godream

I now have lovely French-tipped nails. I probably shouldn't be typing yet, and I kind of have three overdue English assignments still to do tonight. Oops.

Contemplation: So I'm not really a prom-type person. I wear dresses only under duress, hair tends to be the practical ponytail, never wear makeup (unless you count Chapstick...?), my nails tend to be mangled from typing or guitar strings or however it is that I maul them during robotics, or just from nervous chewing (yeah, ew, I know) -- not really a girly-girl. I'm antisocial, I hate dancing, I spend a depressing quantity of Friday and Saturday nights at home. And maybe that's why I actually am relatively excited about tomorrow night -- just the sheer unusualness of the evening, and the fact that it's an excuse to do all the frilly things I can't be bothered with. *shrugs* Embarrassingly plausible, I think.

Came up with a lot of tripe and a couple decent things for my creative writing final project.

“Bullshit,” you say,
and we both laugh.

Eleven o’clock tastes like rebellion
and swear words are strange and sweet on our tongues,
letters that grown-ups savor
after our bedtimes.

I flip the top card, sheepish,
and take the pile.
I could never lie to you.

.

I was finishing homework at four am
when you came back.

Voices and smoke on the stairs;
I try to remember family
camp-outs in the woods
when sneaking sugar was a guilty secret.

You want freedom and discipline
you’re impatient for time,
you announce. And you don’t think
you can be happy anymore
with just yourself.

I’m trying to read your hand in your eyes
but you won’t meet my gaze.

I’m talking to you now,
not the depression or the drugs,
not your friends or peer pressure
not the reasons you say move you.
I’m calling your bluff--
turn the cards up, take your life back.
Bullshit.