Falling off Ladders.

We've grown up, you and I
And you watched me as I slowly realized
That the bullet ridden boys across the battlefield
Had monsters in their closets too.
And you're way too far from perfect.
And everyone is way too young to die.

I don't let you tuck me into bed anymore.

Because the devil and the angel
Have vacated my shoulders
And torn me limb from limb
The truth left me broken in an alleyway
And you taught me  how to sin.

The door is breaking down,
And I hold onto all the lies,
Too afraid 
Screaming

Because I haven't been able to touch the clouds in years.

And duct tape won't fix this.
Hell. Super glue won't fix this.

Because I've been a glass ballerina for 4 years now.
I'm standing on one toe
And if someone so much as whispers
My balance shifts and your world shatters.

You're too young for a shattered world, Dad.
Broken glass is dangerous.

And once I cut myself
The sharks come looking for a way in
By this point you're gone
And I'm to weak to fight them off.

So hold in your gasp and close your eyes
It'll be over before you know it, my dear.

"I told you broken glass was dangerous."
Esther.

A LIST

PEOPLE I DON'T UNDERSTAND

• Murderers
• People who always back into parking spaces
• Fascists
• People who blow dry their hair
• Atheists
• People obsessed with their dogs
• Athletes
• Hitler
• You
• Masochists  

At least Hitler wrote a book, and athletes win medals sometimes. What have you done, exactly?

and/or

I've been trying to tell you how I feel.


I know you think I'm trying to make you love me, but I don't need to be loved. As long as I'm your muse.

I want you to look at me and know that when I inhale 1/2 the world is breathing out and somehow that makes me special.

I want you to look at me and fight back tears.
I want to make you write.
I want to make you scream.
I want to make you sing.

I'm your muse. And that's all that matters because if I'm your muse then you are my voice.

Muses never speak for themselves.
Oh, and watch out, because I'm the end of you.

I'm your muse. And It's all my fault. Because I'm the reason countries drop bombs on innocent towns and I'm the reason artists steal. I'm the one pushing you into Washington D.C. I'm the girl behind the scenes who keeps warm towels in your dressing room. I'm your depression and I am your happiness. I'm yours. All yours. And I'm the one to blame.

Because without me art and love and sex and beauty and everything that makes man kind would be irrelevant.
Without me you would wake up at 6 am for the morning news and put on your suit. Without me you'd be an accountant or a nameless worker on an assembly line.

Without me there would be no poetry.

And I cried, that night. The night you cut my hair. And the texts read, "I'm so sorry," but I'm the one who handed you the scissors.
And I kissed you and my hands found their way to yours.
I gave you the scissors, now cut my damn hair. The moment the metal hit my tangles I began to cry. Cut it off, cut it all off.
And I loved you more in that moment than I ever have before.

Because with one movement of your hands you stripped away my beauty and my appeal and my womanhood and everything mysterious about me. But you kissed me anyway, because you're my love, and I'm your muse.

Cut it all off, dammit.


Esther.

A Knock at the Door and A Cold Handshake.

I'm laying in bed thinking about politics. And policy. And sex. And how they're all the same thing and how none of them really matter.


Because I met death when I was twelve.

Death came to me in August. In the basement of my Aunt's house. I was 2 states away and still Death came to warn me.
"I'm going to take him," said Death.

And approximately 29 hours later Death kept her word. And she took you, my silent love.

I know a woman was the one who took you away. Because only a woman could carry you home and only a woman could let Hitler die.

Silent love, I wish I would have known you were my everything before Death stopped by to shake my hand.

When I opened the door and Death was standing there her face was blank but her eyes were alive. And the hissing didn't stop her from brushing the hair from out of my eyes. If anything it made it all the easier. I stood still.

But in reality I was gnashing my teeth. I hit the ground and I fought. I left claw marks in the hardwood floors and bite marks on Death's arms. I was an animal and Death was trying to constrain me.  But when I lost you I had nothing to lose because nothing mattered. Only you, my silent love. And I want you to know that I fought for you, in reality.

But I stood still.

And I still don't know if you can read blogs in heaven.

Esther.

Politics and Invisibility

I'm invincible, you fools.

Because me and JFK have a secret handshake. And he always loved me more than Jackie and Marilyn combined.

You can't stop me. I'm tired of letting you decide with one glance or one word or one sigh whether I go or whether I stay.

I'm done caring about what you think of me.

All I care about is being invincible.

Because I am all the girl with the hair in front of her eyes. I'm the stick skinny models on the floor of the motel bathrooms. I'm the drug addicts. I'm the first lady. Because as long as you can't see my eyes you can't see me. And as far as I'm concerned, that makes me invincible.

Because you can't stab a whisper.
And you can't strangle a poltergeist.


Look at me. Not into my eyes. Focus on the shape of my lips and the shade of my blushing cheeks. Look at me. Tell me what color my fingernails are and label me as "indie" if you must.
Stare all you want, I'm invincible.

I've been on the cover of LIFE magazine at least twice. And even then I always closed my eyes.

And my pride has nothing to do with me. 
It lives inside me as a guest. 20 bucks a night. Continental breakfast. Take it if you  must, it's not what makes me invincible. 

My pride is where you find the blog comments and how good I am at lazer-tag. This is who I am to the football players and to the Science teachers. None of you matter to me when I can live forever.

And JFK and I, we would lay in the oval office. And we put the "Do Not Disturb" sign we stole from a Best Western on the door. And we never once talked about politics.





Because I'm invincible, you fools.





My fellow Americans.
Esther.

"Ah"

BREATHE IN.


I used to jump every time I closed my eyes because you were always there, where you weren't supposed to be. But it's been over two years now, you know. And now I greet you in the darkness with a simple, "you again."

I'm trying to tell you that I think about you.

Because I think about you more than peanut butter thinks about jelly. Because peanut butter has bananas on its mind sometimes, and occasionally it thinks about honey. But you're all I have. You're the only one on the inside of my eyelids.

Ah.
I could go on about how I think about you-like orphans think about their parents and like teen boys apparently think about sex. Like Dora thinks about how she never knows which way to go. Like Dora thinks about Map, and how Map thinks about the lyrics to his stupid song.

I think about you more than I think about Dora the Explorer, I hope. It's hard sometimes.

Because even when I'm thinking about Dora I'm thinking about you.

I'm thinking about you like mountains think about becoming volcanoes, and how thats nearly impossible.

And I'm thinking about the nights we snuck out. The night we jumped in the river. I'm thinking about the night you called me "almost cute" and I mocked you. I was mocking myself, wasn't I?

I'm thinking about the places we've kissed. Like my room and your room and Parker Jones's older brother's room. And once when you were on the phone with your mom. It was weird. But I'm thinking about it like I'm thinking about you.


I'm thinking about you like like like like like like.

Like wrists think about bleeding.
Like beauty thinks about sleeping.
Like Eve thought about leaving.


Ah.
I'm thinking about you.
I'm thinking about you.
I'm thinking about you.

Like I hope you're thinking about me.

BREATHE OUT.


ESTHER.

Fear: a summary

I could sit here and my fingers would start to ache-bleeding out all my fears. And I could tell you my strange phobias and you could laugh.

But you're scared of reading things that are longer than 5 sentences.

So I'm going to tell you something, and then you can leave.

I'm afraid of football.

That's it. You can leave.
I mean it.

Because football is mean. Football doesn't give you a break. When you fall down football kicks you once, then screams, "GET UP YOU COWARD." And when you try to tell football no, he kicks you again. "What did you say to me..." says football, "WHAT DID YOU SAY?"

You're complicated, football.
You have these rules that I don't understand.

Football, you require physical touch. And I'm still a child when it comes to "that sort of thing."

People cheer for you, and people scream for you. Football-you have people on the sidelines, aren't you afraid of them? Because I am.

And mini-skirts scare me almost more than you do, football. 

Girls wear your jersey, football. But only so people think they have boyfriends. None of us actually do. But you're the one who took them all. You already know.

Football, if you had a Facebook page your relationship status would read "unable to commit."

Football you're full of boys. Stay away. Go sweat and bleed and harass someone else for a change.

Football you take the romance out of movies and the love out of sex and the boys out of men. You've taken everything. You took our innocence, football.

I hate you, I think I always have.

Football you're a stupid metaphor, but you scare the hell out of me.



Go ahead, tell me how much you hate this.
Esther.

Forgive Me Father, For I Have SInned

( cuteboyswithcats.net )

I'm here to confess, you fools.

I'm here to lay it all on the line, because for the moment none of you know who I am. And publishing my problems on the world wide web just feels write. (see what I did there?)

THE FOLLOWING ARE THINGS YOU PROBABLY SHOULD NEVER KNOW ABOUT ME BUT I'M GOING TO TELL YOU ANYWAY:

• Going to the doctor makes me cry.
•                                                                                  
• I like getting whistled at. I like when boys say, "DANG GIRL NICE BOD"* Low self esteem much, Esther?
• I download music off the internet. (that's fine, right?)
• I hate you, tourists.
• If I hear one more indie/hipster joke I'm going to projectile vomit.
• My dentist has left me 3 voice mails in the past week.
• I hate you, tourists.
•                                                                  **
• I have a temper. Red hot. 
• I am still not sure if I'm going to publish this.
• I have writers block.
• I hate you, tourists.
• I wish I was a gangsta, yo.
• I pretend to be ticklish because it's unacceptable to shout "STOP TOUCHING MY STOMACH!"
• This post sucks. I'm so sorry.

FOOTNOTES:
*No one has actually said that to me....a girl can dream....
**It's pretty much what it sounds like
                                   if you read this before class today, you got some extra secrets. too bad, tourists.

Esther.

Zodiac Signs and Other Things of Satan

I have read and agreed
To the terms and conditions.
And with the click of this mouse
I'm telling you one thing.
We're all lying to you.

And we're behind the mirror,
Laughing and smoldering
And whispering,
"Now we've got 'em boys."

Because you just clicked away your soul.

All the Aries gave up their independence
As the weeds grew thicker around their ankles
And they duct-taped their own mouths.

If you're a Tarus hand over your patience.
It's worth nothing in hell.

Wit escaped the lips of Geminis.
Last smiles at their expense
And first tears at their pleasure.

The Cancers lost their loyalty
In an outbreak of self pity,
As they lit their last scented candle.

Hold onto your pretenciousness, Leos.
But hand us you're ambition.
Keep your head in a black hole,
And your eyes at my feet.

All the Virgos stopped analyzing
The word "life."

Keep it up.
You're right where you want to be.

The Libras will start to kick you out of their houses.
Keeping it all for themselves.
Every last fingernail clipping in a jar.

The Scorpios left their passion on the dotted line.
And stung us with their suspicions. 

Shut up about your positivity, Sagittarius.
And let your fire burn down New York City.

Loyalty is a lie, Capricorns.
You can't trust them.
You can only trust us.
Sign here.

The Aquarius population forgot
To search for wisdom.
Settling for the Pythagorean Theorem.

Oh and you, Pisces.
You think they love you.
You're wrong.
Run.

Because Zeus and the other Gods
Never meant for any of this.
And if we get the chance,
We will steal every grain of light
Left in that hole in your chest.


Shhhhh.
Esther.

About a Boy

Sorry, am I supposed to be writing about love?

Because I've been sitting here for a while, trying to write about "love."

All I know about love is ________.

Try, try, try again.

Secret Love. Hush, my darling. I won't tell-and she won't tell either. Hush, my love. It isn't about you, it never was. It's about my secrets. Our secrets. Tell me the last time you thought about suicide. Tell me about the last time you saw your dad. Tell me everything, and I'll give you secret love.

Lustful Love. When you told me you hated your knees. "I know," I said. And you kissed me because that's the only way I know how to say I love you. And that's the only way you know how to say it back.

Salty Love. Drops of sea water and sunburns and saying goodbye. Those are love.

Coexisting Love. "I HATE YOU," we say. Because we're teenagers. We are supposed to hate our parents. To scream things like "GET OUT OF MY ROOM," and "YOU'RE RUINING MY LIFE."

Silent Love. The things we never talk about. The songs we sing in the shower and the people we watch in the hallways.
Just because we haven't spoken in four years doesn't mean you aren't mine. You will always be mine. Can you read blogs in heaven, my silent love?

Great Love. 3 children and a house on the east coast. Whatever happened to T-Vo and Skip-its, at least they knew what it meant to be loved. One hit wonders and flannel shirts. Sentence Fragments.

Great Love is a seven year old autistic boy who gets bullied by 2nd graders because "his brain is weird."

Great Love is screaming.What's Eating Gilbert Grape and Where the Heart is.

Great Love is being able to quote you. "I wish we were somewhere no one knew us. We could just be us. And we could just be together."
  

Esther.

Me and my friend Grim.

*coughcough*

The day I turned 17 I had to stop rolling down hills, because it made me nauseous. And I feel like someone should have thrown me a funeral.

They say suicide is selfish. And being murdered is somehow noble. It doesn't matter how it happens. All that matters is that I'm dead.

I'm dead, and you're still breathing. Throw me a funeral for my lost youth. For the days when my laugh could annihilate a whole country.

Throw me a funeral for the times I thought, "High School reunions are gonna be fun."

*coughcough*

Because damnit, I miss Junie B Jones books.  And I can't stop thinking about how happy I was when I saw the first episode of Rugrats: All Grown Up. 

I was thrown into adulthood, headfirst, lungs wide open. I left claw marks on my parents arms. "Hold on," they said. I didn't ask for this. I didn't want this in the first place. Not even the second place.  But they ungripped my fingertips, kissing my cheek. They told me everything would "be ok." They told me I would be "better off."

*coughcough*


I'm choking on the words you shoved down my throat. And my body is trying to make some sort of sense out of them. Maybe if I keep coughing. Maybe if I keep coughing some sort of sustainable truth will force it's way out of my lungs. And I hold it up, covered in blood and whatever else is down there. "Is this what you're looking for?" I say. "Is this what it's all about?"

No.
Because your truth isn't the same as mine. Because we're adults now. We pronounce adults weird.  And we stopped caring about the kids from The Magic Tree House, The Baudelaire Orphans, The Babysitters Club, ages ago.

*coughcough*

Throw me a funeral. I've given you everything, at least give me death.

*coughcough*

"WAR IS PEACE

FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH"

ESTHER.

Untitled for the human being. Subheadline: BEEP BOP BOOP

The way some of us can curl our tongues. And I can't.

We're human because we're rabid.

We forget where we left our keys. And we yell, "Honey, have you seen my keys?" And sometimes honey doesn't answer. Partly because he is human and partly because the game is on.

You wanna know why I'm human, do you?

Name me Opposition. I'm everywhere. I'm in all things. All places. All people. And you wish I was gone. You pray to the God you once knew to take me away. And sometimes you get the nerve scream at me. "Leave me alone," you say. "I was happier without you," you say.

You want the truth? You want to know what makes me human? It's the fact that as much as you want me to leave-I can't. I can't stop touching you and I can't stop wishing you would stop telling me to go away. I'm tied to you. I'm tied to you like the boys who tie my shoe laces together, laughing as I trip through this rabbit hole everyone has told me is called "life."

I can't leave you. It's for your own good. Without me you wouldn't appreciate the girls with straight hair or the people who think math is pointless. Without me.

I'm human in the way my friends don't recognize me because I "wear too much black." We're human in the way we avoid eye contact and I pretend not to know your first name-because apparently that's "creepy." We're human because I know you, and I don't know the first thing about you.

We're human because we're pretending. And robots don't need to pretend. Robots just are.

"I was drunk and angry and stupid–"

"And blogging."

"And blogging."

Esther.

I am, I am, I am.

"Hey World Wide Web, this is an intro."

Shut up and tell the truth already.This isn't an intro. This is a first impression. This is a palms-sweating, fingers-shaking, what-the-$#@*-am-I-supposed-to-write, moment of choice. Stop pretending you don't care, we all know that you do. Am I being harsh? I don't mean to be. And even if I meant it, it wouldn't matter. This blog isn't about you.

 This blog is about me.

This blog is about me. It's about statistics and calculus and the ACT. This blog is about the way I eat. The way I stick out my tongue because I'm not patient enough to wait for the food to get there. Like it or not, this blog is about outer space. Because that's all I know how to be; space. This blog is about empty seats and broken middle fingers. All the books falling off the shelves in my head and all the angry rantings that I can't say out loud because I'm a lady. This blog is about repetition. Lather. Rinse. Lather. Rinse.

This blog is for my schizophrenia. Its' for the me that doesn't want to admit she can't spell schizophrenia. It's for the me that sometimes reads books on Friday nights. The coffee drinking me. The carpenter. The caretaker. This blog is for the punk me. For the me who pretends to be ticklish. The musician in me. The dentist in me.

This blog is staring truth in the face, but coating it with sugar before my fingers touch the keys. It will go down easier, I swear. All you have to do is swallow.

Oh, and I lied, earlier, when I said this blog isn't about you. Of  course it's about you, isn't everything?
Because you're the one who's going to make me famous. People will ask me who I have to thank and I'll say you. And maybe Paris.  But you're the one who will make my head grow bigger and my waist grow smaller. Before I know it I'll forget what a library is and probably learn to online shop. Make me forget everything I love. Take it all. Just make me famous.

When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn’t know.
"Oh, sure you know,"
"She wants, to be everything.” 

Esther.