Katy's blog

Ever been to Montreal?
Breathed in the unfiltered, city air
with a snarl on your
face and then thought
hey now, this is just
great, and
pounded the earth with
unsteady and
uncertain footsteps? Ever
nearly cracked your neck
craning to see
spotless, glassy windows on
the seventeenth floor
of an apartment you want more
than anything to live in? To wake first
thing in the morning and
see nothing but
everything,
lights and signs and
buildings taller than towers
in countries you've
never been to; but you've dreamed
of them, oh yes, seen them in
some manner but seen them,
nonetheless. Maybe someday you'll
see them with two eyes instead of
a mind too young to
find interest in the
simplest of things.

*I'm going to Montreal again tomorrow for a concert; I'm hoping this time I won't feel obligated to come home.

He whispered in her ears,
a sweet and salty mix of
frowns and shudders; but she just
cried, and as her tears
flooded the shallow earth beneath
he let go of her hand,
let go of her heart.

She reached for his grasp as
she sank, begging with eyes so
blue and so scared. To the point
of explosion they
widened, until she shut them
and pulled her arm
to her side.
She felt her ribs, tried to tear them out,
tried to tear out her soul and
her mind but they stuck,
firm and unbending.

She swore, biting her lip and
running her tongue over
her teeth like she'd done
many times before,
tasted her words and
her blood and
tasted him, swallowed it all
to keep safe in the
pocket of her lungs.

The air hung too heavy
as she breathed in each
guilty breath,
and it crowded her thin frame and
beat down her thin heart;
relentless as he is
and stronger too, it pounded,
bringing her further
underwater.
She fell.
He didn't notice.

As she swam fervently

I didn't want to say it
as much as you
didn't want to
listen, but I did
and words spoken back
would have been good to hear.

Rather than pavement conceding under
rubber tires that spent
one too many times
driving cowardly around
and around my block, the same tires
controlled by feet that
could have walked up my doorstep,
could have walked through my door.

Did I ever mention I went to the creek;
saw you,
saw those tires and those feet and
saw me, or where I
should have been,
used to be.
I kept driving.

And I'm sure you turned around,
sure you heard my tires
scarring roads you drove
thousands of times,
eyes set ahead but not on anything,
really. It can't be
that easy
to block me out.

Note: this is not about me or anyone I know.

It couldn't be
something I said,
because I didn't say much.

(Other than when
I betrayed you, that is.)

And if I did my words
just tangled with those you
spit out,
strewn in with emotions and
tears (mine, not yours);
not as beautiful as
one would think.

I only tried to help.
That constant
just eat,
please eat,
was me whispering in your ear,
me trying to
break down whatever walls
you put up.
I just wanted to help.

I told, not to see the
anger in your eyes,
the piercing hate and the
smashing of pictures
on carefully polished
mahogany floors, but to see your
obsessed-over secret

slip away.

To see your mom,
eyes open, and arms too,
holding you as you
writhed away,
cursing and crying.
To notice you, to care;
isn't that what you've always wanted?

I soaked up what
you threw my way.
'Some best friend' cut me
deeper than the
shards of glass on the floor.

The stars aligned and told me no.
Well, in truth they didn't
but I assume they would,
and I assume
you would too.

I sat for hours,
now it seems like
lifetimes, listening to you
go on about your 'dreams'.
Newsflash: you're awake;
stay asleep or
take the reins yourself.

It was on a whim,
I suppose. I've never
had one but
I've heard of them,
heard they make you do
strange things.

It was just an idea,
just a
'Let's run away to New York'
sort of thought,
and you went along with it,
at first.
It's because it
wasn't part of your 'dreams',
wasn't it? Since when did that
stop you? Since when did
anything stop you?

You turned the car around before
the end of the street,
eyes wild and hands shaking,
your heart beating faster,
I'm sure.

I guess we couldn't get far;
I knew you'd never leave.

He’s admittedly agnostic, terrified to
believe in what he
can’t see. Terrified about
a lot of things, actually,
but he doesn’t talk about that; doesn’t talk
about much. He’s a pure genius,
which his father fails to notice, or fails
to care. The odds of it
being the latter eclipse the hell
out of the first. He doesn’t have many friends;
I suppose one is enough.
She told him to get away, she’d
give him money and he could just
leave. But he couldn’t,
he said, whatever was
holding him down and
deranging his thoughts was something he
couldn’t let go of. She didn’t
understand; he didn’t either.
They bonded over sunsets that
were sunrises in Australia, little bits of
“interesting” he found in books he read
and books he never got around to but
always planned to read. They took turns
diagnosing his father;
He’s sad, lonely,
frustrated with his own life.
But the boy stated ever so simply: No,

I'm sitting on my roof in a purple sweatshirt, alone and tired, and if that's what it takes for a wake-up call, then so be it. I don't want to be a role model, and I don't want anyone following in my footsteps. Make your own goddamn decisions. Stop relying on hope, it's uneven and feeble and can't truly hold you up when you're falling. Just stand up, catch yourself. This city's tired; I'm not so well-rested either. But stop hiding in the alleys, stop shielding the sun with brick walls and street signs. They can't tell you where you want to go. Neither can I, neither can anyone. So stop listening, stop praying someone will be there to pick you back up. It's your turn. This ground is firm and you can stand tall; you should stand tall. Start walking.

I probably have insomnia.
I have writer's block during the day,
and then at night
I'm overcome by an urge to
write or
draw or
sing or
think or
run...
ET CETERA;
never sleep.

Quiet, quiet,
too quiet. Always too quiet.
I need my music,
Jack's Mannequin is tonight's choice,
as with many nights. My TV?
I can't find the remote.
Screaming, loudly,
progressively louder and louder, and then it's broken.
I imagine my mom's shrill voice, saying
stop, stop, stop;
she's louder.
Though she's not because I'm screaming in my head
to drown out the silence.
She wouldn't hear.
But my throat is sore so I stop the noise,
and then the quiet's back.
Too quiet.

I stand up.
Sit down? Lay down?
Too many options, so much time, time.
Didn't I tell you I threw out my watches?
I can count the ten minutes of sleep I'll get on my fingers,
I don't need help. Rather, I suppose I do.
You say deep breath,
deep breath. Will the air ever run out?

He’s just tired, not
scared or lonely or
anything like that, no, just
tired. Not because of
you (it never was).

He’s from Munich. Says he doesn’t
miss it, but he does,
misses you too, misses the
trains and the city’s buzz. He’s
strong, you know that. Of course you do,
since he hasn’t showed up
at your doorstep.

Though did you know
he plans to? Plans to come with
daises, your favourite. Plans to
sing to you, badly at that.
He even wrote you a song,
it doesn’t rhyme and
the melody is
way off, but he tried. It’s the thought that
counts, you know.
And you’re all he thinks about.

Maybe everyone won’t be
against you, this time
at least. You’re stubborn, and he’s
tired, just tired. Maybe it’ll rain,
days on end with
nothing but rain that will fall
and mix with your tears, because
maybe he’ll cry,
too. You can cry together.
Please don’t ask for more than that.

I'm supposed to be reading The Iliad. But let's be honest, procrastination is my strongest attribute. I've thrived on it my entire life. My teachers take pride in my assignments. If only they knew that my greatest work is done at two in the morning, when my eyes ache from reading in the dark and my only comfort is the buzz of my iPod in my ears.

I once wrote an essay with a paragraph that consisted mainly of old All Time Low lyrics. Surprisingly enough they seemed to fit in perfectly with the rest of the meaningless quotes and analyses that I threw in there just to be finished. But being the good person that I am, I told my teacher that my cat ripped up the only printed copy I had and I needed to hand it in the next day.

The tick-tick of the clock,
combined with that
"wow-factor" makes it
all the more worse. I could have
said something,
should have said something. But you
know me and I know me
(or at least I did)
and sometimes words
never seem right to say
when it's easier to just
smile and walk away. But I wanted to
be the one that left.

Cut me open,
open please. Instead of
knives, words.
"You're no doctor" never even
crossed my mind. You
beg, I cry. A stupid circle
that couldn't be finished.
You should read
more books.

It’s not that I hate my town. Or my state. I actually don’t. But I’ve been halfway across the world and back, seen places and things that I’m still trying to take in, and guess what? I’m restless. It’s true. I want a city, more than anything really. But it’s so easy to want something.

There's this boy who changed my life, who was in my head and on my mind. Eyes staring, arms reaching, fingers crossed, heart racing, legs pumping to get to nothing but him. He tricked me with his blue, blue gaze and I gave in with my pathetic ways. So much for being "infinite."

Future Me lives in a loft in downtown Manhattan that overlooks the city skyline, modern paintings collaged on the walls and articles from The New York Times on my desk. Future Me has my beloved pop punk music blaring from speakers, filling me and my loft and bringing tears to my eyes. Quotes from books I've read over and over hanging from my ceiling, along with lyrics from songs I can recognize without even listening to.

I wrote your name
in the sand but the
waves washed it away, little
mini tsunamis, and
you cried, oh,
how you cried. She had
velvet pencils, each stroke
caressing the page as
she wrote, and the words
fell off your tongue and
you would swallow to
take them back. Nobody
ever wants to share
something so precious, something
you can't just
reach out and grab, pull back
and hold tight.
It's not always that easy.
I thought I saw
your shadow out of the corner
of my eye; would look and
cry and see nothing but
nothing. It can't always
be something.