back and forth, making rings in the undisturbed water and splashing all about.

Touch it with your hand

She did.

Child, aren't you thirsty?

Now that she thought about it, she was a little parched. She scooped a handful of water from the somewhat clear water and drank it before it could drip through her fingers. 

It doesn't taste very good, does it?

No, it tasted a little froggy.

You should not have done that. 

But the girl didn't understand. "Didn't you just tell me to?"

Yes, the raspy voice responded. But it was not wise.

"Why would you tell me to do something that wasn't wise?"

How wise are most the decisions you make? She wasn't very old, barely seven, but she had quite a complex mind for her age. She tried to understand what the voice was saying, but she felt like she was missing the concept. "I dunno. I'm only seven."

Seven. That's old enough to wish for something more than what you have in life.

"I guess." She was never a very talkative girl, always alone and staring into space. "I like to daydream. Do you?" She looked out into the seemingly empty fog with curiosity.

Yes, I dream quite a lot. What do you think of the water? Is it inviting?

"It looks cold. I don't want to be cold. It's already pretty cold up here," she said, furrowing her brow. "Are you in the water?" She stared into the dreamy Lethe, awaiting an answer. 

Yes, answered a different voice, this one male. We are here. 

"I'm here too, see?" The girl flailed about her arms, making a funny face and sticking out her tongue. She giggled into the silence.

Why don't you come in the water with us? It's a lonely down here. We want to play. It's not cold. This time it's a boy's voice, a few years older than the girl.

"Okay." She began to dip her legs into the water, but suddenly pulled out. "It is cold! Liars." 

No, trust us, it's not cold once you get in, said the male voice again. She felt unbelieving, but slid into the water anyway, shuddering. 

Now put your head under the water where it's warm. She shut her eyes so tightly it hurt and took an enormous gulp of air before forcing herself under the water. 

Open your eyes. She didn't want to. She had always been afraid of opening her eyes under water.

Open them, said the female voice, the one she heard before, the raspy one who's pitch went up at the end of each sentence. She thought that was strange, because just the other day her teacher was telling the class that when you asked a question, your voice went up. She still didn't understand why, though.

Open your eyes! yelled the male. Then you can see us. We want to play with you.

Putting all her trust in her new acquaintances, she loosened her closed eyes slowly, then opened them completely. Somehow, even though the dock wasn't too far out into the water where it shouldn't have been too deep, she looked up and could not see the surface of the water. She was suspended in the water, long bronze hair flowing every which way as she looked around. 

A shudder went through her spine, her instincts telling her to be afraid.

Don't be afraid. 

It's okay.

"Where are you?"

We are here.

Suddenly, she felt something grasp her ankles, chilling her to the bone. She shut her eyes again, wishing to be back at home with her dolls by the fire. The things wrapped around her legs slowly, slithering around her torso and soon her neck and spiraling around her face. Her eyes snapped open in fear, anticipating complete darkness but only faced with the same grey, bottomless view as before. She tried to move her arms around but still felt the things wrapped around her body. She was paralyzed with fear as she was pulled downward.

As she moved slowly through the cold, water rushed over her and she could feel it on her fingers and toes and every body part she could name. The feeling was unbearable but exhilarating at the same time, and she was unable to find a word to describe it. 

"You lied to me!" she screamed as she neared the sand at the bottom of everything she knew, everything she could imagine. 

Yes, the voices said as she was pulled beneath the sinking universe. 

Join us.

"Join us."

SRC

     There she is. Standing with her arms wrapped around herself, blue hair falling back as she looks up at the tearing grey sky. Tight black jeans, loose black shirt, Doc Marten’s snug and planted in one spot for so long. I can’t tell if she’s crying, but I know the sky is, and I know she feels it. Her face isn’t perfect--acne, cracked lips that take so much effort not to kiss, small brown eyes that see the world in a way that no one else could--nor is her body: a chubby top half with perfect curves that flow into hips of gold and thighs that are not too big but not quite small enough and calves that have always been too muscular.

     She removes her eyes from the dreary but beautiful sky and searches the crowd. Even though I am so far away, she lands at last on me. Me. Of all people, she chose me to love and wish at every shooting star and lucky penny for. Rain drops tumble down her face and her mascara is running every so slightly, creating the illusion that she is crying black tears. I know she loves me with all her heart, but something keeps her from me. Some storm in her head that I know I will never understand restricts her from dreams and everything she needs.

     As she stares at me through small tunnels between groups of people, I can feel her soul. I can feel her hammering pulse and heaving breath and it’s almost as if i can hear her storms. Her love is so dear that it grasps everyone, pulling at heartstrings and ripping me apart.

     She is loved, maybe, but she doesn’t know. She knows that she is liked, but she has never believed that someone could love her the way she needs. Love is such a complicated thing, and yet she has figured out every riddle thrown at her, using poetry as an escape from the truth. She just wants to believe that fairies and Wonderland and magic and leave the rest to the businessmen.

     She breaks eye contact, looking back at the sky. I didn’t realize that I wasn’t breathing. I inhale the crisp rainy air and exhale, shuttering. Hands in her pockets, head down, she wanders through the corridors, desperately seeking escape. There is no escape, darling, I want to say. This is it. This is life. And it’s cruel.

     She used to bury herself in fictional worlds because she can’t handle this one, but she can’t even open a book without bursting into tears, and yet all she wants to do is read. Isn’t that funny? How badly she longs to belong? Her soul is too large for this world, I guess.

     She finds herself in a shadowed hallway leading to a harsh brick wall. This is all there is. Her shoulders begin to shake, but no sounds come from her. The storms are already enough sound. I stand at the entrance of the hallway, feet planted firmly beneath me, unwilling to move and comfort her, even though I know she can’t find comfort in anything but me. I see her heaving chest and ache with her, aching for belonging and love and adventure and escape and music and light and comfort and ignorance and calm.

     She turns around, wrapping her arms around herself once more. There is no crowd for her eyes to search this time, and it’s like I am her soul magnet. Now here we are, searching each other’s eyes in silence, only feet away from each other, and I’m diving into the windows of her soul and stardust is running through my fingers, drowning me in the golden light of late afternoon sunbeams dancing across her face and glimmering in the chestnut glow of her eyes.

     But there are no sunbeams. There is no golden light. I am diving into the windows of her soul and I’m drowning in the roaring ocean and my fingers are desperately flailing in attempts to save myself from the horror of the thunder, shattering whatever hope she has left and the endless rushing of bitter wind, lightning striking her heart and flickering in the umber burn of her eyes.

     I suppose she could be anyone, right? Everyone looks fine on top but are dying under the surface. Everyone cries when they reach a dead end. Everyone wants life to be perfect. Everyone wants love and everyone wants the wishes they put on the shoulders of little passing stars to come true. Everyone wants to have angels and fairies looking over their shoulders because God, is this world boring or what? And all we can do is stay here and live.

SRC

I want to slap you till your cheeks are raw

And kiss you till your wounds are healed

I want to put my hands around your neck

And breathe you back to life, mouth to mouth

I want to break your heart with no mercy

And I want to hug you and dry your tears away

Why do you make me feel this way?

SRC

     I hear the cheering. I hear the roar of the crowds and the eagerness in the atmosphere. I hear it. I feel it. I know this is it.

    I have my drumsticks in hand, Casey has her electric guitar slung around her shoulders and a microphone, and Roman has his metallic green bass. This is it.

Casey walks out, seemingly without worry, yelling into her microphone and the crowd goes insane. I still can’t see anything, but I feel like my ears may burst from the loudness. I’m waiting for my queue. This is it.

     Roman nudges me with his elbow. He’s always been a very exciting and daring person, never nervous about things like this. “It’s going to be fine,” he tells me. I know this. Or do I? “It’ll be a blast, trust me.” I nod and pretend like I’m not nervous, but this is my first of a series of major concerts yet to come on our American tour and I’m having trouble holding back my anxiety.

     I see Casey give Roman and me the signal. I shake out my trembling hands and take a deep breath. This is it.

     As soon as I enter the stage and see the crowd, I want to puke. The flashing lights and booming speakers make me feel like I’m in a nightmare. But I don’t freeze, and I don’t falter. Instead, I just jog up to my trusty drum set. The golden rims glitter under the spotlights and the cymbals gleam with excitement. This is it.

     Casey says a few things which make the crowd excited, but I’m too focused on focusing that I can’t make them out. A few murmurs is all I hear, and then the first guitar chord. Crash. Bass. Snare. Hi-hat. Snare. This is it.

     I beat the drums with all my might, and I try not to look at the faint silhouettes thousands of screaming people. I distinctly hear each sound: the guitar, the bass, each strike of the ride cymbal, but I don’t listen to any of it. Iwon’t mess up. I won’t mess up. I won’t mess up. This is it.

     I’m so focused I don’t really hear what I’m playing. Play this beat three times, fill. Next beat. Fill. First beat again. Over and over and over, is all I think.

     I’m still not comfortable, but Roman and Casey seem to be having a ball. Roman turns to me, and smiles gleefully, like this is the best night of his life. He sticks out his tongue and jumps off the stage into the crowd. Not the best move, my friend. He plays each steel string with such gusto as the girls scream our infamous lyrics into his face. He loves it.

     Casey laughs at her friend and looks to me for my queue. I point my arm up to the sky and give my drumstick a twirl, coming back down and hitting the crash cymbal with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. I give my most impressive fill and try to look cool even though I mess up a tiny bit.

     Finally, with a triumphant lick to the snare drum and a G-major guitar chord, the song ends. I’m out of breath and sweaty already, and the teenage girls shriek and holler. I did it. But there’s still an hour and a half left. Can I do this?

     Roman, who returns to his spot on the stage, introduces the next song, Stranger. This one is bit calmer, so I can settle down a little.

     It begins with two measures of bass alone. Then the Casey’s acoustic guitar chimes in, along with the first lyrics.

     Like you,

     Like me.

     Like the man down the street.

     We’re strangers, can’t you see?

     I wrote this song. I know it by heart. I hum along as I start off the beat with a little hi-hat-ride fill. Roman begins to harmonize with Casey’s high, feminine voice. Oh dear God, is this it.

     The feeling of the room has changed completely. It is no longer a mad-house, but now a tranquil scene of brotherly love.

     I start to remember where I was when I wrote this song. It was Autumn in London, and I was standing in the middle of the street at 1 am. I hadn’t spoken to anyone in three straight days. Not a sound had escaped my mouth. It was so cold, and the biting winds seeped through my cardigan. The smell of cigarette smoke and freshwater filled me with a strange thoughtfulness. I was on the edge of the Thames, looking over the railing of the Millennium Bridge. I looked out into the dark, peaceful void lain out in front of me and I thought, what would it be like? But then I remember Casey and Roman, and what was truly lain out in front of me.

     I saw a man in the corner of my eye. Handsome, but in very ragged clothes with a messy beard. Who is this man? I thought. Why does he walk this same path on this same Autumn evening at 1 am? He looked up and we locked eyes. It was like he could see straight through me and was reading my thoughts. He smiled. I swear I heard him say, “This is it.” It was probably my imagination.

     I am brought back from my memory daze by a screeching of guitar. Time for the bridge. This is it.

     Open hi-hat, floor-tom. Bass drum, snare, mid-tom, high-tom, CRASH! It’s like my cymbals send sparks through the air, electrifying the thousands of people in the audience. Lights of red and yellow shine on them making them sparkle like the rims of my drums. I feel the music in my chest that beats my heart. This is what I live for.

     The song dies down again, signifying the ending of the bridge. The beginning chords are played again, and the drums die out.

     I stand up. I am confident. I grab a microphone from the invisible hand off-stage. This is it. I will live.

    “And the wind blows all around us,

     And the darkness it surrounds.

     Nothing but air strangled between us,

     We’re strangers

     And this is it.”

SRC

Why do I always write about sadness?

Why do I feel more at home when I alone?

Why do I not talk to a single soul for days?

Why do I always crave grey skies and rainy days?

Maybe it's because I feel more at home with myself.

But more likely, it's because I just want to know someone else feels this too. 

SRC