Killer by number.

It's hard to be a name in a world full of numbers.

My dress calls me 10.

Boys call me a 6 or 7.

The school calls me 97_4_3.

My birth certificate calls me 17.

My GPA calls me 3.864.

My bank account calls me 113.28.

The ACT calls me a 32.

Does it matter that I call myself Alis?

They say that schools kill creativity. No offense to the math fans, but I think that the death of divergent thinking comes with the concept of numbers.
I was always given a number with my cubby in elementary. It was always around 16 or 17. I was defined by that number. It was written next to my name on all of my papers. The teachers gave numbers that we knew as well as our own names to be used interchangeably.

It was their way of making us their own: erase our names woven with love and beauty and replace them with utilitarian numbers, creating machines that think linearly.

Teach me about 1+1 and the importance of the 5 paragraph essay format. Insert numbers into my writing. I'll tell you that 1+1=skis and prewriting is a waste of my time.

The world thinks with the numbers that come from its head instead of the words that come from its heart.

Names are too personal. They want to be able to cut you down remorselessly.

Don't name the chickens. They'll be on the table soon enough.

That's why I can't be a number.

I'm not a number.

I'm not a number.

I'm not a number.

I am A l i s

I am A l i s

I am A l i 19

I am A l 9 19

I am A 12 9 19

I am 1 12 9 19

--1 12 9 19

Bricks are preferable.

You want me to be concrete,

but I'm not even sure I exist anymore.

I'm intangible.

A wraith,

a mockery of who I was.

Don't touch me, because I'm scared I'll disintegrate.

It would be easier if I were a brick,

Fearing nothing but the wind and rain.

Bricks can be made into something lovely.

Art.

Layer upon layer of paint.

A brick wall is a blank canvas.

(I want to be a blank canvas. Then maybe you could forget everything I've confessed to you.)

I want to be a century-old brownstone,

history screaming from my pores,

but with someone new always ignoring my past and making me part of their future. 

I'm really nothing more than the sand you empty out of your shoes.

You look at your footprints rather than what they're pressed into.

I'm just pieces of what I used to be,

Blowing into your eyes and your mouth.

I just hope that maybe someday I'll be something more than a few scattered grains.

Something worth seeing.

Something worth saving.

Until then,

I'm here, under your towel and in your hair.

Feel free to wash me down the drain, though, because I've been there before.

Of course, not even the water will recognize an old friend.

--Alis

This isn't a breakup letter.

It really isn't.

To break up you have to be together, right?

We aren't. We weren't. We never will be.

And I'm just sick of us being one-sided. 

You... You.... You..... You.

You are the cigarette to my chain smoker, as crappy a simile as that may be.

You're slowly killing me and I like the feeling.

You know what you are.

You know why I've stayed this long.

(The patches aren't helping.)

I tear off pieces of my soul to give to you and you just throw them out with the birds and mice your cat considers gifts. Decaying out in the dirt with all the other garbage.

Maybe I just want to be recognized for my efforts. (Are you proud of me yet? Are you proud? I can hurt myself just like you hurt me.)

You'd rather take my body than my heart, but you'd still break both and ignore their tears.

The worst part is, I know you won't care about this letter. 

Actually, I lied. 

That's the second worst part. 

The worst part is that I know I won't care about it either. 

I've tried I quit you time and time again, but I've always been bad at resisting the cravings.

Have I ever told you you taste like sin? Because satan knows my biggest weakness and sometimes I want to tear out my hair because nothing feels like your hands wound up in it.

Kay. Bye.

--Alis

Stream of consciousness - extreme edition.

The mirrors are crackedcrackedcracked why are they distorted stop looking stop looking stop looking your hair looks bad my brother got a haircut I liked it better longer and when did I notice my breathing in out in out inhale outhale inhale outhale my hands are shaking what book was it that had a grandpa with shaking hands with palsy I think it was matched I didn't like that book it was boring even when things were happening and the characters pissed me off and it pisses me off that people call "Romeo and Juliet" a love story it's an effing tragedy it was never meant to be a love story and also mockingjay pissed me off a lot because katniss (and my phone autocorrected katniss to Latinas) was a whiner and gale don't get me started on gale and I'll be honest I laughed when she killed coin (spoilers) and I just thought about River Song and I criedcriedcriedcriedcried and cal and the kids that aren't and eleven and ten and davidtennantdavidtennantdavidtennant and my sister thinks I'm moody and my mom dismissed me when I said I wanted to go on birth control and that didn't feel good and my snapchat is bad at push notifications and I'll be really surprised if you actually read this post all the way to here.

Whoo! The excitement! Throw caution to the wind! And also grammar and punctuation and capitalization and spaces and logic!

--Alis 

P.S. Is this different enough yet?

Of road rash and strength

Bleed with me.

Leave a few crimson drops on the pavement along with some skin.

Ignore the gravel trying to work its way into your veins.

Just let it bleed.

Leave the band-aids. Those are for wussies.

Ignore the neosporin. If you can fight off an infection, the next step is a wolf.

Just let it bleed.

Leave your soft heart behind. It's not like it's ever helped you.

Ignore that pulling sensation. It's your weakness trying to save that pitiful heart.

Just let it bleed.

Leave your hopes for perfection behind to wander alone.

Ignore the pain of separation. You don't need the annoying idealism.

Just let it bleed.

So, get off the asphalt and come

             Bleed with me.

                                Forget the pain.

                                               Forget the ache.

                                You're strong now.
             You know why?
Because bitter is better than broken.

So just let it bleed.

                             Just let it bleed.

Let it bleed.


--Alis

Confessions made to my pillow and also to you.

I can't eat lamb. It tastes fine, I just can't stomach the thought of eating a baby sheep.

I'm half in love with my best guy friend's older brother.

Half of the lightbulbs in my room are out and I haven't felt like replacing them yet.

I sprayed a spider with bathroom cleaner until it died and its carcass is still in a corner of the bathroom because I don't want to have to get close enough to pick it up.

I should be sleeping. I'm blogging.

I hate the scratching of mechanical pencils.

It's 12:18 right now. Coincidentally, that is also my mile time.

I think the scale in my bathroom is off a few pounds. I still use it to weigh myself.

I have a Dr Pepper addiction.

Being emotionally raw is important to me. The only time I can really feel the power of my emotions, though, is through dancing and writing. In everything else I'm what you might call "emotionally congested."

I can handle blood and organs. I can't handle needles or bones.

Being lonely is preferable to being rejected, so lonely is my default state.

The fact that the clock on my wall and my wristwatch on my nightstand tick at different times bothers me - a lot.

I consider musical taste compatibility an extremely important part of a relationship.

I'm really bad at trusting.

I'm really good at leading people on.

I'm really bad at commitment. (The three are connected.)

My bed is my favorite place to be.

My glasses prescription is really strong.

I don't think I've brushed my hair in two weeks. Thank the heavens for conditioner.

As much as I hate wearing clothes, I don't think the nudist life is for me.

One time I watched a tlc show about selling realty in a nudist colony. I've never seen so many naked rears in my life.

My style has gotten progressively more preppy over the years. I can't decide if that's a good thing or not.

I frequently get anxiety over the fact that I'm going to have to go to the singles ward soon.

My pillow is covered in makeup stains.

It's telling me to go to bed now.

This has been Late Night Alis.

(In case you were curious.)

Because love.

"So, what do you really want out of this?" you asked.

I want you. I want to hold your hand. I want to breathe you in and feel your heart beat in time with my soul. I want you to kiss me like you really mean it. I want you to tell me I'm beautiful when I cry. I want you to get down on one knee and ask me to be yours unconditionally. I want to say yes. I want to tell you about the plans for the wedding while you smile and nod because you clocked out five minutes ago. I want to look into your eyes across the altar as we are bound together inextricably. I want to have a wedding night. I want to fall asleep with you and wake up with you. I want to have a side of the bed. I want to do the dishes with you. I want you to argue with me about baby names. I want you to drive me to the hospital when I go into labor in the middle of the night. I want to crush your hand and blame you for my pain. I want to see your face the first time you hold our little girl, looking into her eyes that are your eyes and at her nose that is my nose. I want you to get up when she cries in the middle of the night. I want you to call her princess. I want you to bandage her scraped knee and tell her it's all going to be all right. I want you to cry when we send her off to kindergarten, then junior high, then high school, then when we drive away and she's standing on the front lawn at her dorm. I want to retire with you. I want us to play with our grandchildren together. I want to sit on the front porch in rocking chairs drinking lemonade with you, holding hands and remembering life. I want you with me when I'm on my last leg and you're on yours, so that we can tell each other that it's all right. Everything's all right. I want us to be all right.

I didn't think I could say all of that to you, considering we were a couple of 17 year olds sitting in your car with Chinese takeout on the console between us and the local pop station playing quietly in the background.

So I summarized and said, "I love you. We'll see what happens."

Then you smiled that little half smile that makes it hard for me to focus and you told me you loved me, too.

Because you are love and I am love and it is all right. Everything's all right. We are all right.


--Alis

An angsty post.

Teen angst is staring at a wall,

hoping it will understand you.

It doesn't. 

It's a wall.

Teen angst is crying

when your mom

forgets to buy your grape juice.

Teen angst is blowing up 

when your brother whistles

(off-key)

incessantly.

Teen angst is the name of an M83 song.

Teen angst is feeling alone

at your own birthday party.

Teen angst is knowing you're better

without him,

but wanting him back

anyway.

Teen angst is not praying 

for the past month or so

because God doesn't want

to hear your excuses.

Teen angst is knowing others are worse off

and not caring.

Teen angst is my life.

Teen angst is my adolescence.

Sorry

if

i'm 

a

bitch.

Blame

it

on

the

angst.

--Alis

On childhood in general, mine in particular.

I put my pen to the paper

Letters and words

Sentences and stanzas

Spiraling from the tip.

The characters flowing from my consciousness

To the page in front of me.

My thoughts are words,

Arranging themselves into

"Art" as my soul drips

With the ink.

I've always thought in words.

I've never been spatially aware.

Even with crayons, I wrote.

My name. 

My mom's name.

My pictures are

Inadequate.

My grapes don't look

As good as my sister's.

Maybe it's because she's older.

Maybe my grapes will look as good

As hers

When I am 8, too.

My mom told me to color

In my book of princesses.

She said to stay in the lines.

I can't stay in the lines.

The crayon is too big.

My hand is too small.

"Grass isn't purple"

My sister says.

She's right.

I wonder if my sister

Could spell "trophy" when she was in second grade?

Probably not. 

She's better at pictures and dancing.

I'm better at letters.

Mom gave me a book to read.

It's Magic Tree House.

My sister is reading

How to draw horses.

She's good at it.

I just took my sixth grade spelling test.

I spelled

"Antidisestablishmentarianism"

Right.

I spelled "ideal"

Wrong.

My sister is in dance.

She says the teacher hates her.

My teacher just handed back

Our last book reports of ninth grade.

"C-"

Mine read.

My sister said

"I told you honors was pointless."

She's taking motion picture.

I got my ACT score back.

5 points higher than my sister.

She says it doesn't matter.

She's in a very good college.

She's engaged to a very tall boy.

She's probably right.

She's never taken dance or

Art again.

I'm still writing,

Words spelled out on the paper.

Putting myself on the page.

Still, sometimes I wonder

What I could have been

If my grass could have been 

purple.

--Alis

Sometimes, that's how it is.

You looked me in the eyes.

I saw into your soul.

You told me you loved me,

Softly,

Sincerely,

The whisper of your breath on my cheek.

I believed every word that fell from your mouth.
I just didn't reciprocate.

I gave my heart to you, 
In my own time,

In a glass box.

You saw what it was.

You saw me at my most vulnerable.

I could never hide from you.

I never wanted to hide from you.
Every letter on the pages you wrote to me shone like gold.

(Lead into gold,

You were my own personal

Alchemist.)

I don't regret it,

Loving you.

I regret the fact that I didn't realize it

Until it was too late,

Until you loved her,

Until you had gotten over me,

Until you had returned my heart

With a note,
Letters once again dull,
That said,

"I'm sorry. I know how it feels."

Like that's any consolation.

--Alis

Running from fear

air

pushing in and out.

my lungs screaming,

crying for more.

my limbs heavy,

too heavy to be mine.

why am i running?
i'm not completely sure.

Fear,

at first.

running from everything

that's ever scared me.

my Future.

my Past.

especially my Present.

how can i run from Time?

how am i supposed to run from Something

when that Something is
Everything?

now i'm running

for Fear of Stopping.

Stopping means

Confrontation.

is Confrontation best,

if it will stop my running?

i'm running

for Fear of

Confrontation.

running from my Past 

in the Present,

i'm running toward the Future.

it cannot be escaped.

nothing can be outrun.

not even my Fear

of Running.

so why am I trying?


--Alis