Etches from my head

I am scared of roller coasters.

I am scared of roller coasters, 
I told my family at eight years old. 
They waved it aside saying, “Oh it’s fine, if you scream through it all, you’ll love it!” 
Fifteen minutes later, I’m on a bench, nursing a bottle of water, shaking. 

I am scared of roller coasters, 
I whispered to myself every April as the city fair passes the school district provided us were passed out. 
My classmates made plans to meet up and I made plans to do homework. 
Because in my hometown, we’ve got the Texas Giant, 
The tallest steel roller coaster in the world with a 79º drop. 
I wish I could speak up, say proudly, 
“I am scared of roller coasters!” 
But I know I’ll be answered with only laughter and insults. 

I don’t want to be scared of roller coasters, 
I told my mum at fourteen. 
So with two free passes to Six Flags that I’d won through a contest, 
We went to the tiniest roller coaster in the park, 
That my brother went on when he was four, time after time. 
And still, after all this time,
I sat on a bench, shaking. 

I am scared of roller coasters, 
The phrase that gives others reason to push me towards the largest coasters, 
To convince me they’re fantastic,
Because society thinks that a working twenty year old should not be scared. 
This contraption that drops you hundreds of feet, needs regular repairs, and often breaks down? 
That’s a child’s fear, clearly.
But a tiny spider that eats mosquitos and flies and everything you loathe? 
That’s a fear appropriate for all ages.  

But I’m more scared because it makes me face my feelings, 
Because I’m scared of feeling that stomach drop, 
That drop so similar to what I felt when I fell for you. 

Don’t get me wrong, I face my feelings, 
I get home and watch TV that make my gut wrench and turn inside out. 
But these coasters? 
They remind me of how I might feel if you tossed me aside. 
And I prefer to think of what could be, instead of facing it. 

I’d like to see myself as the strong woman who would hold the banner high, 
If I were in the 60s, fighting for civil rights, I’d be the one with the megaphone. 

I’d like to show people what it is I do. 
And it’s not from lack of chance; I’ve had hundreds of those. 
But every time opportunity rears its head, it reminds me of those giant drops, 
And that shaking in my feet that is only cured with a secure bench. 

Stop Pretending You Knew Them

This is not about Whitney Houston. This is inspired by how people react to others’ deaths. 

Stop pretending you knew them. 
I know just as well as you that you didn’t give two shits about who they were.
You thought she was ignorant, some person that didn’t deserve your care. 
But now, barely 30 hours since she passed and you’re acting like you don’t know how you’ll live without her. 
You barely looked at her twice a week, so how is it you’re unable to live without her?

If you cared so much, tell them when they’re alive, why don’t you?
“She was so beautiful,” well then maybe she wouldn’t have killed herself from low self esteem.
“She was so talented,” but did you ever loose these words from your lips?
“She went so early,” but you know full well that life takes without reason.

You’re not making this about how hard it is to those who knew her, really,
You’re acting like you’re so hurt when it’s obvious her family hurts so much more.
So don’t fucking act like she’s your saint, your heroine.
Because you didn’t even act like it until she was six feet under.   

If you looked up to her like you say you did, 
You should have said at least one word to her of this.  

I Want You Gone

You were the one whose smile I waited for when I was nervous, scared about exam results,
You were the reason I played trampoline football,
You were why I wanted to learn the drums.

But then you decided a family was too structured for you,
That clearly the only answer was to leave us because you’re a goddamn robot.
So if you want nothing more from me, why did you text me last night?

It was a simple two line text; “Jack, new phone number. You know the drill.”
But you haven’t spoken to me since 2010,
And I don’t even know the last time I got a phone call from you that wasn’t on accident.  

So if you want nothing from me, your once sister,
Hold up your end of the bargain.
I can accept your disappearance from my life, but only if you actually follow through.

Don’t pull a Joss Whedon on me and put yourself in as one of his puppets,
Yanking yourself in and out of my life without warning,
Toying with my emotions.

I lost a brother, a friend, a confidante.
But I want you all in or all gone.
Don’t go halfsies. That’s not how family works.

If you cared an ounce how I feel,
Just know this.
That I want you gone.  

I Am Not A Girly Girl.

I am not a girly girl. 
Don’t get me wrong,
I love spending half an hour in front of a mirror making sure that my makeup is just so, 
Staring at the half a dozen dresses and skirts in my closet,
But I’ve got a limit.

At the end of the day, I have fonder memories of playing medic than with Barbies,
Of watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles instead of Barney. 
I’ve never thought about my dream wedding or proposal, 
Other than the fact that it would be sweet and personal,
To be honest, I don’t want a giant crowd watching my fiance pull off this extravagant show to wait for the one word that I may or may not say.

There’s an amount of estrogen floating ‘round as of late I’m not used to. 
Maybe it’s because all the girls I tend to talk to aren’t the girliest,
We make jokes equivalent to 13 year old boys’ jokes, 
I’ve got more guy friends than girls,
And my appearance is really the only girly thing floating ‘round my head.

So maybe I’m the minority. 
Maybe I’m supposed to know what I want.
But isn’t it better to figure out wedding seating charts and flowers when you’re with the person you’ll marry?  
Isn’t it better to fall in love first and let all these logistics happen when and or if they’ll even occur?
Don’t you want this wedding to be less of a storybook and more of Your Story?
Don’t you want something that has some quirk and snark that you yourself put in?

But maybe I just don’t want a cliche for once in my life.  

Teach Me To Trust

My mother always told me that I was something special,
If I met me, I would be friends with me. 
But the only people it seems that choose to stay by my side,
Either leave after sixteen weeks,
Or are so far away that it’s nearly impossible for them to get hurt.  

So when you told me that you’re here through rain, torn hair, or midnight skype calls,
Can you blame me when I say I don’t believe you?
Because I’ve lived in a world where I’m used to being left behind.
I’ve had to change my belief of a “typical holiday” because of what’s happened. 

Christmas is the time when I watch a 40s film and stuff my face with chocolates, 
Not the time when I bond with those I’ve known since age zero, 
So don’t fucking tell me how great the holidays are. 
Because my family’s as fucked up as a tv sitcom and I don’t remember a time when I was happy, 
With five people sitting around a tree on a December 25th.  

People think holidays, they think smiles and family traditions. 
I think letdowns, tears down my mother’s face,
And being the only one she can rely on anymore. 

When I’ve had a god awful day, I turn not to the warmth of a brother’s smiles, 
But to the ivory piano keys where I scream until I can’t speak anymore.  
I’ve had to learn how to cope with my anger on my own.
I can’t trust people to keep me happy.
So can you be the one that can teach me how to trust?