Job Well DoneHe sat there in the crowded hallway -- of which you took no notice
Slowly taking his crayon, pens, lined paper -- you looked at your watch
He, all of 10, disappears writing his work -- too busy as you wander
Laying on the floor he writes it slowly -- not paying attention
He sits there in the hallway holding the sign -- the train is late
"It's Sometimes Pointless" it says, coffee stains -- you stop and stare
There is a crowd forming slowly, he looks straight ahead -- what is he doing?
He holds it with two small fingers, blank look cast -- you squint
It was then they started, carrying on about the sign -- they got angry
How it was not this
Beloved Future SelfBeloved Future Self7 months ago in Teen More Like This
Dear Future Self,
Hey, you. Or, alternatively, me. I've never spoken to you before, but I think it's time I did, not for a contest or views but because I know better than anyone that you need it right now.
I know you're hurting and you're scared. I know how you can't look in the mirror without clawing away at yourself and I know you write this with shaking hands and a heavy heart, but this isn't just about you. This is about the little girl you used to be and the little girl out there that's exactly as you were. Because they need you. I need you. Please stop crying each night, this will make you stronger. I know it's hard. I know you don't
Dear You (Or, Alternatively, Me)Dear You (Or, Alternatively, Me) –Dear You (Or, Alternatively, Me)7 months ago in Teen More Like This
I worry about you sometimes.
I worry about how you are doing: who you are spending your time frolicking with, whether or not you have finally kissed someone, if you still get nervous easily. I worry about my friends in your time – are they still our friends? Or have you finally let them all go, or pushed them away, or left like we always dreamed of?
Sometimes I lay in bed in the late hours of the night, dreaming of your life. Do you remember? Do you remember staring at the dark ceiling so long it began turning red, tossing and turning, hoping and dreading what is to come? I wonder if the things I have don
To My Future SelfTo my Future Self,To My Future Self7 months ago in Teen More Like This
Breathe. You must be thinking, seriously, my teen self is acting like an old fart of a teacher telling off overstressed kids, but seriously, breathe. Stop. Pause. Listen. It's your heart beating. It's telling you, I'm beating so damn hard, I might just kill you one day.
Okay, let's digest. There can only be two reasons for your heart to beat like that. One reason is because I wouldn't have changed- I would still be that overzealous, neurotic, depressed teenager with a penchant for word thieves, dream catchers and moment makers. The other reason would be just the opposite: it's beating with life, with purpose, with hope.
I hope you'll be that second person.
Because being that second person means being serenaded by Chopin in a boy's car, travelling down to Bondi Beach watching sculptures rear out of the sea and you're feeling like, maybe, love may finally find you at last. Being that second person means you just won't shut up talking to patrons
dear teen meDear Sarah,dear teen me7 months ago in Adult More Like This
Remember that time you tried to top yourself by hiding under the covers? That was hilarious. I remember you tugging at the edges of the blanket and praying, without a shred of scientific evidence, that the lack of oxygen would be enough to kill you. You sat under there for something like fifteen minutes before you gave up and went to make a sandwich. But while you were under there, choking a little on your pillow because you never washed your sheets, I remember you thought someone was watching. Someone who understood your suffering. Someone who understood you.
Kid, that was me. And I've got two words for you: man up. Life can get a whole lot harder than this. Before too much longer, it's going to. And by the time you get to my age, you're going to be glad.
Why were you
Dear Teen MeDear Adolescent Self,Dear Teen Me7 months ago in Adult More Like This
I know, everything sucks and you don't want to hear from some lame-ass old person. Lame-ass old people try to tell you things like this all the time, but they're just stupid old people that can't possibly understand. You don't respect me because I'm not in a band, I don't have black hair, and I don't look awesome. I don't write screamey songs that speak to your weasley black soul, nor am I Tim Burton or Freddie Mercury. I get it, past self. I get it. Frankly, I don't want to hear things from me either most of the time. As lame as I may be, just hear me out for a minute.
There's this thing you should really, really try,
Dear Teen MeDear Teen Me,Dear Teen Me7 months ago in Adult More Like This
Yes, you there.
You in the horn-rimmed glasses in your stupid millwheel hat. You knew you’d look totally dumb wearing that to a carnival party, didn’t you? And now you sit there hating the music, hating the people who dragged you there, hating your hair, your figure, your baggy tapered jeans and most of all your glasses. Yes, I know all that. I remember the whole damn evening, when they seemed to play nothing but Salt’n’Pepa, Rozalla and KLF. What did you think they’d play, Paul McCartney, or Elvis Costello? What did you expect the boys would do – would they suddenly notice you with that mil