RILL TALK

I'VE BEEN LYING TO YOU FOR SIX MONTHS

--Things You Should Know But Probably Don't--

You should probably know already that I love Nutella.

I respect you enough to remind  you that I give in to wonder and am easily impressed and I'm always jealous of something that I don't have authority to be jealous of. I lose all reason in the face of beauty and marvel at anything that proves there is a God. I would hike the tallest mountain just to see the view and become an astronaut just to see the world.

You should touch my fingers and hair because I need connections and reassurance and contact. I need a
physical representation to satisfy my busy mind. You should know that one brush against me can do more than any words ever did.

You should learn how to play the violin  because you should know that the violin gets me. The violin reaches across my throat and holds me, pinned to the ground with nowhere to go. It hypnotizes me and erases me completely. 

I don't even play it.

You should smile because you would know that I hate doing what everyone else is doing but I refuse to go to a party alone.

You should be scared because you probably know (or will find out) how emotional I am.

I'm a girl.

That isn't why I'm emotional. I take everything very seriously and cry over spilled milk. I love you, but I don't know if you love me so I might hate you. I get lost in movies and still can't watch Jurassic Park because I get nightmares for weeks. I'm impulsive and should have never been allowed to text in the first place.

You should also most likely bring me Nutella when things like this happen.

You should know that I'm 13th in the Lone Peak Class of 2013, and that's pretty cool, cause 13 and '13.

You should know the name of my other blog and read it when I'm not watching.

You should stare at me because you would know that I only pretend that it makes me feel uncomfortable, your eyes on me. You should know how much I love faces. Faces speak when speechless and in their eyes I see a different color fire in each pupil. The rings under the all-seeing globes hang limp and unnoticed but I see them. You should know that I love to watch the corners of your mouth twitch with every new thought and perception.

Never forget how much I love writing words. How much I hate writing things like this and that when I write about myself it just isn't going to be good writing, okay? 

You should absolutely know that there is no way I would ever read this as a slam poem and that I am terrified to do that. You should also know that I hardly ever get nervous and I've only blushed once.

You should know that I eat turkey pepperoni and craisins and you should know about my dog. You should know that I hate mexican food and that I hate group projects. You should always remember when my birthday is, which by the way is July 6th, and you should get me presents even when I don't get you one. You should take me camping and bring the bug spray because I always forget it, and you should bring your guitar so that we could sing songs around the campfire. You definitely should not force me to go to institute. You should clap when I do a flip on the trampoline because you should know it took me eight years to figure it out. You deserve to know that you should keep your ringer volume loud on your cell phone at night so you can be awake when I call you in the middle of an anxiety attack. You should catch the spiders in my room and never tease me about it. You should write valentines with me. Or to me. You should know that I hate sitting in the back but for some reason I'm sitting there because I sit where the teacher puts me. You should know that I really didn't want to be a bucket list item. (I became your bucket list item)

You should know that I hate the name Alicia but love the name Alice and I wish I could be Alice. Alice the brave, Alice the wonderful, Alice the wanderer. I'm attached to Alice just like I've been attached to every boy who said I was beautiful and every dog that ever licked my hand. Can I be Alice in my dreams? Maybe then I can walk the wet, shining streets of Paris and throw my hands out and call this place her home, where she'll never leave and always welcome the girl who once used her name to impress people.

Remember me, 

Forget me,

Tear me to pieces.
I'm sorry for lying.

Tempt me.

Kalli Paige

Certainly not thinking of you

My alarm clock rings and I'm certainly not thinking of you.
It rings again. I drag myself out of bed. (still not thinking of you)
One piece of burnt whole grain toast forces itself out of a dirty toaster and as I scrape the burnt black layer off with a butter knife I'm not thinking of you and I'm not thinking about you eating toast. My hands shake on the cold steering wheel and 88.1FM doesn't remind me of you and my hands certainly don't think of you. I'm walking through the crowded, lonely halls and I'm not thinking about how you are walking right behind me and I'm trying to look interesting because I'm trying to remember that I'm not thinking about how you are walking right behind me.


I'm not thinking about you like the moon doesn't think about us while it watches us sleep.
I'm not thinking about you like the chickens in the backyard don't think about us eating their eggs.
I'm not thinking about you like cement doesn't think about our constant bug-murdering and dirty shoes.
Like the bread doesn't think about rising and like the fire doesn't think about burning. Like physics doesn't think about chemistry and like the paintbrush doesn't think about the artist creating its brush strokes.


I don't think about you about as much as I don't think about death, and I think about death a lot.
Death like falling out of an airplane without a parachute or like getting eaten by a shark or getting shot one day. Or all three at the same time.


I certainly would not be thinking about you if I was dying. I hopefully would not be.


I'm not thinking about you, and I'm not thinking about you reading this, and I'm not thinking about that today is Valentine's day and how you might be thinking about me. I'm not thinking of that.


{Remember when we used to think of each other? Remember when we used to think about us, and your freckles and my bumpy nose, and our own thoughts? Remember when we used to admit it?}



And I'm not admitting now because you aren't admitting and that's how love works, isn't it? Isn't love only a constant cycle of dependency ringing endlessly for nourishment and longing to be held? I'll stop thinking about you if you stop thinking about me, because my thoughts feed on your thoughts, and my love lives off of yours. The existence of love can only survive when nurtured and encouraged by an equal and additional love; it requires dependence on another to increase in value. And our value is dropping. Our stocks aren't being purchased and our stockholders are withdrawing their funds. So I'm not thinking about you.


I'm not thinking about you like the cotton plantation slaves didn't think about their skin color.
I'm not thinking about you like my brother doesn't think about minecraft.
I'm not thinking about you like the fresh-cut fries never think about a good-looking chocolate frosty.
Like your elbows never think about the superiority of your knees and like her eyelashes never think about her mascara and like the 'a' key never thinks about the 'L.' Like the commercial men don't think about anything but money and like the the TOMS foundation doesn't think about anything but African children.



I finish my work and I'm not thinking about you.
I'm waiting in line at the bank and I'm certainly not thinking about you or your money.
I'm squirting saline solution into two empty eyes of a contact solution case and I'm not thinking about your eyes. I scrub my face and take one long look at the pink and red blur of a face in the mirror. I'm scrutinizing myself and I know I'm not good enough to be thinking of you. I'm laying on a firm mattress and curling up next to the cold sensation of a pillow and I'm not thinking of you or your cold feet. Its 11:11 and I'm certainly not thinking of you and I'm certainly not wishing for you and I'm certainly not. I'm just not. My eyelids close and I'm not thinking of you.

My alarm clock rings and I'm certainly not thinking of you.

{I felt like this was necessary.}

{I mean the Nutella. Nothing else necessary at all.}

"Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly 
you forget me
do not look for me, 
for I shall already have forgotten you."
                                     --Pablo Neruda

{Alice}

Reminders of human-ness

The heart that beats inside my chest reminds me of my life--my life of constancy, of monotony, of slow, rhythmic beating. The heart that pumps blood into my veins and sends streams of red down my scratched skin. The heart that trembles at the sight of misfortune and delights in its own wallowing misery. The heart that longs for love but avoids the thrashing damage of heartbreak.

I'm awakened to my sense of imperfection and humanity when I make mistakes; I stand steady until I'm alone. I know I'm human when I lay flat on my mattress and cry. Cry until the hot tears run down my face and down my cheeks and into my ears and down into me where their wet whispers tell me I'm imperfect and I'm awful and that Nobody likes me. Their salty solution stains my satin pillow and remind me of my faults.

i
           cant
                      tell
                              you
                                        how
                                                   much
                                                                  i would love
                                                                                         to  be
                                                                                                                a
                                                                                                                                   robot.
And who knows, I could be. But my inadequate lungs try their hardest to keep up with me, and my arms can't hold my heartdesires. My chest rises without fail. My brain never stops talking, but can never compute.
I know I can't possibly be a robot when I attempt to close my eyes and instead hear taunts and fantasies from an unorganized novel that will never be published.

I hope, I desire, I crave. I feel, I wait, I want. I hate bad endings and I hate being subject to servitude. I hate, I detest, I feel contempt. I taste, I discover, I create. I long for originality but I copy and paste. I wonder, I learn, I am lost in confusion. I make mistakes and I crash the car and I burn myself and cut myself and bruise myself and burn and cut and bruise everyone else.

I tempt.

*Alice