by savanna

glad we didn't get stuck with friends who actually hate us

glad we didn't get pushed out and ignored out on the streets

because we learned early 

no one likes friends

death

we had one more night together. one more time to show eachother we cared. 

she died right in my arms. slowly and carefully, graciously and calm. it was beautiful, the most amazing thing i had even seen.

i cried. tears of happiness, and tears of sorrow. for the good memories and the bad. moments of complete joy. moments of complete and utter sadness. 

i was so greatful to have her in my life, if only for 2 years.

opinions.

My name may not be important to you, or it may, but whatever the case I am going to tell you. So you may be thrilled, or disgusted, but I do not care. My name is Katie, Katie Anderson, and I am 23 years old. Some say I am beautiful, but some say I look like I have been stepped on by a rather large horse. But I do not care about my looks because it is the inside that counts, or thats what all my teachers had told me in grade school. I also believe this because it seems no one is attracted to my appearance. Or maybe it is just that I do not pay enough attention to what people think of me to notice. But this does not matter anyway, because that is not the point of the words I am writing. You see, ever since I was a little girl, I always had my mind set on being the best. In preschool I would spend hours on my art projects, making the other young kids jealous of my work. In 3rd grade, I can remember how we did a project where we had to read the book Lady Lollipop and answer a packet of questions. On the first day it was assigned, I read the whole book and answered all the questions. I even made a posterboard for the book for extra credit.

And now that I am 23 and I have a job, I am still focused on being the greatest. When I am assigned work, I am quick to get it done. I spend hours making changes on things that I have written. And for some reason, doing this makes people dislike me. I do not know why, for I am really not a bad person. Or maybe I am, but I do not pay enough attention to people's critisizm to understand. So I spend each and every day working, doing the best I possibly could. Well, I could do better I am sure, but I choose not to. I do not know why. 

The only friend I have now that I talk to is a woman named Angela Thompson, who has just turned 59. You may not care about this woman at all, and you may of stopped reading when you read her name, but I do not care. For I am only writing this for people who want to apprehend.

Angela has many diseases, which she takes pills for. I will not tell you these ailments, because I do not think she would like this very much. But I will tell you that she has to take 34 pills every morning, and another 12 at night. 

She has many problems, as so do I, and so we discuss these botherations over mugs of tea. You my not like tea, or mugs, or botherations, but I do not care about your opinions, for I have my own. And you may not like the words I am writing, but I still do not worry about your assumption, because I have my own.

So, the moral of this story, which you may not care about, or you may want to know very much, is that you should never do more than you have to all the time. The result of this will be people hating you more than they probably should. If you disagree, and think that people should always do more than told, then I do not care because we all have our own opinions, and some are awry and others favorable. 

Most of my opinions are right.

he doesnt know

i pulled off each petal slowly, muttering the same words over and over.

"he loves me, he loves me not. he loves me...he loves me not,"

as i dropped the fifth naked flower on the ground, i sighed. i knew already.

i sat down, slowly, staring at the trees around the meadow i was in.

its not easy to let things go.

death is something strange.

"you shouldn't of broke my heart," i said, and smiled as he screamed in agony. 

i left him just like that, on the ground, hands covered in blood. 

my hands were covered in blood, too. i wiped them on my jacket and threw it into a trash bin.

i strutted down the street, feeling better than ever. no one knew what i had done. no one would ever find out. i felt strong.

2 months later.

i was smoking weed in my motel room with the guys. no big deal, the manager joined in sometimes too. just a normal thing.

i can't really describe what happened. it went kinda fast. the door crashed open and i heard someone yell  

"hands above your heads!"

i was too high to realize it was the cops. i just put my hands over my head.

they grabbed all three of us and pulled us into a car. thats when i passed out.

a year later.

they found him dead in the alley. they also found my jacket. i was guilty. 

they didn't know the pain i felt. if they did, i would of been free.

so i'll just keep trying to escape from the death sentence. no big deal. changed my name already. got some surgery. 

things will be better.

and to paint is now to sin [never will be finished]

i tugged at my hair, staring at the blank canvas in front of me. usually, i would be very inspired to create another beautiful painting. today, my mind was scrambled. i couldn't think of anything.

"damnit!" i screamed at the top of my lungs, so frusterated. i was so glad the apartment was empty today. 

after a few minutes, i finally gave up, throwing my smock on the ground and shoving my paint brush into the bucket of water.

"'oh sweetie you're going to be the greatest artist ever!' my ass!" i yelled again.

my friends always told me i had anger problems. i never really believed them.

i stared out the window, at the tall buling across from mine.

i hated new york, there was no space. the apartment sucked, too. the rooms were too small. and there wasn't any privacy with these giant windows covering half of our living room wall.

oh, and you couldn't have cats.

most of the time, i would be alone inside the apartment with my parents out at work. my friends were horrible, so i never had them over. 

it was just me. all alone.

"so, brooke, what should i do today?" i asked myself, outloud, bored out of my mind.

"oh, i don't know, brooke, how about pig out on doritos and watch television?"

"nah, we did that yesterday. how about we take a walk?"

"oh, you always know what to do, brooke!"

i smiled at myself, but then realized how weird that was and hoped no one had heard me.

well, of course. i was alone. 

so i grabbed my bag, threw on a pair of flip flops, and walked out of the door then straight to the elevator.

"out of service" is what the sign said. i groaned loudly, 

"can today get any worse?!" 

i stared down the flight of stairs. all 20 of them, and sighed.

"excersise is good for your heart, i guess," i said to myself before moving down onto the first step.

this would be one hell of a day.

and i can relate.

love? it isnt easy. well, nothing really is easy if you think about it. so shoudnt something that seems so simple be the least of mankinds worries? nope. 

it seems i am alone in this love thing, even though these songs on the radio must mean different.

when i think of the person i will spend the rest of myself with...nothing really comes to mind, to be honest. all i can come up with is the person i'd like to spend it with, and that doesn't really work out well. one, because he's famous. and two, because he's about 12 years older than me. but that really is not the point of this. 

what i am trying to say is something very, very simple. something that even the dumbest person in the world could comprehend. 

finding the right one is hard.

i've been looking for a few years now. i've probably went through every guy in the whole book. the goth, the nerd, the jock, the hippie. none of them have been the "right" one. not even close.

and yet, i keep looking. i don't know why, but i do. they say that love will not come to you unless you stop looking. i dont really believe that.

i know im not alone, but i feel so lonley. doesn't anyone understand? well, everyone does.

i guess this is just hopeless.

the meaning of us.

before i left for the night, you told me you were having trouble breathing. i said we'll worry about it tommorow, and kissed you. and before i stepped into the car, i looked at you and noticed you had tears falling down your cheeks. at that moment, i knew you knew where i was going. but i needed to leave.

when i got home in the morning, i called your name. usually you'd be up all night, worrying about me and when i pulled the car in the driveway you'd run outside and hug me. but not today. 

when you didnt answer, i began to worry. i ran through the house, trying to find you. you weren't there.

and all i found was a note that said,

"sorry,"

and i wept for hours.

i continued leaving at night, getting drunk and having sex with strangers. it was the only thing that kept me from thinking about you. i wondered where you were every day, and before i passed out you were the first thing on my mind. i'd wake up crying for you.

i finally went off to find you. i called all your family and drove around the country. 

and thats when i found you in a small town in pensylvania.

i ran to you, calling your name. all you did was look at me. it was like you didnt know who i was. 

when i tried to hug you, you turned away. my heart shattered.

"i was looking for you for the longest time," i said, trying not to cry.

you didnt say anything for a while, you just looked in my eyes.

"you shouldnt of left me," you said. i didnt understand at first, you were the one that left me.

but then i realized that i ruined what we had.

on the news that night you heard about a man who had hung himself. 

and the man in the picture was me.