#plottwist

You went to her yesterday.

She broke it off.

You still won't tell me who she even is, but....

Her loss.

That's why I think I'll tell you that I think I love you and I think it'll make our friendship awkward but I think that even if we had a relationship it would be awkward but I also think we'd be perfect and that's why I think I need to tell you.

You probably aren't God's gift to women, but I'm still hoping that you're his gift to me.

I love you, and I need to tell you. 

As afraid as I am of feeling my smile turn to stone again, I'm more afraid of never being with you. I'm afraid of the urge I get to talk to you whenever I have extra time and the smile I always have around you. I'm afraid of how easily our conversations flow and I'm afraid of how natural it feels to be near you.

I'm less afraid of you and more afraid of myself.

That won't stop me, though.

There's a chance that you could love me and I'm not going to waste it because i don't want to be a coward. I don't think you could love a coward. I'm going to be brave and I'm going to tell you how I feel.

I wish you could hear my heart right now because it's whispering hope.

--Erin

Colors and carbs

I know it probably doesn't matter at this point, but I want you to know that a lot of what I write is for you.

I know that you like someone else, so what I feel for you doesn't really come into play, but you should know that when I think of you, I see the color yellow. Maybe it's because I see light when I'm with you. Maybe it's because you're blonde or maybe it's because your eyes are the color of leaves in late summer and the summer always seems yellow to me.

I know you're going to leave. You'll leave me for two years and I won't have anyone that will take me to Panda on a Tuesday night because I want some won tons/rangoons or whatever the hell you want to call them because they're fried and cream cheese heaven and also I don't want to study for calculus. You're going to go preach in Peru or something (I guess we'll find out soon enough), and I'll be here trying not to rip out my hair from the frustration of being alone. I know, I know. I won't really be alone. Just don't play the God card on me, because he and I aren't really on speaking terms right now.

You're leaving to teach a gospel I only half believe anymore, and I know that that doesn't really matter because I'm not the one going on a mission so it isn't really a problem. Honestly, though, I don't even know if I can call what I have belief because I'm pretty sure there needs to be a conviction behind it and I don't really have that. My belief in the emotional healing power of carbohydrates is stronger than my belief in the church. The fact that I find more truth in an Asiago bagel than the church that I was raised in indicates a problem, especially because there will probably be more prayer at BYU than bagels.

And you're leaving me to tell others how true you think it is.

Yeah, it's probably good, but when you come back, you're probably going to try to tell me to turn off the TV because television is the devil just like Vicky Valencourt and foozball and I'll laugh in your face and press the power button just to annoy you.

I don't know what I'm trying to say, but I guess it's promising that you didn't tell me to change the song when "Little Lion Man" came on in my car.

I was born with a pen in my back pocket, and that pen works so furiously that it just needs a break, but the words flow when I think about you and cheesy love songs come out of my heart when I'm around you and I'm trying to keep them from coming out of my mouth while I also try to discourage you from reading my blog because, obviously, nothing good could come of that.

I guess I'm trying to say that I'll miss you, and I won't even have this summer with you because I move into the dorms the day after my sister's wedding in June and I just hope you come down to visit me, because Provo will be really lonely without you.

I won't have anyone that will go get Slurpees with me on a weekday just because they have the same emotional healing properties as bagels, but you'll probably never know why I need the emotional healing, because I can't tell you that you're the reason.

You're always the reason.

The reason I've written all these poems.

The reason I've kept my eyes dry since I found out, because if I let one tear escape, I'll be sobbing over you and I've been told that no boy is worth my tears but I still wonder if you are. I wonder if you are the only exception and I wonder if I'll sing that song to you someday, and I probably already have, because I sing a lot of songs to you, but it's usually just us pretending to be in love but I'm not actually pretending anymore. Some want to see their name in lights, but I like seeing mine on your lips.

And maybe this is a premature goodbye.

I don't know.

I don't know.

I don't know myself anymore, so maybe this is a goodbye both to you and to the me that I am when I'm with you because I'm happier and while I usually associate myself with dark blues like navy and royal, with you I feel like the color of the ocean on a sunny day, because you're still that bright, burning circle in the sky bringing new life and I hope you're reflecting onto me because the light hurts my eyes but the pain feels better than the sand between my toes,

and I guess that explains most of my feelings towards you.


--Erin

All I remember

My first memory is of standing in front of a vending machine in Moab watching the pink Granny B's sugar cookie fall to where my small hands could reach.

I remember being a poodle in tap shoes and looking at the feet of the girl next to me as she looked at the girl next to her as she looked at the teacher for direction.

I remember playing Scooby Doo in preschool with Haley Smith. We were both Daphne.

I remember the paper Barbie tablecloth at my fifth birthday party and how it caught fire because my dad thought it would be a good idea to use trick candles.

I remember playing horses in the field at recess with the cool girls in first grade. The only time I've been somewhat popular.

I remember getting in trouble in second grade, so my teacher told me to stay in class while everyone else walked to the lunch room and she said she'd come back to bring me down there after they sat down. I remember sitting in her darkened room crying through lunchtime because she forgot to come back for me. She seemed surprised that I was so obedient and didn't just walk down to the lunchroom on my own. I remember being forgotten. Completely forgotten.

I remember deciding I hated Connor Bartlett in third grade. No one was ever sure why. Especially not me.

I remember winning the "guess how many candies are in the candy jar" game in fourth grade because I figured out the teacher's pattern. 214 candies for Valentines Day. You sneaky mom.

I remember my fifth grade teacher being proposed to in the middle of class and how I thought it was so romantic. Because nothing's more romantic than getting engaged in the middle of an elementary school. I mean, it smells so good, like cafeteria food and children who don't use deodorant yet.

I remember being in Athens with the smart kids instead of Sparta with the cool kids during our Greek unit in sixth grade. I'll be honest, I was never considered an athlete in any way, shape, or form.

I remember seventh grade when I was reaching the end of my awkward phase but my stomach was still bigger than my chest and my braces cut my lips.

I remember the cops getting called on us during my thirteenth birthday party because we were terrible children.

I remember slapping my new group of friends in eighth grade as punishment for swearing. I remember them all getting their first boyfriends, first kisses, first heartbreaks. I remember listening. I remember being a third wheel almost anytime I tried to hang out with anyone. Little has changed.

I remember stuffing our bras before stake dances because we thought that would make us more appealing. Well, I'm not stuffing now, but guess who still hasn't gotten her first kiss? I've been told it's because I'm kind of abrasive. Whatever.

I remember getting hit in the face by a flying banana peel in ninth grade and how the boy who threw it and his friends all laughed. I think he felt bad, but how ridiculous is it that someone got hit in the face with a banana peel, right? What could be funnier? I remember trying to laugh it off, but I remember tearing up. Projectile banana peels to the face actually do hurt, in case you were curious.

I remember tenth grade when a boy finally liked me and I remember liking him back. I remember him telling me that he didn't want to pair off. I remember finding out two weeks later that he and my friend were going out, as of two days after he broke it off with me. I remember not blaming her. I remember that I had never actually told her the situation with him. I remember that I was really only mad about the lies.

I remember eleventh grade. I remember gaining new friends and growing away from old ones. I remember my friend trying to kiss me. I remember him telling me he liked me and I remember my response when he asked if I liked him back. "I don't know." I remember telling him it couldn't work the next Monday because his mission+my awkward=sucky relationship. I remember it being more about his permanent residence in the friend-zone and my inability to see him any other way. And I still haven't written him. Whoops.

I remember twelfth grade. I remember AP tests and D minuses in calculus and writing poetry instead of FRQs. I remember Alis and The Truth and Priscilla informing me of it as I ate cheesecake pancakes at an IHOP in Southern California. I remember connecting pen names to faces and wondering if I actually know anything about anyone I've gone to school with for years. I remember trying to stay out of drama and I remember getting sucked back into drama. I remember that it was never my drama. I remember pronouncing drama with the first a pronounced like the a in "stamina" and I pronounced the word "samba" the same way. Lambda. Delta nu. I remember Legally Blonde and I remember Death Cab for Cutie, and I don't know how the two connect to each other and to twelfth grade, but if I find out I'll tell you.

--Erin

Not about me.

I feel unseen.

The windows of your house.

You only notice when I'm absent.

I hope it's darker without me there.

Look at the light coming through me.

You see it, but you don't see me, letting it in for you.

I don't think you ever even notice that I want you to notice me.

I'm always there.

I don't know how I make you feel, or how your eyes look at me, but I guess it's different from how you see her.

Because you said Significant Other.

And I sewed my lips shut to make sure they wouldn't betray me and I pressed them into a smile that didn't reach my eyes because pretending is easier than explaining why.

Maybe we're too close.

Maybe friends is all we can be.

Maybe it was a stupid idea anyway.

Maybe we weren't meant to be in love, but I sometimes feel like God created us for each other

Because I feel so comfortable with you, always. More than with anyone else.

Because I breathe easier when you're around.

Because I can pretend I love myself when you're here.

Because my heart split when you mentioned her.

And I don't even know who "her" is.

I'm sorry.

I've been selfish.

I've only thought about what I feel for you and forgot to ask you what you feel for me.

I almost told you, actually.

I almost let you read my blog.

I almost went over to your house on Monday night to let you know that you make me happy.

You make me feel like the world isn't dead

And you make me feel like I haven't cut the tongues out of my emotions, but now their silent stares are reminding me that I destroyed my own humanity.

I guess you won't know that.

I want to tell you that you make me want to be better.

You make me want to return to God.

You make me want you.

Not your body, per se, because it isn't actually about sex this time,

Because I want your mind.

I want to have a conversation with you for hours because we never run out of things to say to each other.

I want your sense of humor.

I want you to make me laugh when I've given up on the world and myself.

I want you to tell me I'm beautiful, not because I have a poor self-image, but because I want you to tell me my soul is worth saving.

I want to tell you I love you, but I know that it can't happen,

Because I'm the windows you look through

And she's the stained glass you look at.

I thought I loved you, but you reminded me that I don't know what love is.

I want to say thank you for that, but it would probably be insincere, and the only lies I tell are of omission.

--Erin

Defacing People

(Pictures didn't work out very well. #ohwell)

Love is the national pastime,

The perfect game.

My head would cover the credits that say, "belong."

A former life with only faith to show to her.

Her work may focus on her will.

Believe it or not, sex appeal is not beauty.

--Erin