FFM XShe has more books than friends. Even on her Facebook account.
Eleven are duplicated, four are autographed, nine are missing covers, and six are in languages she doesn't speak.
(Her books, not the friends, but one never knows.)
She's worked the same job for three years, saying that it will get her to bigger and better places. It took her three years to figure out that she can't see any places, let alone bigger or better ones.
She writes stories about sad little people like her, except she didn't realize that she was like all of them. She was different because she liked her job. She liked her job until she realized she didn't. And then she couldn't think of anything that set her apart.
She has more books than friends, and she collects them the way one might collect loose change. (Again, the books, not the friends.) She hasn't read all of them, and she doesn't even know that she will. She gathered them all up in order to make herself manic-pixie-dream-girl.
But now, she's a depressive-pi
Grandfather's BirdGrandfather had a pet bird. Just a small, yellow and white parakeet; he named it Georgie, after Grandmother. Every morning, he would wake up at 6 o'clock, make a pot of coffee, grab the newspaper, and feed the small bird a small pile of birdseed. And he would gently carry the birdcage, and place it on the table and talk to her as he drank his coffee and read the newspaper.Grandfather's Bird4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
"Gas prices are up again Georgie, geez, remember when we could pay 20¢ to fill up our car?"
And sometimes the bird almost chirped in response. Years and years went by, and Grandfather grew older, and he could no longer carry the bird off the shelf, but he would still feed and talk to her at 6 o'clock.
One morning, Grandfather found himself barely able to make it out of bed. He still made his way into the kitchen to feed his dear bird. His hand shook and some birdseed fell to the floor as he carefully moved into the tray into the cage. He slowly made his way to the table so that he could sit down.
Dear Frances in year 6Still no:boyfriendDear Frances in year 63 years ago in Scraps More Like This
She isShe is boring.She is4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
She listens to podcasts from the New Yorker.
She buries her face in her journal
She eats strawberry yogurt for breakfast.
She lives in a library.
She is fascinating.
She has a hidden world behind her eyes.
She writes until 3 in the morning.
She listens to theater music
She has the world at her fingertips.
One Last Time"Do you have all your things ready Mrs. Burnette?"One Last Time4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
She silently nodded and the young nurse held her arm as she walked down the old, creaky front steps of her porch one last time. She turned her head towards the house and she thought of the day that she bought it.
She and Frank had just been married and he carried her across the threshold and into the living room in her wedding dress.
"It's all ours, our very own. What do you think Margret?"
"Oh it's fantastic, it's wonderful, it's beautiful!" she cried.
They pulled out of the driveway and started through town. Margret sat in the backseat looking out the window, looking at the town where she had lived her whole life. The car turned onto Park Street and drove by the town hospital. She thought about when her daughter was born.
"It's a girl!" announced the nurse. "Do you have a name?"
Frank held her hand and she looked up into his eyes and nodded.
"We want to call her Evelyn; it was my grandmother's name"
She held her daughter in
You and MEYou,You and ME4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
I will not write 'dear' as you do not deserve the respect. You come in equal first place on my list of people who I hate most. Hate is a strong word, but it doesn't even begin to explain the horrible feelings I have towards you. Words can't describe exactly how much you hurt me, physically and mentally...
... But I will try.
You first met me when I was most vunerable. You felt me wince in pain when you touched me. You watched me cry. You heard my voice fade closer to extinction. You saw me being carried by my father - a fifteen year old baby. You listened to my worries and fears and you gazed straight into my soul and told me you wouldn't give up on me.
At that moment I respected you.
You investigated reasons why. You sounded smart, and clever, and genuine. You charged me an arm and nine legs out of my wallet, but you seemed worth it. For the first time in several months, someone cared about me. You have no idea how much I needed that, everyone else gave up.
At that moment, I admi
harmonizei'm built on broken bones and metronomesharmonize3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
her alto trills, his hollow tones
a second verse she'll never know
so sweet and sweet and down we go
the cords stretch and scratch but never match
the off beat tears he'll surely catch
the droplets lead a song of their own
recorded on heartstrings, a song i know
his words they ring and the hurt they bring
it's been so long but i choose to sing
and maybe he'll hear the music we make
( it's been so long but i choose to break. )
Purple Lipspurple lips onPurple Lips3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
breathe life out,
fail to pull it
merely a skeleton
24. Stars Abigail sits facing the wall, her slight form outlined in sunlight, wide gray eyes staring intently out onto the horizon. She counts the seconds in her head, trying to tune out the noises in the background. The clock drags on, minutes stretching into eternities. Outside the little kitchen window, the sun sets agonizingly slowly. She runs a finger over the edge of the counter, shifting uncomfortably. If Mommy and Daddy walk in to find her sitting on the counter in her muddy jeans and oversized t-shirt they will yell at her. But they won't, she assures herself. They're too busy yelling at each other to notice. She waits another minute, but it seems the sun has stopped moving, hovering at the horizon's edge. Sighing, she turns her gaze to the wilting aloe plant in the golden light of the windowsill. The sun moves faster when she's not watching it.24. Stars4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
Her fingers itch to grab a glass and dump some water on the little plant, but she d
Thoughts - LoveLove is probably the most complicatedly simple thing out there. Everyone experiences it (most likely) at one point or another and everyone knows what it is, but when people are asked to describe it, it's different everytime.Thoughts - Love4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
I'm seventeen years old (at the time of this writing) and I know I don't know everything about this subject because I haven't lived long enough to experience all of it. I'm not going to give out a definition of the word "love because, honestly, I don't have one. I'm still learning and that's what I believe to be the best thing possible right now.
I've only been in two relationships my whole life but I think I surprisingly learned a lot from both of them. My second relationship went on for two whole years before it ended. The only good thing you can really learn from break-ups is what you want and what you don't want it a relationship. Most importantly of all: You can't want to be with a person who doesn't want to be with you. It only leads to hurt. Relat
kill_joyshe wears windows on her wrists to hide that hard-earned necklace of bone and cover every angle kissed by an angel on her wretched, ruined, beautiful body.kill_joy4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
she is afraid for her soul.
the monsters at night breathe life into her sorry bones, that thin ribbed frame
a skeleton with fingers, a gun with skin.
you tell her, i need you to make me feel better about myself. she says, i could never kill myself til i was something perfect.
you are a match made in heaven: dead.
you spend hours drawing her -- you're an artist, you tell her. really, the only art you know is the lines of her spine, the hollows between her ribs, the lone, thick flesh of her lips, the fragility of her hair. the only thing that hurts is the way she never eats.
why, you ask her. it hurts, she says.
does it really hurt so much you have to starve yourself?
yes, it does.
it never got further than that. by then, your fingers let go of the charcoal and deepene
FFM XXIXShe's locked herself in her own absurdities. She traces silver-white raised skin over her shoulders and hips, wallowing in her own disgusting self-pity. At night, she cries over people who have been crafted from twenty-six shapes arranged in clever ways. Then she arranges the shapes some more, and pulls her hair because it will never be the same.FFM XXIX2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
She looks for the people she has pushed away and cries when she can't find them. Standing on her toes, she meets the goals she has set for herself. She pats herself on her back for a job well done without bothering to try jumping.
Watching the world from the window, she looks at buildings, and grass, and trees, and people. They wander around the streets, going nowhere but to and fro.
Disgusting. She thinks.
We Need FeminismWe, a global society, need feminism.We Need Feminism5 months ago in Scraps More Like This
Visiting India for the first time in 1996, I saw my boy cousin use a Barbie-pink backpack we had brought from America. The sight was as foreign as cows wandering the streets, tails swatting the ubiquitous flies. My mother explained that pink for girls and blue for boys was an American obsession. In a small town where growing girls were expected to wear dresses or longer pants, no one gave a damn what color they were, although everyone had an unfortunate predilection for neon.
Luckily, I'd spent my childhood in blues and greys because the only person who bought my clothing didn't like pink herself. My clothes came from the boys' section. I got cars, Legos, K'nex. Not as many video games as I'd wanted. I had to play Mortal Kombat on the boys' consoles, thankful that the only other girl in our social group wasn't around too often. She liked dolls and, unlike the rest of us, cried to get her way. Nobody told her to man up.
We do not need bigotry or
Best Fucking FriendsHer perfume smelled like roses and violets. She was a redhead, not too tall. Her eyes were the colors of the ocean. Green and blue, aqua. Just like yours, but hers didn't blend as well. They were just blue with splotches of green and aqua. But you remember all of that, don't you? All the details I remember so clearly must be crystal clear in your memories, just as they are in mine. You were her "best friend", after all. Ha-fucking-ha. I remember your eyes, I envied them. I never knew why you covered them up so much, even now I wonder about it. Kind of like hers, but prettier, just like your brother's. I had to comfort you after her suicide. We were best friends, after all. Until you met her.Best Fucking Friends2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
You never talked to me all that much after meeting her. She replaced me.
You replaced me.
You were my only friend. No one else got me like you did. When I found you, I hit the jackpot. Everything was going to be okay. I was going to be okay. I had you and you had me. Nothing else matt
Crystal HousesThe people in crystal houses didn't know that I could see them. Six clear, tiny houses living in oblivious bliss.Crystal Houses3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
I would be lying if I said that I didn't watch them. I watched them day in and day out, I saw them converse, eat, sleep. They were simple people, sipping tea and chatting by the fire for amusement.
After some time, I discovered that I had grown rather fond of them and I gave them all names and stories to go along with the silent little lives that I watched.
Their little isolated world was on display for everyone to see, and they had absolutely no idea.
They were small people, perhaps two inches tall. I could have held their houses in my hands.
They became mine, I held them as a little secret, protected them from a world where anyone else would hurt them.
Their fate was a horrible accident. I wanted to bring them inside, to shelter them from the pain and horrors of the world.
I held a small box and I carefully picked up each house and set it gently inside, the little familie
Too Ordinary to NoticeI'm friendly but I'm always left behind,Too Ordinary to Notice5 years ago in Scraps More Like This
I'm trapped inside in my own mind.
I'm usually silent,
but there are times I can be violent.
Nobody can tell what I'm always doing,
because I'm always dreaming.
Dreaming of things that didn't exist in this world;
it's making my mind twist and curl.
There are times I call myself "insane",
but I'm not ashamed.
Because I enjoyed every second of insanity,
forever and always until eternity.