Tuesday, December 3, 2013

In case anyone still cares.

Life goes on.

This is Esther's blog, and I can't post here anymore.
Because Dick is in Boston and we can only email once a week.
I don't even know what happened to Charlotte.
But if you care, I still exist.
Let it begin.

Thursday, December 27, 2012

Paris, you're breaking my heart.

You got your pocketknife that you're father gave to you on your twelfth birthday and you stabbed it right here into my chest. I didn't scream because I wanted this. I wanted to feel something other than guilt, because I wasn't sure if I still knew how.
But no one is going to love me with these scars.

Paris, you're cold and it's winter. I've never been one for big coats so hold me close and keep me warm. At least keep my fingers from turning blue.

You've ruined me because all I want to do is let you catch me, and falling is dangerous.
I catch myself bleeding for you.
Screaming for you.
I catch myself writing words I never knew I could think for you.

Then sometimes I catch myself thinking about us.

We could've had a love affair made for story books and independent movies.

We'd live in Paris and leave love letters on the pillow when we got up for work.

Our high school secrets and our screwed up families wouldn't matter anymore.

We'd try and learn French but we'd both suck at it, so we'd move on to their fries and their bread and their kissing.

We'd tell our own stories. We'd write the books and the screenplays. And people would grow up believing in love because of us.

But then I remember that I loved you once.
I loved you, and you loved her.
The ink stopped and the printers quit.
And our story ceased to exist. 

the end.


Thursday, December 20, 2012

On the Count of 3

On the flight to Paris I read all the fashion magazines and practiced all the "common phrases" in my French-English dictionary.

I stepped off the plane and got gum stuck on my shoe. 

"Hi, nice to meet you. My name is Paris."

At first Paris flattered me. 
The way the lights hit my face made the French boys go crazy and the way my words left my fingers made love take a second look at what it means to be.

I held up my skirt and I curtsied. 
(That bow was the beginning of the end of it all)

Within 2 weeks I ran out of money and I remembered that I came to Paris alone. And I don't speak French.

So I melted into Paris.

None of you saw me, none of you knew I was there.
Because to you I was just the girl working in the Café down the street. My hair was always in a bun and sometimes I wore my glasses because I couldn't afford new contacts.
My heels broke on the asphalt and my legs were covered in bruises.  

I cried for you, but you never heard me.
New York was breaking me.
London was teasing me.
Detroit was calling me.
San Diego was missing me.
And Salt Lake was pulling me apart.

But when I became too weak to stand any longer it was the Eiffel Tower that I leaned on and it was Paris that held me up.

And I'm still that girl. 
I'm still the girl who spends her lunch break in an empty computer lab and only gets called by classmates hen they need help with their math homework. The girl on food stamps. I'm the girl who can't decide if she's a "right brain" or a "left brain" and doesn't understand why she can't be both.

But Paris,
You made me more than that.

You made me the girl that goes home at night and writes poetry.


a trip down the black hole

I'd like for outer space to come now.

Take us away and don't let us look back.

Just float on forever and we'll hold onto each other while gravity forgets first our middle name, then our last, then our face.

These black holes you keep throwing at me are getting exhausting.

I'm going to let them take me soon.

Please someone come stop me.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

You're Poison, You Are

This is going to ruin us.

This is going to tear us apart. Our limbs strewn across the checkered tile floor and our heads shaved.

I'll carve "I love you" into your arms.
And you'll carve "I loved you too" into mine.
Past Tense hurts more than the razor.

I want to warn you that this is the beginning of the end. I want to fix this.  But things I try to fix end up shattered, and I never meant to break your heart.

So you keep drinking and I'll keep getting high.

I'll keep pretending I can't see you pulling away. I'll keep saying that I love you, and I do.
But I wish you knew that every time I say it I'm waiting for you to say it back. And that's rare.

I've been shaking all day.
Because for a while I thought I had lost you. For a while I thought you wouldn't forgive me for this and I'd be too stubborn to say that I'm sorry. 
It's this little game God and I have been playing for a while now.
Keep Going.
And people will keep thinking I only speak in metaphors.

"Why are you mad?"
"I don't know...I'm not mad."
"You're something."
"It scares me."
"It still scares me too."



" if all the artists leave"

Broken Poet
By Tanya Davis

Remember, i was a broken poet

holding on to the drama of life in the doldrums
you were a strong lover
in both heart and muscle
you could have been my mother
for all those tears you caught

Remember, i was a fucked up writer

more depressed than inspired
you were sick and tired
of all that i cried
and our lion fire
musta surely suffered from the rain


Because I'm a broken poet too, but I'm still scared to say the "F word."

Because I'm sick of long metaphorical poems stuffed with pretty words and no actual soul.

Because no one will read long metaphorical poems.

Because lately my words have meant nothing.

And your words mean everything.

Because  I'm trying to tell you something.

I'm trying. 

Because giving up sounds so easy and giving in sounds so typical.

Because this is the first year I don't even care what I get for Christmas. 

Because I'm scared. 

(Because I'm) ESTHER. 

Monday, December 3, 2012

Really, Truly, Etc.

I'm sorry I flipped you off when you weren't looking. Multiple times.

I'm sorry your dad left.
And when he came to town I asked you if it was for Thanksgiving.
"Business,"you said, "It's always business."

I'm sorry that I lie to you every time you go out of town. I'm not gonna stop, but I'm still sorry. I am so sorry.

I'm sorry that you study every day and you've never kissed a boy and even though you have a 4.0, I still managed to get an ACT score 5 points higher than you.

I'm sorry you had to get braces after the age of 15.

And I'm sorry I dragged you into this. I'm sorry that now our parents don't trust us and I don't trust us and we're both going to hell together. But at least we'll be together.

Mostly I'm just sorry you never got a real Christmas tree.


You don't have to say anything.

"I'm going to bed now."

"Wait, we just got talking"

"No. I'm going to bed."

Could you hear me crying in the next room?
I shoved my face in a pillow and let it soak in. Because I don't want to have to lie to you.  I shoved my face in a pillow to prove that I could be alone and I didn't need you to comfort me. I didn't want you.

You disgust me. And I don't give a shit if its human nature. I don't give a shit if it's out of your control. And I barely give a shit about you.

There are certain things teenage girls should never know about their fathers. 
Like where they keep the dirty pictures on their phone.

My dad is classy, he just saves them in the "Photos" section.


Sunday, November 25, 2012


Can you all hear me?

December 17, 1903. The Wright Brothers wept.
They cried and they cried and they kissed their girlfriends. And their girlfriends cried because they hadn't been kissed in way too long.

I tried to save you a seat.
   I put my purse on one of them.
       My coat on the other.

Seat #1 was stolen within seconds. And the boy sat down next to me just to tell me he was on his way to Reno.
Reno? I asked.
I pretended to know where that was. Because even though I've heard of it in books and songs and plays I still had to google it to know. And I wish I never had. I wish Reno had stayed this unknown place, that I knew nothing about. Please don't let anyone tell me where Atlantic City is.

Reno is in Nevada, he said.

Seat #2 was taken by the panting boy, still in his Sunday clothes.

He put his head on my shoulder and cried for a while. He didn't have to tell me. I saw. 
I saw them all running home from church in the cold and I saw him have to stop and catch his breath. No one stopped with him. 

He let me hold him as he cried because I know what it feels like to stop and wonder why the hell your legs can't keep moving. Run, dammit. Run. 

Seat #3 was taken by Orville Wright's lover from the diner down on 5th Street. Simply because she never gave a damn about learning how to fly.

make something up.

How Things Used To Be

Dating in 1903

Waiting in line for 1903

Crying because of 1903

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Up, Down, Gone.

No one ever taught her how to tell time. Or what how to read. Her lefts and rights and norths and souths.

And all the one way signs are facing each other.
"I'm just looking for which way is up," she says.

But everyone keeps avoiding eye contact when they walk down the halls. No one will tell her if she's standing on the grass or hanging from the sky. The world was never meant to be so cruel. 

"Excuse me but can you point up?"
That's a strange thing to ask, and strange things should be avoided, like eye contact. 
You'd think she would know which way is up by now when everyone keeps staring at the ground. 

But her only logic is that either the cracks in the cement or the lightning must be pretty damn interesting. But she can't tell which one.

"Up, is that you?"

Up is a little busy right now. 
Up doesn't care if you recognize her.
Up doesn't know how lost you are.

Up only knows which way she is, and that she has nothing in common with you.


How to Shut a Door

If you're looking for a guide on how to open doors turn around now. You won't find that here. That's for someone else's blog. Probably someone who smiles a lot and wears yellow on occasion.

This blog is about shutting doors.
I've become an expert, really.

Step One is quite simple. You have to make contact with the door. This may even require getting out of bed in the morning. Maybe walking a few steps.

Just make contact.

Football players kick the door while lonely middle aged women kiss it.
The girl with hair down to her ankles just whips it around until it touches, just barely.
Moms with sleeping babies softly grasp the doorknob with one finger on their lips.
"Shhh" they say to the millions of teenagers banging on the door. Banging and screaming and just trying to get it to shut.

And now that you've made contact, take a breath.

Because here comes the hard part.

Step Two.



Monday, November 12, 2012

The things we can't talk about

She died  to make you love her.
And you cried a little and told everyone that you loved her.
That you loved her and you don't know why she had to die.

Everyone's hearts break for the boy who loved the dead girl.

But we both know you're a liar.
You may love her now that she's gone but if you had loved her before she wouldn't be gone in the first place.
She'd still be here.
She'd still love you.
And you'd probably be ignoring her calls. 


Saturday, November 10, 2012

throw me away

I hate taking out the garbage. Because even though it's quick and easy it smells bad and it's a man's job. But I do it because I've pushed away every man that has loved me and every boy who has come close. 

I think I deserve to take out the trash.


Sunday, November 4, 2012

Ranch Dressing and Christmas

I used to remember my fifth birthday party. I had a barbie cake and I think I got a baby doll. But that might have actually been Christmas. I haven't thought about it in years.

I remember you.
But when I remember you it isn't your face.
It's fragments of sounds and images and words.

Fighting over Ranch dressing. It was Ranch dressing and I still remember that fight.

You had it hard growing up.

The baby screaming.

Baseball games.

Secrets. Stereotypes.

"Mom where's dad?"

Missing appointments and "i'm so sorry" notes.

Flashlights thrown through the wall and the ugly picture we had to hang to cover it up.

"Mom, where is dad?"

The baby is still crying and you're still not home and I'm staying up trying to get her down.

I was 13.

You were 46.

Promises broken and Jackson Hole, Wyoming.

Crying and laughing and both at the same time.

Screaming. So much screaming.

"Mom where's dad?"

And I still remember making a family music video to That Way by the Backstreet Boys. But the Backstreet Boys broke up eventually and so did we.


don't ask me

I'm sick of people trying to one-up each other's Be The Change sob stories.

And vague "nobody loves me" and "how could you" tweets.

My computer is on 13% battery life and the charging cord is broken. So this is all I have to give you. This is all I have time to say.

I want to tell you that I never think about you as a human being, and I am so sorry.

Are you real?

I want you to cry on my shoulder and I want you to scream into me. I want you to tell me everything. What did you eat for breakfast this morning and when was the last time you cried in public? 

I'll try to stop judging the fact that Tangled is your favorite movie. Or that you don't know the difference between you're and your.  I might even be able to get over you playing sports. Can't you see that I'm trying?

I'd like to see a little effort on your part.

Forget that sometimes I glare. It's just the way my face looks. Try not to remember the that I snort when I laugh or my defensiveness. I never meant to be this way. I never meant to scare you. 

I'm sorry that I listen to Ke$ha and that I left your party 20 minutes after I got there to watch Survivor alone. 
I'm sorry I quit piano lessons 3 times.

I still don't know who I am. And I don't really know who you are. 

But I'm sorry if I scared you away and I'm sorry about this blog post and I'm sorry that I never knew you were real.





Monday, October 29, 2012


"You're hurting me."

We should've quit while we were ahead.

This can't be the real world.

We're screaming and I'm still smiling and you're sinking and we won't let go of each other. We can't stop apologizing, because we never meant to hurt anyone.

We're staying in bed all day. We're in high school. We shouldn't be in bed in the first place.
But when I woke up next to you I felt immortal. And the Gods can stay in bed as long as they want.

I never knew I could be invincible like that.
And I never knew how much I wanted the earth to quake. 

Just to prove that it can.
Just to prove it isn't all in my head.  

I want the walls to come down and the streets to cave in and I want us to stay in bed.  Me and you in the morning light and I don't care if we're the only thing left standing. We can live forever.

Because I feel like the only people who really understand us are the kids learning arithmetic in the 1903 school, and that place has been abandoned for years now.

When did we get so old? When did we start watching presidential debates and when does it stop. I've never loved like this before.

When did I give up learning how to do the splits? I can't remember that. 

You're too young to be broken and I'm too young to be shattered and we're all too old to be perfect.

 War of the Worlds is going on inside my skin. 
My heart and my mind and my soul and my blood are at battle. And they're too stubborn to make alliances even if they're all in love. They're going to kill me. Because my head stopped telling my heart to pump my blood and my soul would die of loneliness without this body.

I can't see through the static. I can only feel you. I can only hold you. And I think I'm going to be ok.

 This isn't reality.

Because I can't taste the salt in the ocean and maybe that's because it's 698 miles away. But I think it's because it doesn't exist.

Just don't let go.

Name. Address. Number of scars.  Parent Signature Required.



Sunday, October 28, 2012

Pot holes.

There's a hole in 5th Avenue where my body used to lie. Where for a second my eyes opened and I gasped, before falling deeply in love with the crust of the earth.

Because the asphalt was all that kept me from melting.
And all the little notes that say "you're beautiful" are flaking off the bathroom mirrors.
And all your eyes just keep doing circles in their sockets.

Next time you're in the streets know that I was once the cracks in the pavement. Because when I finally got the nerve to reach for the stars I couldn't even feel the clouds. My fingertips failed me and the solar system mocked me for my adolescent dreams.

I jumped for the atmosphere, and for a second my fingers burned the sun, but I kept on falling.

When as sky scrapers grew closer I wondered if you would catch me, or even look up. But my dress rippled and gravity pulled me downtown. And you got your morning coffee.

This is the story.

There's a hole in 5th Avenue where my body used to lie. Where for a second my eyes opened and I gasped, before falling deeply in love with the crust of the earth.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Written/Directed By:

This has never been my story.

I'm simply here to tell you how it all went down. Because now I know why I've been able to predict the future since adolescence. It's because I'm not the protagonist I once hoped to be, I'm the author. And I'm starting to be ok with that.

This is her story.

It's a story of a girl who signs her death sentence every time she shaves her legs. Because she prefers pants. And shaved legs are only good when they are going to be felt.

It's a story of the girl who is still mad no one got a picture of the Titanic sinking because all she wants to know is what it felt like seeing the ocean swallow the whole world.

A girl whose talents consist of odd human tricks that everyone laughs at but no one actually cares about.

This girl's story is about her fear. And how she doesn't want to die normal or live normal. But no one wants to work 9-5. No one wants to be a trophy wife and no one wants to die alone. But still everyone is and everyone does.

And that scares her more than it all. Because she's starting to realize that I'm the one telling her story, and I'm the one writing the ending.

I'm so sorry.

And she is this way because that's the way I made her. Even if that's not the way I wanted her to be.

I'm the one who made her like books so much and I'm the one who took away her purity with my words and my punctuation.

I'm the inventor of time.

But this isn't my story.

And I still haven't decided if this girl, the one who's world I've been born to create, is going to die young yet. Because dying young is so noble. And dying old is so normal.

Or maybe I'll send her back in time, to get a picture of the Titanic as it sinks.



The waves calm and we're left with salt in our eyes and no tears left to cry. But you're still holding my hand.


This time we only make it 3 feet before the tides come back for their revenge.

The seaweed only grabs your ankles, but I love you.
And I follow you into the deep.

I've always wanted to kiss underwater.

But I've been given a direct order to swim. And good girls do what they're told.  So as soon as I can reach your hand I grab it. Not because I love you but because I'm trying to save you. The tide is still pulling and pushing and we have no way of telling which way is up except by letting out bubbles and watching them float. But our oxygen is precious. Hold your breath.


The whirlpool is too much to let us live. And as things grow black all I can feel is your hand in mine and how much I want your lips on mine and how you'll always be mine. I'm thinking about the 6 hour phone calls and the 30 second phone calls and every time we've made eye contact. I'm thinking about all the times we didn't make eye contact.


This time when the waves settle it takes a minute for me to find the surface. My strength is all but gone, because we've come too far to ever go back. I'm looking to blame you. You did this to us. You're the one who created the ocean and I never wanted to go swimming in the first place.

 But I love you, so it's all my fault.

 I'm swimming and you're sinking and I'm screaming.

We touch fingertips. And the waves won't leave us alone long enough for me to kiss you goodbye.