Force Among Friends

The air was hot
filled with the aroma of humanity.
Each girl’s thigh sweat
as if a man was to have his way, 
And you and I were absent with the wind. 

I found myself behind the small white house
where the grass seemed to be drenched in spirits.
Your already wet whistle was beckoned to my cheek. 
And soon, your lips illegally released me to  
where I wanted to linger.
To this kiss that was so yearned for.
To the silence that was so perfect.
But forbidden words were spoken.
And you and I went absent with the wind.

I found myself in the darkness of the nights river.
Its emptiness flooding my vulnerability.
Your already drenched whistle found me there too,
where my soul bore naked to the blurred night sky.
Soon, our bodies tangled in attempt to uncover the past
and as each layer was stripped away I found myself slowly recovering to find 
       That you almost had me there.
In the rocks that cut so deep
and in the mud that stained permanent. 
       You almost had me
In the trust of my arms and in the dark want of my eyes
       You almost had me
It made me want to scream out of unfelt pain
And cry out of unseen shock
But you
       went absent with the wind.




The air is cold,
No longer filled with its friendly pungencies.
And I, cut so deep and stained so permanent,
Wish to go absent with the wind. 

More Than A Feeling

I’m sure you’ve felt it. 
Felt it with every inhale and exhale,
with every tremor of your body.
When your chest, being the feeling’s only boundary,
tries to move, wriggle
accordingly from what is inescapable. 
                  Nothing can make it stop.
Nothing can make you stop feeling, thinking, 
breathing in the idea that you want something that you
can’t look for.

But you want it. You want its so bad.
So bad, it becomes this torturous progression
from looking to not looking but wanting to look, to not looking while secretly looking all
during those 2AM drunken minutes of
dark toppled moves toward that
dirty couch in the corner. 

And yet it doesn’t count,
at least, that’s what you tell yourself
as you resort to your teen vogue bibles and cosmopolitan preachers,
hoping that maybe you can find one more image, one more movie, one more song, or story
to let you know that your faith
is not a lie.

Its aggravation.
Its frustration reeling its distorted head, 
to hiss the fact that your hopes,
my hopes, might not exist. 
And no matter how cute I look in those tight jeans,
or how easy my belt is to take off, 
I know that I’ll still have to wait,
still have to count those tedious tantalizing minutes till-

             You know what?!
       That pisses me off.
That for every minute that goes by,
for every tick of that taunting round face,
          I don’t have the power.
And I feel persecuted
I feel hate as I wait, wanting,
wanting to know, to love, to decide who goes
and who stays for all my make out montages
with John Mayer soundtracks,
looking for what
I. can’t. find.

       It damages my drive, my self esteem, my
pure existence to know that I don’t have that power, that choice
to find who will give me my romantic redemption.
So I will say this:
I’m here
and I’m waiting,
as long as it takes.
        And, I’ll look at my watch,
            I’ll take a breath, 
and I’ll move
           accordingly.

Something Of A Realization

It was only a weekend. One weekend, in the middle of no where, when I felt the most comfortable, though we all know we approached the weekend with different intentions. Whether it was getting ass, or completely drunk, we approached this weekend with a crooked smile that, if done by a six year old, you would know that it was up to no good. On the first weekend of August, we all met at Don's house to drive up to his cabin in the woods. I was almost late, as per usual, but we all got there with a sleeping bag and a smile. I hadn't seen some of these people for years, but I reestablished the connection very quickly. We drove up to the cabin as though we had never left each other's side, making various jokes about Don's intensity, the fact that we were in bumble-fuck, and the large hickies that decided to cover all of my neck. Eventually, as if the three hours were three minutes, we got there thinking "that was fast!"

The cabin wasn't much. It seemed to be lost. A sea shanty that was stuck on a dirt road with a cliff view to the Delaware river. It had a whopping number of five cherry red rooms and a wooden shack which was to be used if we had to do the worst of bowel movements. This was only for the fact that we couldn't flush the toilet for fear that Don's father would kill us using the stakes and twine that he specifically told us was NOT for play nor hair accessory. I think it was also safe to say that the town was just as small. The town had one cop, a general store, a two screen movie theater, and not to mention an up to date (if the date were 1970) hunting store. The moment you entered this town you fell in love with its quaintness, even though you knew you weren't ever going to step foot in it unless it was for alcohol.

I fortunately never had to do that work. The alcohol was brought to us around noon and we started immediately, taking various breaks to float in the river, or skip rocks off of the old slate that surrounded the beach. No pressured shots, or chugging was in this day, instead the day's activities accumulated to comparing Rolling Rock bottles to the male anatomy, eating nothing but burgers and dogs, dancing to Shakira, and watching the "Nap Committee" form before our eyes. We all didn't know each other extreemly well but we all had a wonderful time, and when night fell it wasn't any different. We all cared when one of us fell of the cliff, or couldn't decide who he was going to make out with that night, or if he should put another marsh mellow on the fire. I was daring enough to try things that I had never done before such as swim while intoxicated, or smoke hookah from a bong. When midnight came around we all supported each other's theory that we should go to bed after such a hard days work, and when we woke up, we commemorated each other for the amount of alcohol that we consumed and the fact that all, but one, put our pants on correctly last night.

That morning was probably one of the most peaceful ones that I had felt in a long time. I woke up and walked outside to view a golden landscape that was breathtaking. And, as each of us rose to the occasion, we all proceeded to take a seat, looking at the earth in silence. No one had to speak, we all understood that everything, for that moment, was right in the world. All 18 of us, with our different conflicts and various anxious lives at home, were at peace then. No one had parents to worry about, or work later that day, or a heartbreak waiting at home, they just had the view of the river, and the mountains, and the occasional bird that would skim the sky's surface.

The volume of the day only grew to a loud whisper as we joked at what ensued the night before. Later, Don passed the guest book to sign. Many wrote short "thank you's" and some wrote a paragraph or two. When the book came to me, I decided to write about balance, for I had never felt such balance in my life. Because even after the three hour drive home, to which we combined with arrangements of classic rock, there was nothing that could describe this weekend.

This story doesn't even begin to describe the feelings I had there. I was content, happy, with who I was. I was the ideal me. I know that might sound strange but since the halfway mark in Freshmen year, I haven't had many moments of sheer contentiousness. I have only felt a struggle between the high school me, and the College me. Here, I found the balance between chill and hyper, lax and funny. No one judged me for what I did or said. Everyone was gracious, relaxed, accepting, and loving. And I realized that it was the people. The communication I got back from them, and connection we made. It was these people that I knew that I would be friends with no matter what. Not because we were in a play together, or choreographed a piece together, it was because we all respected and loved every moment. I'm not putting down theater or dance, you all know me better than that, but I'm recognizing that sometimes life isn't about those things. Life isn't about getting that part, or having those friends. Life is about the moments you gather and the connections that you establish, and aiming to feel the way I felt that weekend. Maybe that's why I do theater, to try to find that feeling again through other's stories, but I know that I can't replicate that formula again. All I know is that I want to feel it again. And I hope to God that I can feel it with the people that I love now. I don't want to start all over again. I don't want to look for a new beginning. I like where I am now, who I'm with now. At least I think I do. I can't help but get the feeling that I went about it all wrong. Not to say that I don't like the friends that I gathered this past year, just that I took a weird path. I know better than to judge people. I know better than to aim for a status. I also know better than to say that I can escape these things. We can all wish they would go away but, lets be honest, they're inescapable.

I once heard someone say that: "The hardest thing to be, is yourself." I completely agree. There is something about getting to know yourself that is extreemly hard. To do justice to yourself with every decision in every moment. I have a feeling that it is something deep within and I wish it came as an instinct and maybe it does. But then why do we have logic, and reason, and a two sided mind that can see from a completely different point. There is nothing I can really do but exist, and try, and accept, and most important learn, and feel. I don't know who I am going to be this year, but I am going to try really hard to be who I, not my mom, not my best friend but who I want to be.

There Will Never Be Enough

In life I think that I’ve done pretty well. Yeah, I have a wonderful family, I am going to a great school, and I have millions of friends who are on my side and care about me. But there has always been one thing that I have never been good at: Language. Languages have always tortured my brain and body. I never can get them right. What their saying, what I’m saying, its all a jumble of words that sound great together, with one catch: that you have to put them in the right order for someone to actually understand your meaning. Its like a fucking crap shoot to me. And we have done test for dyslexia and writing and reading disabilities. I even have extra time. But in the end, there is something stuck, a gear maybe, and I still can‘t get it. And I’m not just talking about the romantics, ironically, its English too.
Throughout my life I have learned one thing: “Communication is key.” This phrase is something that I survive on. I have used this to remind me that speaking isn’t an easy thing. Its with this that I can go into a relationship with anyone knowing that I can get what I want and give them what they want. The amount of mature relationships that I have with my friends is really amazing, and I know that they will last a life time. You think that I would get it right in all situations but I guess not. With this situation the lines are fuzzed. And I’ve tried to blame it on dyslexia but in the end I guess its something beyond internal. Something I just can’t get right.
There are so many other people who understand me, my feelings, and what I’m saying. They understand how I feel about you and how much you mean to me. And not only do they realize and appreciate you but they almost envy you. But somehow when it comes to you, I can’t seem to convey it correctly. I can’t put it in the right order so that you can see what I actually mean. It gets tiring because the three god damn words just don’t have any meaning any more. And no matter how pretty the card, or how beautiful the sun set, they never, ever have the weight that I intend. It gets to the point where I get so tired of fighting a battle where the odds are beyond against me, where I am so much on your side, that I gain up on myself for you to win. And in that battle, I never win, no matter the school, or the friends.
So, I'm angry and frustrated that you don't understand that I would give it all for you. I am beyond thankful for what you have done for me and my dreams. And I will succeed no matter what because its your approval that means so much to me. And I know that you would think that was silly but I guess you will never know. You will never know that I have looked up to you as a woman, as a worker, and as everything else. I have wanted so much to be a good person for you that I have even checked in with myself to see if I had not taken on your flaws. There is a reason why people think that we are so much alike.
In my life I have met many girls or “women” as my history teacher Mrs. Grady would call them, but in the end you are the only woman to me. You are the strongest woman in my life and frankly I have modeled much of myself from you. Hopefully one day you will see it and this fight will end, and I can stop screaming the three god damn words that never seem to get into your head. Maybe it is something internal, and maybe I need more than just me to understand the true problem, but in the end I’ll scream the words all while the war wages on and until my voice is horse: “I LOVE YOU!”

Oh, To Tell A Friend

Boy, boy, boy
Where have I gone with you?
Or, where haven’t I gone?

To those fall days?
Do you remember those fall days?
When the brisk wind would playfully blow all that we knew, away.
You seemed so distant then,
another figure for the collection,
another face for my poster plastered wall.
              But now you’re more,
          Much more.

I remember those days, when things were simpler.
And like the childhood that we were leaving
with our teddy bares, and our baby dolls.
It was easy
             and innocent.


I remember the days when you had no flaws

                                   I remember when I found them.

And it hurt.
It tore me to know that the one person that I
devoted so much, too much,
had let me down.

And I tried, tried to give you another chance, but then
they came flooding.
The blurred nights drenched in uncertain touch,
and the mornings of bitter “Sorry’s” and crisp goodbyes,
and you
letting me down one apologetic moment at a time.

I guess you were always this way.
Its sad to know that.
That through all your puzzled pieces and
all our toying games that will never cease to end,
You will always mean so much, too much,
of nothing.

Boy, boy, boy
Who are you to me? Or who are you not to me?
You are my everything and yet nothing but my
guilty disappointment.

The Spagetti-Strap Tank With The Limited Too Tag

Do you ever have that shirt? You know, that shirt. That shirt that you will always get compliments in and people will just tell you how remarkable you look in it. That one article of clothing that once you put it on you are a million bucks? The power of the shirt is really phenomenal if you think about it. Because how amazing is the power of a compliment? A compliment can lift spirits, make a person look at you a different way, and even (in some rare circumstances) save a life. And then you have those times when you might not being wearing that shirt but you will act as though you are and people will still compliment you. And then there are those weeks, months, or years that go by where you feel like a million bucks. I had that once. It was great. People would just recognize my work and my talents left and right. Then I came to college.
Now let me just interrupt myself for a brief moment. I am not writing this entry to get sympathy, not at all. In fact, it is the complete opposite. For its not about the compliments, its about the person behind them. Compliments are tricky things to which you can either be addicted to or in terrible need of.
In this case it was the former rather than the latter. I had gone through my senior year riding high. Suddenly, I was the one getting the parts, the opportunities and not to mention the men. But when I went to college no one knew me. I couldn't expect for people to suddenly love me, and I didn't. But as I said before, I was addicted. I survived on anything I could get. But you knew that if worse comes to worse you could always put on that shirt and it would all be fine. The power would be yours again. Well imagine if the power from that shirt, had left you. Yeah sure, you had that shirt, and it still looked dashing on you. But as time goes, so does its fads and so did that brilliant power.
Now many of you are thinking "Aww I am so sorry! That shirt still looks brilliant on you." And that's just what you want them to say; because that is, in fact, a compliment. I found this out the hard way. I wanted that compliment back. I wanted that person to say "Hey don't worry. I'm still madly in love with that shirt." But thats not how the chips fell for me. Instead I had a good friend pull me out of my deep dark addiction and tell me the truth "Carolina, you kinda asked for this. That shirt, it went on without you and now its time for you to move on. Because, Carolina, that is life." Man was he right. Yes, he did take that power away from me. But power hungry is not the way to be, in fact, its pretty ugly. I know now that I can't survive off of a compliment, let alone a shirt. Because sometimes you have to take the less warm and fuzzy side. Plus, that side, in the long run, will be better than that one compliment of that one shirt in that one second that will one day lose its precious power.

An Autumn Visit Pt. 2

The setting stands strong in my minds eye.

The air is crisp,
nothing is still.
The sun’s phases bring such change,
and as she moves into the pillar’s shade
tears well up.

She had been strong till 8:00 am,
awaking to the rise,
but the sun reminds her that he’s not here,
leaving only the empty cans and the bowls of tin
to echo his intoxicating touch.

I remember when things were different
When she would blush not knowing where to gaze,
and the way she peeled herself from his convertible.
That’s all gone now along with the waves and the stars we-
                                                          I’m sorry

Never mind
It’s not my place.
It never was.

I watched her change
and his smile turn to worry.
If only she could remember
to balance her desires.
She uses the stoppers to block what can’t be drained.
She tasted the fruit and tried to savor it
attempting to memorize each taste that touched her tongue.

“So what of her now?” you’ll ask me tomorrow.
I’ll tell you the same ‘till I forget.
For I remember when I was her, lost in perfection
In the air that was so crisp and the nothing that vibrated
with that which was forever still.