guess what's available for preorder.

coming to you on thanksgiving day. look. at. God. 

- kiss kiss kiss, if there's a future we want it-

{pea ess: NOW.}

#TEOMF

in one sentence, talk about one thing you wish you had been able to do during your teen years, then tag it #TEOMF, and post it everywhere. 
comment here, post it on your facebook wall, your twitter, your instagram, your tumblr, whatever other social media exists out there. 
no explanations, no context. just do it. it's almost time. it is time. it's been time.

i wish i just talked to you instead of writing about you on here. #TEOMF

sorry to only be posting about the book now, but i just wanted to let you know that we officially have a website (what's that? jocelyn actually paid for something?) (yes, and i hate it), and that i need to work on an essay and take home test and hydrate, among other things.
remember to self-care and chill, i love you guys a lot, and all this madness will be over soon.

- kiss kiss kiss, #TGIFCFWABBTSCSAMSD-

national poetry day was yesterday and nothing came to me until now:

original photo

i'm afraid i'm getting depressed again,

school is taking up all of my time, 

i unfollowed you on twitter because you're doing what i started three years ago and you're getting recognition for it and it's easy for you and IT'S NOT FAIR 

it's hard falling asleep,

it's hard not to be afraid of your hands reaching where they shouldn't go,

i don't know what's going on in my head right now,

nothing is making sense, 

i think i'm a lot more foolish than i want to believe,

and i am ashamed of that

everything is hard

when you've convinced yourself that nothing is wrong

so well 

that you forget all about it when you wake up in the morning. 

a car, a torch, a death.

original photo

Sometimes I remember, angry now, about how empty I was then. How much ugly I held. How I wrenched myself into a mold I wanted desperately to fit me. You never know what horror is until you've metabolized the feeling of screaming, mouth wide, but nothing comes out because you can't, you can't. It has been four hundred days, fifty two minutes, and thirty six seconds since the day I decided I couldn't try anymore, but Jo, please tell me why I still see his face. Tell me why I can't forgive myself for abandoning and abuser. I know the psychology, I've done it. But the thing is, despite knowing it like the inside of my own palm, I can't stop it. I see it in flashes, panicked, desperate flashes at school when I freeze in every sense of the word, feeling my blood turn so cold it almost sends me screaming. They tell you people often feel sympathy for their abusers, that they would protect them. I wouldn't protect him. But I would let it happen all over again. I'm not strong, Jo; I'm not strong enough. I see a car that looks like his and I duck. I drove past his neighborhood last week. I gripped my thighs so hard they bled. It's stuck. I can't talk myself out. I do better, now, but Jo what if I never heal. What if this is never better. I told you "it doesn't feel like healing, it just feels like hurt" and I don't know how else to say it. How do you verbalize what you can't understand. Because I can't, I don't get it. I have nightmares, sometimes, that I get a call and someone talks to me. I think his mother. She tells me he's dead. She tells me it's my fault. She tells me I created this black hole for myself. She calls me damaged goods for being a molestation survivor, akin to her daughter who almost said it to my face. I cry. I wake up crying. I try to reach for something, anything to snap me into the real world. It doesn't happen much anymore, but sometimes I'm terrified one day that will be the real world.

Eulogy for the Person I No Longer Love:

It is your grave. You dug it for yourself. But for some reason, I have fallen in instead of you. 

we're going to outlaw him. i love you.
-kiss kiss kiss, wrote this in three minutes-
{pea ess: i would quote tøp in the title.}

i don't wanna hide anymore.

"I'm so bad. I'm not religious. I don't think I can be. I'm smart. I have a high iq. I'm doing so badly in school. I'm stuck. Trapped."

i love you. i love you. I love you. I LOVE YOU. you are so incredibly worth it. i love you. i love you. i love you. I SUPER HECKING LOVE YOU AND your worth is not defined by your marks in school. i love you. i love you. je t'aime. i love you. *big hugs and pizza* te amo very much. i love you. I Love you. you are not measured by other people's standards but by God's and i promise hardcore that He loves you. even more than all of us put together. i. love. you. so much. AND. YOU. DESERVE. THE WORLD. REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU'VE DONE YOU ARE WORTHY. you are forgiven. every single party of you is valuable to me. i love you. love, jocee. 

oh no, set me free.

original photo

“I'm afraid of everything. I let fear completely paralyze me. I have isolated myself and hurt myself. I want to be the kind of person who laughs and eats dark chocolate and plays card games with a boy. I self harm, and I'm so afraid to tell anyone. But I want to live-I'm so tired of hiding in the dark. I want to cry and feel and change. I hate staying in this sameness. I am aching to live, even if it means getting hurt again.”

Yesterday, you said tomorrow.

You wake up, swing your legs over the bed. You dig your fists into the mattress and breathe in, out in, before getting up. You shower, dress, eat, whatever your normal routine is. You put your phone in your pocket and your wallet in the other. You look at yourself once more in the mirror before you head for the door. You look good. Things are going to be different this time. You walk toward the door and turn the key in the lock. Once it clicks, you grab the knob and turn to open. But it won't open. Nothing happens. You are stuck. You are stuck.

You panic, not sure what to do at this point. You try relocking and unlocking the door again to no avail. You tug on the knob, coaxing it to do its job. You yank at it with everything you've got, because you want this, you've promised yourself—and it's broken. There it is. A warm, round, brassy door knob sitting in the palm of your hand. This seems unreal. You don't know how to respond. The house is starting to creak around you. Suddenly, the walls are groaning and the staircases are bending out of shape. Everything around you is falling apart, yet the place you stand in remains pure. The house deforms itself completely and still manages to keep you inside. There is no indication that there is a way out. The windows, once rectangular and full of light, have melted, the ends kissing each other without intending to let go. There is no way out.

You fold your arms, making yourself smaller with every second. The interior of the house follows your movement, creeping closer to you until neither of you can move any further. Your knees shake until they go numb, and before you know it, you start losing feeling in your fingers. You feel as though your entire body is being wrapped in a cocoon from the bottom up. A vine of thorns coil around your wrists and numb you to the bone. You go unconscious before the cocoon reaches your neck. You knew this would happen.

There is a period that you don't remember. The blackness has engulfed you to where you can't even recognize it anymore. When the images start fading back in, this is what you hear.

So I head out, down a route I think is heading south,

But I'm not good with directions and I hide behind my mouth, (louder)

I'm a pro at imperfections and I'm best friends with my doubt, (Louder)

And now that my mind's out, and now I hear it clear and loud,

I'm thinking, (LOUDER) "Wow, I probably shoulda stayed inside my house."

You open your eyes and focus in on the ceiling.

Yesterday, you said tomorrow.

But you don't get up.

so. i do this thing where i donate my plasma to people with immune system issues. it's really quite easy. it's like getting your blood drawn at the doctor's. and in order to be able to donate, you have to have good iron levels and have to have drunk lots of water. it was great at first. i was helping people, i was making money, things were good. and then i psyched myself out and made it more complicated than it should've been. i made up reasons why i wouldn't be able to keep my iron or up or stay hydrated. i told myself i couldn't keep up with it or do it. i convinced myself that no matter how hard i tried, i wouldn't make the cut and i wouldn't be able to donate. so i stopped. and now i'm in a situation where i need to go back. but instead, i'm sitting at home. talking to people online. sitting on tumblr, watching youtube videos, watching other people interact. i always overanalyze things to where they're not in my favour in anymore. so i don't go, because the possibility that i do something wrong is too great. looks like we're both best friends with our doubt. but now that our mind's out and now we hear it clear and loud i'm thinking wow, i probably should kick doubt out of my house.

-kiss kiss kiss, you're the judge-

{pea ess: it's funny that i reference twenty one pilots so much when i'm actually going to see walk the moon in concert next. oh well.}

i am not as fine as i seem, pardon.

original photo

“Hi Jocee. I just want to get this out of me. My friends hate me randomly - middle school is full of drama and one of my close friends just flat out called me a bully. For no reason and she won't explain. I hope she's kidding. I'm just so stressed and neck deep in worries and I don't know what to do. Ohmygosh.”

It: You have reached the psychology bank. How can I help you?

You: Open the personality log...

It: Personality log open. What do you want to know?

You: Define the personalities.

It: Defining personalities: 

• Choleric: Extroverted, short-tempered, active, controlling, resourceful. The main motivation of cholerics are to win. They want to get things done their way, which is the right way. A weakness includes making snap judgments about others and failing to empathize with others' personal feelings –

You: Next.

It:

• Sanguine: Extroverted, outgoing, fun-loving, positive, persuasive. The main motivation of sanguines are to have fun. They want to get things done the exciting way. Two weaknesses include messiness and a short attention span –

You: Next.

It:

• Phlegmatic: Introverted, easy-going –

You: Next.

It:

• Melancholy: Introverted, analytical, emphatic often private, practical. The main motivation of melancholies are to avoid conflict. They want to get things done the right way. They are often afraid of being wrong. They are sometimes driven by others' perceptions of them. Some weaknesses include cynicism, overthinking, the fear of being alone, the fear of being alone, the fear of being alone, the fear of being alone—paralyzing fear lying awake at night and thinking Oh God Oh God Oh God they hate me, this is it, it's over, it's all my fault, what have I done wrong I have done everything wrong, I won't be able to recover from this..

You: Next –

It: No one loves me I have no friends I can't breathe

You: Next Next Next!!!

It: Scared of my own image, scared of my own immaturity scared I'll die of uncertainty, fear might be the death of me, fear leads to anxiety, don't know what's inside of me, don't –

You: STOP. Shut down. Be quiet. No more.

sometimes to stay alive you gotta kill your mind. but HEY. it's going to be okay. 

it's going to be okay and i love you and if they don't value you as a friend or a person it's time to leave them behind. 

middle school is actually one of the most important periods of a person's life.
and i don't want it to leave you broken. 

-kiss kiss kiss, skeleton clique-

{pea ess: so. uh. all the twenty one pilots references, aye?}

they moved forward and my heart died.

original photo

“There was a day when I used to be proud of myself, of my appearance, of my body. But today is no longer that day. One day, I looked in the mirror and decided to starve myself. I've been starving off and on, carefully, so no one will notice. I, too, promised myself, "You may starve, but don't ever break the skin on your wrist." But one Sunday, out of curiosity, I carefully pressed a blade against my wrist. Now, I cut my hips every night. For a time, I told myself that I wasn't hurt or depressed enough to harm myself in such a manner, but I know now that you have to hate yourself quite a deal to break skin so often. My heart hurts, but I can't stop. I don't even recognize myself anymore. I have people who love me, I have my Lord, but the one who hurts me the most is myself; but I don't know how to stop.” 

ache. by my dear friend rachel and i. 

stomachache. there’s a whale in a part of the ocean that sings its own song and remains alone because no other whale can sing its song. it swims and moans in solitude. tonight, my stomach groans to a similar tune as i turn down another meal. i already ate. it’s not an absolute lie. i ate at some point, god knows when. but my stomach sings and i try to suppress its song.

bodyache. the razor blade is as sharp as a profanity. i press its cold surface against my hipbone and dig in like a miner digging further and further into the ground for a diamond or a golden nugget or something valuable. i used to be valuable, or think of myself that way, the way artists considered even their shoddiest works as valuable. now as the blood runs like red paint, i imagine that i’m painting over a canvas already colored, desperate to make improvements. but i don’t think i could ever be good enough.

heartache. no one tells you how much it hurts because it doesn’t hurt like that. it doesn’t cut, sting or burn. it plants itself deep inside of your sternum and grows to your fingertips. it is acknowledging what is and knowing what could be. it is reaching but never grasping. it is as deep and vast as outer space and i am an astronaut, staring into the cold, black abyss.

i just had the distinct impression that i should post this one next. i love you. He loves you. we all love you. 

and we're here for you right now, forever, always. 

-kiss kiss kiss, grasses grow-

{pea ess: title via dead hearts by stars}

vous êtes littéralement le plus grand ballot i ai jamais vu et je f-ing mourir pour vous.

original photo

“partly it's my fault because i have never really told anyone this, i made a joke about it to my mum before but that was it..i'm the type of person to bottle things up and never ever say what i'm feeling and i know that's bad but i can't help it. i have never cried in public, apart from twice i think in my whole life not including when i was a child, and that's because i was in so much pain i couldn't bear it. i cry myself to sleep when i need to. with my head stuffed under my pillow and my problems stumbling down my cheeks to soak into the cloth. it helps. for a while. but then my problems catch up with me, they are faster than me even though i try to outrun them, and they build up inside my heart until i ache so badly i have to release the pain through tears. i never tell anyone i love them ever. not even my parents or grandparents. i hate it bc it makes me feel vulnerable and i'm the ''strong, clever, sensible, determined girl who may be small and shy but isn't really and can handle pain and whatever else life throws at her'' of the family. i don't really know what to do other than put on a brave face and carry on bc what else am i meant to do.”

(by my dear friend rachel and i.)

“Jocelyn, come here.” She motioned for me to stand beside her on the platform. I obeyed immediately without hesitation.

“You, come stand next to her.” I could hear her chewing the gum in her mouth. The boy, wearing a red sweatshirt, stood a few feet to the left of me, and we both moved to face each other automatically. I swallowed, afraid of what she might do.

“Jocelyn,” She said, folding her arms. “I want you to tell him you love him.” I give her a skeptical look.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“But I don't even know him.”

“That doesn't matter. I just want to see you do it.”

“But I...”

“But what?”

“Nothing.” I looked at him to find his expression as blank as ever, his hands clasped behind his back. He didn't seem to have any emotion towards this. He was just a pawn in the game. He was waiting for it to be over. How could I tell someone I loved them when they didn't care? How could I give myself over to someone like that?

A feeling of uneasiness churned in my stomach like a whirlpool. This couldn’t be hard, I thought. All I had to do was say it. I didn’t have to feel it or even think it. I just had to say it.

“I love...” I started but couldn’t manage the last word. I stared hard at the boy. I read him like a map but I couldn’t find any destination to pin my words to. My words had no target and no meaning.

“I...love...” I tried again. The gaps between the words were stretched farther apart this time. Why was this so hard? “I love-” My voice cracked and I stomped my foot, my head falling into the palm of my hand.

“Is there a problem?” She tapped her finger against her arm.

I took a deep breath and before I knew it, the words rushed out of me like a flood. “I can’t just say those three stupid little words, can I? Because I can’t just tell people that I love them. But I can spell those words with my fingers when I press them against another’s skin in an embrace. When I bake bread for someone I care about, I knead those words into the dough. When I recite the words to your favorite song or wear the perfume that reminds you of your mother’s garden, that is my ‘I love you.’ When I eat your personality alive and regurgitate everything you like about mine that's my 'I love you.' It doesn't get carried away into the air, because I don’t want you to just hear it. I want you to taste it, to touch it, to smell it. I want you to feel that love in everything you've got.”

She shook her head, bit her lip, her eyebrows raised. She slapped her hand against her arm and shrugged. “Okay. Okay yeah” – she started nodding then – “then show me.”

I folded my arms to mimic her stance, then walked towards him until we were about a foot and a half apart. I breathed in deeply, closing my eyes before making eye contact with him.

“You are literally the biggest nerd I've ever seen.”

He chuckled, looking at my # Team Jesus shirt, then at me.

“Is that it?” She said, her voice bouncing off my shoulder.

“Yeah, that's it.”

“No physical... anything?”

“Um, no, I'm not a physical person.”

“Okay, okay...” She came around and pushed me backwards a bit so I was standing where I started again. Then she gestured to him. “Do you have anything to say?”

He nodded. “You're a nerd, too.”

And that was it.

someone once told me that vulnerability looks good on me. and that's strange, because we always see vulnerability as a weakness. it's where we let ourselves trust someone, knowing we'll get let down. it's not reliable. it's not something you can control, and that's the scary part. we're so used to controlling things as best we can. we're so used to analyzing all the possible outcomes and making sure they don't actually happen. it's hard letting what's inside of you out because once it's in the air, though it dissipates, it's permanent. it is forever part of our atmosphere. it is recycled, thrown up at the moments we need it the least. and yet, without letting go, we cannot let God. without letting go, we cannot go farther. without letting go we forsake the possibility of knowing how we ourselves truly feel. we're giving in to a monster that's eating the parts of us away that make us US. and we have to resist that. as much as we can. so i love you. and it's hard because i still do it too. but little by little, we get there. and you and i will. 

-kiss kiss kiss, even when i doubt you-

{pea ess: so i guess you've noticed by now that i'm posting these secrets/poems/stories one after the other, 

because i've essentially finished them all and i've made you wait long enough. it's time, y'all. really.}

do these hands look relaxed to you?

original photo

“i worry. i worry about the future, and want to control everything. i worry about what others think of me. i worry that i'm not doing enough and then i overwhelm myself. i just want to be good enough.”

if this were a movie, we would cut at all the right moments.
the fight would end before things got too gory.
dessert would be done in two minutes instead of twenty.
we would only sleep for a few seconds.
the pain would only last until the next title sequence appeared to say “six months later.”
and sometimes we think that way.
sometimes we think about where we are now, and how in the blink of an eye, we'll be at our destination. 
sometimes we think about the alternate realities in which our grandchildren are born and the universe that exists to them is the only one they know.
in a split second we will extend ourselves generations forward.
we will be married, we will be what we used to be afraid of.
everything we know will be already is, we're just not there yet.
if this were a movie, we'd be there.
and yet, we are not.

relax your hands. shake it out. take a deep breath. just the other day someone asked me what i was going to do after college, especially if i had some scholarship money left over. i told them i'd probably go to grad school. the truth is, i don't know. i don't believe in five year plans because everything is subject to change. every moment is a choice and each choice has prices and benefits. you never know which one will alter your life for a few years yet. sometimes, when i talk to people, and especially people i like, i try to manipulate the conversation so i can weave in something i wanted to say. i try to lead them into saying things that'll prove that they want me too. it hardly ever works. it never does. i don't like going places by myself, like the mall or the movies or something like that, because when i see a group of teenagers there and they're all laughing and having a good time and wearing nice earrings and shorts or talking and i walk by i feel like they're judging me, that they're going to start snickering and whispering and deciding what part of me they hate the most. there are some girls on tumblr who are literally so popular. hundreds of thousands of people know who they are. they are literally world famous. they have so much power. and i feel like i have nothing. i don't know what to do. i'm writing a book that's due in 10 days and if they helped it would be so much bigger. it would help reach other people. and yet all my messages go ignored or unseen. "all my messages" being like one. i feel invisible and unimportant. i am 18. there is a 16 year old doing more than me and i'm supposed to take over the world someday. what is this? how can i be beaten at my own game? i always feel bad when i think like that because i know i'm valuable. i always feel bad because all they're doing is trying to help. but they see the results. they're helping. i'm waiting. and i get sick. it's like when you start to literally question your life after being on the internet too long. nothing has any meaning. everything is boring. there are no movies to distract from your mini-existential crisis. and yet, in all that thought process you only intend the best for yourself and others. you mean no harm, you just want to do something good. you want to step away from the mirror without feeling the need to tweak anymore, because you know you're done and you're confident in that knowledge. i'm confident in that knowledge. at least i think i am. but most of the time, i'm not. 

half the time, i just can't wait until i'm 15 years in the future, when i'm probably queen and i probably have a cute boy who i've married and i probably have a kid maybe. all these american dream goals that are supposed to make life worth living, but i'm just an 18 year old girl who's worried about the things she can change, and yet she does nothing, because she knows it won't happen immediately, so it might as well not happen at all. 

-kiss kiss kiss, you've got a look in your eyes-
{pea ess: i just took everything you said you were worried about and related it to my life. sorry about that. 
it's a thing. it happened. i been thinking too much. help me.}
{pea pea ess: we can get through this together. i love you. i understand you. i want to be there with you. i love you.}

8/21/15. the day you read this for the first time.

original photo

“I have an eating disorder and everyone hates me for it. When I don't have natural, often organic food, I get anxiety attacks. It happened at our school camp trip and I now have to see a nutritionist, counselor, and therapist. I obsess over food and calories. The disorder lost me more friends than I'd lost in my life. I exercise for an hour or more every day and still count calories even though I'm not supposed to in recovery. I'm the thinnest girl at my school and I am obsessed with it staying that way. I hope my ribs are always this prominent and that my thighs will shrink down. I hate the stupid fat I've gained in recovery. I don't need it anyway.”

“we're moving,” she says, taking a spoonful of oatmeal. “three weeks from saturday.”

“to where?” you ask, looking up at her, not as surprised and you ought to be.

“not far. 20 minutes down the road. 45 with traffic.”

you don't respond to that.

“it's just better this way. it's easier.”

the next thing you know, you're standing in the doorway of your bedroom, the threshold to a little museum that displays all of your most treasured memories. 11/12/12. the first time you skipped a meal. you were wearing a cobalt blue knit shirt and you would've eaten chicken tenders. 04/07/13. the day your favourite dress doesn't fit you anymore. you sit on the floor of your closet and cry for hours. 06/15/13. the day the purging becomes regular. 11/28/13. the day your grandfather tells you you've lost weight. 12/24/13. the day your parents find out, and ground you. 01/01/14. the day you lose your first friend. 01/12/14. the day your parents put you in therapy. 02/13.14. you've gained enough weight for your friend to start talking to you again. 04/07/14. the day you found out you've lost it again. you were wearing your favourite dress. 07/25/14. you pass out at a friend's birthday party after spilling over your lunch in the bathroom. you lose them too. 07/29/14. you have your yearly physical. you are assigned to see a nutritionist. your therapist recommends you to a counselor. 08/15/14. you eat three full meals for the first time since 2013, and don't throw any of them up. you were wearing your favourite dress. 09/09/14. the dress doesn't fit anymore. you rent an exercise DVD from your school's library. 9/11/14. you have the exercise routine down cold. 9/24/14. you lie on your back, letting your entire body retreat into itself. you are happy with this. you vow to never go back. 10/13/14. your parents force feed you for the first time. 10/14/14. they don't look at you the same way anymore. the love and the light have gone out of their eyes. 10/31/14. the day you are first hospitalized. the day you lose more people to this. 12/24/14. the day you vow to recover. 01/01/15. the day you take it all back. 02/24/15. the day you see 15lbs manifesting in your belly. 02/24/15. the day you start exercising again. 07/25/15. it is your friend's birthday. 08/03/15. the day your mom tells you you're moving.

you begin to pack solemnly, without a single word spoken. the first things to be stored away are your workout DVD and portable scale. you walk through the rest of the museum, surveying each artifact to see if anything else deserves to be salvaged and taken with you.

three weeks from saturday, you stand at the threshold again, this time with a box in hand that only holds two items. you look over the museum, the walls a light gray, like your skin these days. you count all the memories that others would perceive to be good. the day you really begin to eat again. the weight you've gained. the decision to go into recovery. what has come of that. in turn, each memory begins to glaze over until it's a pale blue or purple colour, kind of like your veins. you readjust the box in your arms until it's secure. it's pretty heavy even though it's ¾ empty. but you smile. you turn, and walk out your room, walk out your house. you are wearing your favourite dress. you take nothing else.

hey you. yeah you. no more, baby. no more.

- kiss kiss kiss, saltwater sinks -

like her, unlike me.

{sources // one, two}

first of all, i am sorry, love. i am so sorry. you sent these to me in september of 2013 and almost two years later i'm finally actually doing something about it. i never knew what to say about your secrets and i never knew how to turn them into poetry, but your email kept popping up in my mind and i knew i had to do something. i think the constant reminder of your email was the voice of God prompting me. so i'm going to do what He says.

2. Sometimes I'm logical and I don't like that. So I try to find out what it's like to run entirely on feelings. And when I do, I feel pretty happy. But not any sort of new happy. And when I do, I feel worthless. And it's a new sort of deep, horrible worthless that makes me pinch and bite and cut myself. But it would be too logical to do a cost benefit analysis and find that it might be better to be logical. So I don't.) 

3. Sometimes I'm dumb and I don't like that. I swear I have the right ideas but that's not what comes out of my mouth or my actions. I'm a shallow blonde. So I try to be deep. And when I do, I make myself sad. Everything seems like a big deal. So I starve myself and hate and love my sore wrist at the same time. But if I can either keep myself on the edge of exhaustion and dehydration and starvation or be a dumb blonde which would you choose? 

4. The truth of why I'm being mean to myself is so dumb I pretend it's not true. Sometimes I think the reason I'm starving myself is because I said that dumb thing to him the other day and he probably thinks I'm an idiot. And sometimes I think it's because I'm trying to take control of my life where I have no control. Sometimes I think the reason I bite myself harder and harder is because my friends have problems and I'm coping with it. And sometimes I think it's because the world is a horrible place of darkness and I'm coping with it. Sometimes I think the reason I run a scissor blade over my wrist is because I want to have scars there and I want people to looks at my wrist and think "there's a girl who's different". And sometimes I think it's because I want to have scars there to remind myself the world is broken when I think it's not.Sometimes I think there's nothing really wrong with my life much it's pretty good and if I just bucked up I wouldn't do any of this. And sometimes I think I'm not ok. And I'm not sure which of these are the true one.

the thing about blonde girls in this society is that we depict them to be boy-crazy, superficial idiots who cheated on their SATs to get into a good school. when we hear the word "blonde girl," we automatically think of h&m and forever21 and pumpkin spice lattes and scarves and one direction and other things that seemingly make every blonde girl appear the same. people have come to the conclusion that blondes aren't special. that they have to try extra hard to be seen as a normal human being. they have to listen to alternative bands, wear black, dye their hair outrageous colours, maybe even identify as a feminist before being taken seriously. and if you think about it, it's kind of ridiculous. it's ridiculous that we've let a movie portrayal or just one person shape the way we see an entire group of people.

that said, there is nothing wrong with liking or adhering to the aesthetics of other people. that said, it is completely unfair to you that you are perceived as a shallow blonde just because you don't always know how to say what you want to say. it is completely unfair to you that you are perceived as shallow just because you're a blonde, and that it would take something as detrimental as self-harm to get people to see there's something more to you than that.

because the truth is, there is. there are things about you that are so intricate even the most detailed of scientists can't replicate them. there are things about you that you can't see and even more so things that other people can't see. so what are you doing? you are taking the things you can see and picking them away with the scissors because you see them as unimportant. you're cutting out the most vital parts of yourself because you don't think you're necessary. you are slowly burning because there is some possible chance that you might warm someone else. you are destroying yourself little by little because of a standard that throws you under the bus. don't make yourself sad because it's a requirement think bigger. don't kill yourself because you think they'll look at your body and feel bad, saying they should've listened.

1. I can't tell anyone because even I would be weirded out. And I never get weirded out. Sometimes I think maybe I'm Gay. Or Bi. Or weird. I've never told anyone. I was pretty convinced I was Bi a while ago but now I'm not sure. See usually I don't like sex. I rarely get turned on. And I have to think about it. (I already sound like a psycho. Whatever.) My fantasies are sometimes girls sometimes guys. Honestly girls are way more attractive than guys. My truths/lies I hide sometimes: I live in a sexual culture where naked women are everywhere how can I not get influenced? Ive done far more intimate things with my galfriends than my guyfriends. Girls mature faster than boys and I like mature people. Its attractive. So I think it might be normal. Maybe other people feel this way. But I don't know. And I can't ask. Because what if I'm wrong and it's just me.

my friend rachel and i collaborated on this one.

Girls like her

with thick black clumps

of mascara in her lashes

and freckles and tan lines

on her shoulders.

Girls like her

who give big hugs

and use big words

they learned from

Victorian era romance novels.

Girls like her

who shine

like a lightbulb

without a lampshade.

Girls like her

who look my way

and meet my eye,

smiling with their whole face,

eyes squinted and dimples sunken deep.

Girls like her

make girls like me

lie in bed

at some unholy hour

looking at the moon and wishing

that she and I could

see this moon together.

Her breath against my shoulder,

her words strung together

like lazy embroidery,

her warmth shining light

into all my darkest corners.

Girls like her

makes girls like me

want to buy bouquets of flowers

“just because.”

Just because

I would do anything

to make her smile.

Just because

I want to feel her arms

on my waist, my arms

on her waist,

our souls and limbs

holding us together.

Just because.

Girls like her,

girls like me,

are as innumerable

as tulips in

the Netherlands

and stars in her eyes.

Girls like girls,

like her,

like me. 

i love you. i love you. i am so sorry you've had to go through all of this. i am so sorry both you and i have waited this long to see the product of your words. you are beautiful. you are valuable as you are. and yet, there is always room to grow. there are so many parts of all of us that need healing. 

but they will only heal if we let them. let them heal. it is time. it is beyond time. 

-kiss kiss kiss, goals-

this is not fact, it's fiction.

original photo

"Let's play a game."
"Walter, it's cold. It's fricking cold."
"It's not that bad. C'mon, it'll warm you up."
"Setting yourself on fire isn't my idea of a game."
"It's not that." He pulls a pack of Marlboros out of his right jacket pocket. 
"We're going to get high?"
"Nah. It's a deck of cards." He opens the top flap and reveals them to me. I don't have a response. 
"So here's the deal" -- he sniffles and grabs his nose for a moment -- "you call a card. Any card. Twos, threes, fours; jacks, Kings; aces, e.t.c... And pull it from the stack. And if you get the one you picked, I'm in love with you."
"Does it matter which suit?"
"No."
"Do you say it out loud?"
"Yeah..."
"See, that's stupid. Because if we both know, it takes away the element of surprise. Or secret knowledge."
"Nah, it's fun!"
"Have you played it before?"
"Just made it up," he tilts his head skyward and through the faint light I see the shadow of the bags under his eyes. 
"Cmon, let's go." He says, shuffling the cards on the sawdust ground and filleting them out to me for picking.
I sigh, rolling my eyes. I doubt he can see that. I doubt he can see a lot of things. 
"Seven," I say, reaching for the middle of the stack. I retrieve a six. 
"Ahhhhhhh," his laugh is hoarse from all that screaming. It sounds even better than before. "Cmon, go again."
I draw a second time, pulling out a six.
"Ssss," he hisses. "Tough. You were so close."
"Just go," I retort, taking a swig of my beer. 
"A'ight."
"You sound dumb when you say that."
"Shut up. Two." He draws. Jack. He draws again. Joker. 
"This is no fun," I groan. "I bet everyone else is far away by now." 
"It's your turn."
"Ten." I draw a jack. I draw again from the same spot and get a ten. 
"Looks like you're on a roll."
Two more rounds and we haven't guessed right once. He stops drawing twice just to see if I fail in the same way, and I do. I almost forget the point of this game, then--
"Dayum, girl," he laughs, his face coming out of the dark. "This must be some kind of miracle or something. You always draw one away from the number you called. Sometimes even from the same place in the deck."
"What are you trying to prove?"
"I'm not proving anything. It's your hand. I'm just saying you were sooo close. And you missed it."
"Okay," I let out a shallow breath, retreating further into the dark so he can't see my lip beginning to quiver. 
"I don't want to play anymore."
"Why, because you lost?"
"You lost too!" I say bitterly. 
"Alright, alright," he retreats. "One last go for me. Five."
"That's my favourite number."
"Then this is your lucky day."
He draws. The moon comes into view. We both look at the card, we look up. Our souls catch fire. 

i want to tell you something. i played this game by myself while my church family was playing just dance after the ball dropped (what a stupid tradition, if you ask me. it wreaks of innuendo, but it's still kinda funny). i got the exact outcomes the girl (i've named her jourdan) did in this story. and to be perfectly honest, it's not a good game to play. in fact, i think it's very damaging. i wrote this on a whim in the car on the way home after the party. i was listening to paramore and la dispute and everything was pitch black except my phone screen. and i've decided it's to be for the girl who commented here so long ago, about the boy. and i know it's not as optimistic as my other poetry but what i want you to know is, i've spent a long time, on and off, doting over the idea of having someone who liked me. and like you said, though you know Jesus is all you need, it's hard not believing you need a boy too. and it's not easy to unthink that problematic behaviour that's been passed on from friends and older relatives. but i want you to take care of yourself. i want you to know that i have been on this earth eighteen years and though i've begun to receive nice compliments and some notice, i'm still very much on my own. and now, in a world where women are saying you are strong and independent and don't need anyone, it's easy to feel bad for wanting someone. so whoever you are, whatever your situation, don't feel bad about it. but who you are isn't a direct function of who likes you. does that make sense? you can't force yourself to unlike someone or unwant them. but you have to take care of yourself. you have to. so i love you, i hope you're doing well, you're special and i'm so sorry to get this to you so late, but i hope you see it.

happy new year, darlings.

-kiss kiss kiss, heavens to betsy-

i don't even know myself at all, i thought i would be happy by now.

original photo

i do not know how to preface this, so i won't. this is for my secret series, for the girl who does not know how to get away from things.
sometimes you don't have to run. sometimes you have to take it step by step.

"I was clean for over a year, and everything was going great. I was beginning to understand Who I was and what made me that way, and I was really enjoying it. I felt like a new person. And then I woke up last Saturday and I knew something was wrong. I could feel it. It was back. I guess I should tell you what I mean by this: I was addicted to pornography for quite a long time. I don't remember how it happened, I just know that it did. Sometimes, I couldn't sleep at night because the urge was so strong. I couldn't look at people because I wondered what would happen if they found out and I swear I thought they would all hate me. People only talk about hypersexualized men and how their porn addictions are pretty much normal for them now, but they never mention that it can happen to girls, too. I think that was the worst part about it. That I was an outlier to the normal but I still felt so ashamed. I used to think I ruined myself for marriage and I kept promising myself I wouldn't do it anymore. But last week I heard something keep saying "you're going to do it before the end of the day. You will." I had lasted so long, and I even made a list of fun things that kept me occupied instead, but it didn't work. As you can guess, I watched porn again last Saturday. Every single thing I promised I wouldn't do. Afterward, I cried so hard. I wanted to die. And then I went to church the next morning. I just want to get as far away from last Saturday as possible, but I don't know how. This isn't how I wanted to say this, but I guess that's better than not saying anything, right? Please don't hate me too much."

a list of things to do instead of watching porn:

1. check the weather forecast for the next week. 

2. plan your outfits accordingly. 

3. do something you have done in a long time, like putting a bunch of random ingredients together and hoping they create a great meal.

4. think about how proud you are of yourself. 

5. watch something from your childhood, like the powerpuff girls or canadian dramas from the late 1980s. 

6. ask your friends what books they're reading and why you're missing out by not reading them. 

7. take all your old t-shirts out of your closet and youtube ways to restyle them.

8. or, create completely new ones instead. 

9. whatever you do, don't engage with the voice that tells you you will, you will watch porn before the day is out.
10. listen to me, i know how it feels to be on top of the world and then give into something that isn't good for you and hit rock bottom. because that is literally what it feels like and you wish you could take it back but all you can do is move forward. keep moving forward. count one day without watching porn and keep going in such a way that you allow yourself to count another one. and another. and another. and after awhile, allow yourself to forget.

because being on top of the world is so much better than being in it. and whatever you do, don't let the world be on top of you.
i love you. please don't hate yourself too much.

-kiss kiss kiss, gotta let it happen-
{pea ess: title via paramore's 'last hope' which is relevant as heq.}

the elephant.

i wrote a new slam poem. and it's very important that it's shared. disclaimer: i realize there is language in this video, but i am only repeating what people have say to/at me. even so, not everything is gosh golly goodnesses and oopsies. sometimes it's the N word. and yes, it has been directed to me.

Talk about how your friends laugh and say oh! You scared me. It was so dark I couldn't see you. Talk about how you were one of the last people found during games of hide and seek because you were so good at hiding in your skin. Talk about how that's not right. Talk about invisibility as if it's your duty because you're tired of other black girls asking why you so bougie. Talk about the ideas you won't use in this poem because you don't think they will improve the silence that has already hollowed out your soul. It's been seventeen years and I haven't spoken up for myself once. 

I used to tell my parents stories about how at swim practice Kyle or Preston would say something stupid and I would combat it perfectly, the air becoming a chorus of "oohs" and "you just got burns" but that never happened. Usually when someone said something insulting I would crack open a smile and laugh with everyone else, putting my head down as if I were an ass submitting to its master. 

My mom and I have had several talks about how it's okay to stop a conversation to speak up and let everyone know how I feel. With each opportunity I find myself withdrawing deeper and deeper into the caverns of regret. 

You see, when I was little me and all my friends from church used to have school together at the psalmist's house. I remember bible stories with our children's church leader and twix yogurt after lunch but mostly I remember being asked "Jocelyn, why can't you colour inside the lines? Jocelyn, why don't you write with your right hand? Jocelyn, you're not funny." We were less than five years old and I had already stopped talking. One of the biggest lessons I learned in my K-12 years was that if no one respected your voice, there was no pointing in using it. 

As I got older, the questions and statements changed. "Jocelyn, you can't be First Lady of the United States that's not a real job. Jocelyn, how can you not understand that joke? Jocelyn, no one else thinks Little House On the Prairie is cool."

When my mom began training me to become a leader, one of the first things she did was teach me how to speak publicly. She made me look her in the eye and recite poems that I had written, poems from the curriculum we were using. And I hated it because she made me laugh and I hated it because I didn't want anyone to give me reason why I was not welcome, or worthy. I still get nervous talking to bank tellers, I still get nervous talking to people on the phone, I still wonder if anyone wants to hear me speak or if their silence is a tired form of being polite. 

All during my high school career the questions got louder and louder and my voice became softer and softer. I am a freshman in college now and my mom cannot hear my voice even when she is sitting in front of me. 

They ask "Jocelyn, why do you dress like that? Jocelyn, why don't you like rap music? Jocelyn, why must you act so white?" They say "Jocelyn, you can't compose music for the movies, that's what men do. Jocelyn, the only think black about you is your ashy skin. Jocelyn, you're just a knock-off nigger."

Someone once asked me why I couldn't just speak up for myself. I told them when an elephant is captured and taken from its home, the person who kidnapped it chains its feet to iron shackles at a post. No matter how hard the elephant pulls against it the skin breaks but the iron holds fast. After awhile, the master replaces the iron with a pile of rope and the elephant does not move. It is easier to be still than deepen the gashed about its ankles, it is easier to stay silent than to speak and be hurt is the process. 

"Jocelyn, why is your YouTube channel called joceeisawesome? I think that's a little conceited, don't you? Jocelyn, you remind me of the light, bright, and wannabe white people from the Tyler Perry films, you know, the ones who try to forget their roots."

I have been trying to make roots with my words but what good is that if I cannot so much as open my mouth? These wounds have been reopened so many times that no balm, no cocoa butter can heal them. 

My best friend says I'm soft-spoken. I've known her four years and she's gotten used to the lack of volume in my voice but the last time we where at camp, I expressed my annoyance about something and she jumped, saying "oh my God. I haven't heard you speak that loudly all summer."

I am seventeen years old and I have not spoken up for myself once. "Jocelyn, speak up I can't hear you. Jocelyn speak up I can't hear you Jocelyn, speak up I can't hear you. Jocelyn how do you spell that? Jocelyn I didn't expect you to have such a pretty name."

The reason I am having so much trouble sharing this with you is because when I transfer the written word to my tongue, I feel as though something is lost in translation, that if you actually listen to me you'll think it's not as serious or dramatic as I'm making it seem. But I am almost eighteen years old. If I do not speak now, I never will. 

I am not your nigga, your nigger, I am not a mat that you can just walk all over me, I do not wish to be white I wish to fulfill the promise God has placed in my life, I am a daughter of the most high who was stoned and persecuted for His words. Sticks and stones will break my bones but I will not be soft-spoken with my words anymore.

-kiss kiss kiss, ooh girl-

because you are too precious to be left alone in the dark.

original photo

before i let you read this, i'm going to explain it. because i think it's worth explaining. so i'm starting college two weeks from tomorrow (or today, depending on how long it takes me to publish this post), and mom and i are doing some much needed organization. we've put a new desk in my room and a bookcase, and we cleaned everything off the floor and moved it into the office. the office already has a lot of stuff in it, but that's not the point. the point is, while i was cleaning i found several loose pieces of paper in the stacks of things i left next to my bed. it was dated april 5th 2013, which is, coincidentally, helayna's birthday. i started it at precisely 1:01am. and this is what it said. word for word. 

i make a lot of mental notes that i expect myself to remember even after long periods of time, and for the most part i don't. but the pieces to this fell into place so seamlessly it almost scared me. i wrote this for the person i would call my best friend. i didn't know who they were at the time (but i do now), and i think that's why this hits me the way it does. i cried when i read it because i remember how i felt when i wrote it. i felt lonely beyond words. and i'm posting it here for the girl who may not remember what the opposite of loneliness feels like. here is her secret, and here are my words. please understand that this poetry (but it's not even poetry tonight, it's my soul crying) is an interpretation of what these people are feeling. please understand that it is very real, and it is not always beautiful. loneliness is never beautiful, and no one deserves that. especially not this beautiful girl. i need to stop talking and let you read. if you don't read anything else on my blog that's fine. i don't mind. but this is important. 

"I sit in crowded rooms, surrounded by people. Nobody is alone or lonely because they all have someone to talk to, who loves them and they love back. They talk, talk, talk, overlook me. I am the only one without someone true to me, someone who loves me as much as I hate myself. I hate myself so much, so much that it explains why nobody loves me. It's hard to love this girl who hates herself. This girl that sometimes breaks her skin on those thighs she hates. Her thigh gap will never be good enough to her until it is the largest. Her thighs are her cutting board. But this girl has panic attacks over swimming because then people will see her thighs. This girl, with her eating disorder, who has always been thin, seems okay to everyone else. That is why they hate her. They think she is doing fine. She will quote them, here: "No offense, but I kind of feel as if you're using your eating disorder as an excuse. " No offense, what a lie. It's a mask to try and hide the cruelty, almost as sharp as her razor blade, but the mask is transparent. An excuse, oh sure. I just got a disorder so I could get out of gym class and go to the nurse. Right. I chose to ruin my life just to back up a point. And they wonder why I hate it when they make fun of disorders and don't know why I won't do them favors. Maybe if they hadn't made me hate myself I wouldn't punish myself. And I know this is just another published comment because I know I'm not worth listening to, let alone talking to. But a reply comment would literally make my day. People who talk to me astound me."

here's the thing:

i will not promise that i won't ever judge,

because i think it's my duty to distinguish what i believe is right and wrong.

but,

i will always have a landline available for you to leave hasty and fragmented (or long and analytical) messages (because i can't promise i will always pick up the phone).

but when i do, i will always manage to keep it pressed to my ear though i may be cooking, changing clothes, or composing on the piano. 

thing is:

i want to be there. i want you to be able to tell me your darkest & deepest secrets and your musings and rants. i want to be able to suggest methods of brewing tea (or coffee) and scriptures that will explain things better than i can. 

and i always want to have my key in the door, ready to shelter you from the literal or symbolic torrent of rain. 

i will slap you when you need it. 

i will tickle you when you least expect it. 

i will murmur song lyrics (but only those written by coldplay) into your arms that strain the underlying melody that i love you, even more than "keep calm & carry on" memorabilia. 

my hands are always ready to brush your hair back, straighten the hold of your button-down, cup and caress your face and travel the world (that is your back) with the wingspan of my arms as if to say --

i am not perfect.

you are not perfect. 

but i will let you in my door, i will feed you, i will find you, because you are too precious to be left alone in the dark. 

to the girl who is astounded by people who talk to her: i love you. i love you so much. i don't know your name or who you are but i can honestly tell you i love you, and i believe that you are so beautiful. you have been made by a God who loves you so much sometimes He is astounded. He didn't make anyone else like you. you are worth more than all of the nice things this world has to offer. and i believe you have a love in you that shines brighter than a star in supernova. you can do this. i wouldn't tell you that if i didn't know that. maybe you don't know that, but it's a learning process. and i'm willing to learn with you. you can always talk to me, okay? i'm right here. i'll say it again: i love you. i do.