I tend to do this thing where I imagine situations or scenarios in my head—plan out what I would say to a certain someone, and even practice saying it.

…which, is fine. 

But. More often than not, the scene never actually takes place.  The conversations never actually occur.

Yet still, these scenes I’ve played over in my mind have more or less “happened” from my point of view. 

So, in a sense, these imagined scenarios are then used to create my own self-image.  I use my imagined wit and confidence when describing my literal personality.

Which, again, is fine.

But, it explains why the rest of the world doesn’t view me in the same light. It explains why the view I have of myself is biased in a way no one else’s view could be.

Have you ever wished to be observed?—wished that someone was watching your moves?

When you’re sitting in a public place. On a park bench. Reading the news.

Find yourself faking your emotions. Smirk as if you’ve read something cute.

All in hopes that someone’s watching. Admiring. Observing your non-existent attributes.

Bite your pen. Stare into space. You’re obviously deep in thought.

Read some words. Laugh aloud. Just casually being yourself (not).

Then you look up. Scan the crowd. Any takers? Admirers? Eye contact?

No.  Of course not. That’s not how people interact.

You’re only watched when you don’t notice.

Only admired when you’re focused.

Drop the act. Just be real.

Sit down and actually feel.

You’ve always been a gentleman; your words are always sweet.

The compliments you give are meaningful, somehow discreet.

Our conversations flow; you listen, as do I.

But… you don’t give me butterflies—no matter how hard you try.

Your kisses are just lovely and the cuddles, oh, so nice.

I enjoy all that you have to say; even sitting in silence seems to suffice.

We’ve texted , we’ve talked, and hung out many times, but I know that it won’t work.

Because, you don’t give me butterflies—sorry to be such a jerk.

You want to know me?

Drive with me in the car while I belt out in song.

Stand with me in the kitchen as I dance my way through making lunch.

Laugh with me in class when my daydreams make me laugh aloud.

You really want to know me?

Sit outside with me in silence as the weather warms up.

Argue with me when I speak with ignorance.

Cry with me while I struggle to find my way.

You want to know me.

Rely on yourself and the blame is all yours.

—no way to cause any drama or start any wars

Keep a secret a secret and it will never be told.

—no rumors or gossip from which you need to be consoled

Take advice that’s your own and do what you want.

—no regrets that remain to continually haunt.

Behind a computer screen, flipping through photos online.
Unknown and non-existent, your name holds no significance in her ears-your face, no recognition.

No move she makes, no thought she thinks has ever held even a figment of you. You don’t exist in her mind.

Yet. Here you sit: with a worthless prying at your core.
Because somehow. someway—she does it better. She obtained what’s desired. She has what you presumably want.

Do you really even want it? Who knows? You sure don’t. You only think you do. 

But that’s enough.

That’s enough for those green flowers of envy to grow in your garden patch labeled ”Jealousy.”

Sprinkle on all of the pesticides & weedkillers you can gather; that won’t stunt their growth.

There’s no weeding out of those malevolent vines once they take hold. Viciously sprouting from the pit in your stomach that remains no matter how unwanted it is.

A useless,
unjustified, 
pathetic,
emotion.

After a year and a half, it finally happened. My stupid feet at last sprouted roots.  All throughout this quarter and last, they’ve been growing.  I am here.  I am happy.  I am home.

And week after week they’ve grown—intertwined and entangled with the people. The places. The sights, and the smells.

Silly as it sounds I can now walk into my apartment and take comfort in that musty vintage smell; my room-mate’s red hair in the shower has ceased to gross me out; the el train’s deafening roar is no longer disruptive.

I am part of the soil, grown into the ground, with my roots ardently expanding in more directions than one: Down Dickens Avenue to the home of my partner in crime.  Into the room of my Fox, where it sits just next to mine.  Out towards West Town to the adorable kids that I teach.  And far past Oz Park, where I like to sit and write on the lake shore beach. 

And now I might leave.  Rip up miles of roots. Tear them apart from the tangled.  Cut them out before they get the chance to help produce fruit.  I have to replant myself in a world I don’t know. Move to another school, a different city, and hope I’ll still grow. 

It’s not fair. This took time.  It was a struggle.  I had to climb.

It took trial after error and error again.  With my growth often stunted—shallow roots, unready to grow deep in unfamiliar terrain.

And now. To start over? When this place became part of my own? You’ll have to rip up my roots for me. I can’t do that alone.

Bold. Brave. Blunt. Brilliant. Blatant. Brash.
My thoughts: yes.
My actions: no.
Change this. Find the strength. Make a match.

Summon up some courage—

Sauté it in a pan.

Muster up the nerve,

Then cook it ‘till it’s tan.

Speak what’s on your mind;

Words served on a silver plate.

You kept it all inside your head.

You missed your chance; I just ate.

Love exists.

thankyou-newenglandtrees asked: Hi emily! I dont know if ive ever told you before, but i really enjoy your writing.

Well, I thank you kindly. Appreciated.

My heart beats.
My blood moves.
My lungs expand and contrast.
My brain commands.
My nose breathes.
And my thoughts are kept to myself.

At night when I sleep—in the day when I move, this occurs at a steady, constant pace.
But when I see you, there’s a change in all that and everything, all at once, starts to race.

My heart explodes.
My blood, it runs.
My lungs…they nearly stop.
My brain, it spins.
My nose works too slow.
And my thoughts: I love you.

Think back. Remember high school.
Remember the painfully juvenile emotions. More importantly, remember their strength.
Highs. Lows. But drastically so.

Ever wish you could go back? Just to feel something of worth once again? Who cares if you were cheated on—if you punched some boy at the prom?
Your emotions were real. At the time anyway. You believed in the feeling and fought to let it be felt.

Now. I don’t have a feeling to fight for. Everything’s neutral. Neutral and bland.