15.02.2013

One and Five ;

They don’t see me, not really. They can’t hear me, not at all.

Am I a ghost?

To them, so it would seem.

Two all Alone ;

I’m at your side; always, because I care.

Whispering promises; forever, because I love you.

All unnoticed.

For, I am a ghost.

To you, it must be true.

One and Three, Two and Zero ;

Smashing plates Why won’t they look?

Screaming and crying Why won’t they listen?

But; even worse,

Why don’t you care?

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This Liar is on Fire

I am a liar.

I am always lying.

I lie even when I don’t mean to.

I lie so much, I no longer know if what’s coming out of my mouth is the truth, or just another intricate web of dishonesty.

I am not a traditional liar, however. I don’t lie to make myself, or my life more interesting. I don’t lie to be deceitful – well, not exactly anyway.

| Here’s a little secret | Anyone who tries to tell you that people want to be surrounded by others who are their own person and original; they are lying to you. Everyone thinks that that’s what they want in a friend, but it’s not. They’re really actually not interested in your complicated and dramatic past, or self. They don’t want to know about how your parent’s divorce affected you in high school. They don’t want to know about your stint in rehab. They don’t want to know about your friend who committed suicide by suffocating themselves with a plastic bag. They don’t actually care because, they don’t want to know complicated people, with a drama-filled life. They just want cookie cutters of themselves for friends, no more – no less.

So, I lie.

I lie to sound like every other basic white girl at this football-obsessed southern university:

I put on that red lipstick for game days.

I whiten my teeth daily.

I wear the unofficial girls’ uniform here – norts and an oversized tshirt.

I straighten my hair, and occasionally even curl it to perfection.

I post basic photos to Instagram, and use basic captions with basic locations.

I smile and nod.

I laugh at all the right moments, and at all the right jokes.

I tell everyone life is great.

But, it’s just a front.

I’m lying to sound less interesting. Less wild. Less complicated. Less different.

And yet, I’m not lying.

I’m only telling people exactly what they want to hear.

I am that girl

     There’s always that girl at every school, at every party, in every class, in every circle of friends…

The one you see around, but don’t necessarily know the name of. She sits behind you in your economics class, in front of you in math, the seat beside you in psychology; she never says a word, rarely takes notes, and perpetually has the remnants of the previous night smeared under her eyes and matted in her hair. While she plays around on Pinterest or reads a book on her kindle app, you see her and you think to yourself; “underachiever.

She’s the girl you hear the fraternity guys brag about banging, even if they haven’t; but no one questions their claim, because, when it comes down to it… Who cares about the validity of what they’re saying? Who cares about the girl’s side of the story? Who cares about the truth? No one, because that would make it less interesting; less dramatic; less gossip-worthy; less, less, less. So, when you see this girl’s name come out of yet another boy’s mouth, you think back on all the previous notches you heard about, and you think to yourself; “whore.

She’s that girl you always see at the bar and has now been labled a ‘regular,’ who everyone recognizes and acknowledges in their own way; nodding, hugging, friendly catcalling. Everyone knows her; bouncers smile as she passes without checking her fake, different groups welcome her over, and bartenders give her free drinks all night. As the ngiht wears on, you’ve looked on as the bathroom door swung open and with so much force, it smashed the bottle of wine in her hand, and you’ve seen her do things anyone else would have been kicked out for. You watch as she stumbles out at closing in her 5 inch platform heels, and you think to yourself; “party girl.

She’s the girl you see on Facebook all the time; who pops up on timelines and in your friends’ photos. You always notice how many mutual friends you have, and startle to see that one of them is the foreign exchange student from sophomore year in high school. You wonder to yourself how she knows so many people from so many places, or if she knows any of them and they are just random adds. You look at her timeline, her profile picture, her public ‘about’ info, searching for a sign that she isn’t real, and you think to yourself; “ghost.

You hear things about her from your friends, and you listen to them tell you ridiculous and unbelievable stories. Like, when she intentionally set her high school roommate’s hair on fire while she was asleep; how she torched her ex-boyfriend’s car; and/or got knocked up by her soccer coach junior year in high school. You listen to the stories intently, and all the while you think to yourself; “psycho bitch.