Thursday, November 19, 2015

Finally


Autumn leaves and tragedy falls three inches thick
It covers the chalky images we drew when we were twelve
It walks across the cracked sidewalk
Screaming against the hollow wind collecting within us
Suffocation is the scariest way to go, it says
Because he stepped in front of a train
And she let knives draw on her skin like lipstick
But it was the suffocation that slowly took them.
Because while autumn is equal parts irony and beauty
Silence gets filed away next to depression and parents
Who always say it will get better
It collects dust weighing 9 grams of antidepressants
And 50 minutes of therapy every Tuesday
They give us novels about 7 Highly Effective Habits and Way To Be
When we should be writing the words engraved upon our hearts
Words and letters and lists upon lists of gratitude and healing
Because let me tell you something
Lists always had more to do with holding on than letting go
Like Facebook three years past its prime
What most don’t understand is that forward and backward seem like traps
And a 32 point turn has always been easier that backing out
Depression took a lot from you
1 half chemicals and 6 halves asthma
But you’re breathing and that’s half the battle


Monday, October 12, 2015

An Ode



You were calling me miraculous
Before you knew my name.
I fell asleep to the sound of your voice
Before I took my first breath.

In diapers, you fed me
By the growl of my stomach
And the light of the moon

Your grocery cart at Costco
Was my heaven-free food and free rides.

You made me after school snacks
And wrote my science fair project
All while teaching me about bleeding with the moon
And how to play Fur Elise in A minor and
How that has exactly 7 flats

I dreamt and you loved and
I studied and you loved and
I created and you loved and
I adventured and you loved. And
You loved

You spoke of my accomplishments
Like they were the cures to cancer

When life got dark,
You wiped my tears and
Shed a few of your own as we both hurt
Over lost boys, lost stories, lost pictures

It rained a lot that year,
But you always
Carried an umbrella to keep me dry

When the sun finally rose
You made me scrambled eggs and pancakes.
You called me courage, respect, perseverance

Hours were spent, I know, researching
The best universities and majors and 5-minute recipes
Despite your un-savvy technological abilities

Days were spent baking bread for neighbor children,
Cooking dinners for pregnant ladies and
Weeding their gardens

You cried laughter when I walked in my gown.
You cried hope when I made my first meal on my own.
You cried endurance, love, compassion, service
For every time I tripped and skinned a knee
On the uneven pavement

You are a lifetime pass to any amusement park
And my abs still ache from smiling too much and
My cheeks still sting from catching the sun

You gave me life and pain and chocolate and family
You taught motherhood

You are love

With Love, Auburn

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

tribute to paris

Paris means more to me than a class, and I know most of us feel this way. Too many nights I have spent writing instead of sleeping. I should’ve been sleeping. But Paris keeps me awake because the lights are too bright and the people outside never stop talking. The words won’t stop coming even though its not for a grade, and I have to many drafts of everything. The dropbox on my laptop is full; I guess words can’t sleep either.

We watched dance videos and talked about love and commented on alta june and wished we were avery moon. We made videos and dressed up like hipsters and listened to hipster music and maybe for a while we were. Because I could comment on your blog while you sat by the knight, and you commented on mine while I sat at home on Friday night. I could make videos and go places by myself and be the bravest I’ve ever been. He told us how he was afraid of the future and I told you I was afraid of fake. We wrote about the cracks in our hearts and we stitched them up with the words that we could count on, that wouldn’t disappoint, that wouldn’t get mad or ground us. I let you know me, and I knew you too.

You learned all about Auburn Crane Hannah Smith a girl I don’t even know anymore. 








Does anyone even know anymore?









I feel like I’ve told you so many times what my name is. What my name isn’t.

The truth is that no one has ever gotten my name right. Because I’m an identical twin and apparently look like an Ashley. Because its way to easy for me to fade into the papers I write. Because I’m better at walking and walking and walking through the halls during lunch than push past anyone in the commons. 


So its ok with me if you know me or not. And whether you know me as Auburn or Hannah really depends on you. And sometimes I'm more Auburn, and sometimes I'm more Hannah and sometimes I'm neither. I guess if you really want to get to know me, get to know my blog, and forget my name.

Simply, Me


Monday, June 22, 2015

a letter

One more thing.

I know I talk a lot about love. Sorry.  I just have to get this off my chest, and I promise, then I'll be done.

I don’t know if I can handle the blog posts, or waking up Monday morning to new stories and ellipses instead of periods. I’m starting to think you don’t use periods because you don’t like when something ends. So while you paint your life I can’t seem to fit in a breath and I might be starting to suffocate. I don’t know if I can handle the comments that I have to ignore because they’re always about me, aren’t they?

The first night I said you were an equation. Y=mx+b and I was just the variable that would be different next week. I was confused, you were angry and we were both falling in love.

I could reminisce about how we met, how we wrote letters even before you left, how we talked on the phone for hours, and how we fell more than in love. But you and I both have written more about that than anything else combined. I never can seem to write about anyone else. And I can prove that with the binders full of pages that lean against my closet. But this isn’t a love letter, it never was.

This one, right here, is a letter about how you left. It’s going to be full of breaths you weren’t part of and spaces you can’t fill with love, no matter how many ways you try to write eternity into them.
Here I’ve made us sound easy, simple. But we were never an equation, darling. Because you were never good at calculus, and I was never good at keeping you focused on solving differential equations.

In the last 335 days, I found the derivative and it’s always been x, hasn’t it. I can’t figure out if its destiny or irony because isn’t x the variable that always changes? You’re convinced it’s me and I’m convinced it’s you. While you were knocking on doors, I was filling the nights with tears and dearelders. So maybe we were both right.

I just want you to know we proved everyone wrong, because we proved high school love is important. And that it might not mean as much as the psychology final on Friday or the black light dance on Saturday but maybe they just say that because it’s one of the few things that can turn into a future I already regret. But we proved them wrong.

I want you to know I laughed when I read what you wrote on your blog. And it wasn’t because I heartless or because I’ve turned crazy. I laughed when you called me a whore because remember when he called me that? And you just told me to remember who was saying it. Now I’m remembering it’s only you, and so it doesn’t mean anything.

I want you to know I think I'll always love you but its past time to store our letters in boxes, because they aren’t writing themselves and they’re filled with more problems than solutions. And like I said, you were never that good at school, were you?


I’m not mad, I promise. I just wish I knew how to write about anything except you.



Once again, all of me, Auburn


Sunday, May 17, 2015

realtalk

realtalk
I dated #1 on the football team and I loved him for an entire year. But the last time I wrote him, he asked me why I was talking to him. I still check his blog every week, and when the song Budapest comes on the radio, I change the station.

realtalk
I think my identical twin sister is prettier than me. And sometimes I say that because I need someone to tell me that’s not true. We argue all the time, but we know each other better than anyone. I complain about her a lot, but she’s saved me so many times, it’s really just a formality now.

realtalk
Last night you might have said I was raised with animals: wolves and pigs. But I don’t feel bad about it. And when someone asked for my number last night it might have made me happier than I have been all week. It might have been the one thing that kept me dancing all night.

realtalk
I've kissed way too many guys but I don’t even care anymore.

real talk
I sat next to Innocent Chimp in 9th grade seminary and I thought I was so cool. Nutella Waffles was in my Be The Change group junior year and I remember getting so mad at Rebel Rouser in 9th grade, but I don’t remember why. I hope Sonny Jean knows how much she meant to me this year. I could say a lot about William J. Marz, but I won’t. Little red is a huge example to me. And thanks Philo Farnsworth because you've always been so nice. Sierra Leone I wish you’d open up more to people because people don’t realize what they’re missing out on. Jennie Duffy you say that I’m beautiful every time you see me, and I always pretend like I don’t care, but it actually means the world. You’re beautiful too, and I’m not just saying that. You are brilliant Beatrice, and never fail to make me laugh. Harold Miner I've seen you change kids’ lives and teach more than what is written on your lesson plan.

realtalk
People keep telling me that I need to forgive seven times seventy but my dad still hasn't come to visit me and it’s been 4 years since I moved here. I miss him a lot more than I let on, and sometimes I milk it a lot more than I should. He got married this last December, and I have two new step-brothers, but I don’t remember their names.

realtalk

I haven’t been happy in a long time, and on Friday my mom came up to me and said I haven’t been me in an even longer time. She said medication has helped her, and I should think about that too. Maybe I've gotten too good at saying that I’m fine, that I’m just tired. But I should have told her that the sun doesn't always rise in the east, sometimes it doesn't rise at all and I’m sick of going to school, going to dances and football games and student council banquets and proms in the dark. But being happy is good and I think I’m gonna try it out.

Sunday, May 3, 2015

more on my heart


I want to talk about blank paper, blank hearts. Because I remember when all I was, was blank.



In kindergarten I wrote my first line of misspelled words

In 3rd grade I wrote in cursive and got detention for talking to much

In 5th grade I read and read and fell in love with words. Words had power, and I wanted to use them.

In 6th grade, I learned about poverty and didn't have any classes with my best friend. I thought I was athletic and popular. 

In 7th grade, I ate green m&ms with my best friend and hated piano lessons. I made up code names for boys I loved and wrote them on my heart, vowing to never forget them.

In 8th grade, I wore makeup to cover up my bloodshot eyes from sleepless night. Words suddenly took on a new meaning. I wanted to write on my heart that actions had power, and words only had the power to explain them, but all that came out was confusion and hurt. All I saw were perfect parents and suitcases full of lies and loss. I hated words, then, because of what they did to you, and me and our family.

In 9th grade, I started over and now I was a timberline wolf, not a dragon. I wrote on my heart the new me. The new, pretty, popular, outgoing me that I had never been before. But I figured if I could imprint it deep enough, it might be true.

In 11th grade, I fell in love. I wrote about kissing and adventures and redheads. Keith urban and motorcycles and vlogs were engrained in me and without my permission, they cut a lot deeper than crash I got into and the scar I still have.

In 12th grade, I wrote like I knew love was my best friend. I wrote that I’d be ok. I wrote that I was ok.



And now there’s only 24 days left until I graduate and you are signing up for housing and she is applying for a job, and she is moving to LA and he is playing football, and they are going to France and Japan and Australia and Argentina for 2 years. And me? Me, I wonder if I can take on all of this because already my heart is so full of words and stories that have been there for so long that sometimes I think there’s no room for anything more.

My blank sheet of paper is not so blank. Neither is yours.


So lets not talk about the last 12 years, or the next 24 days, or the next two years. Lets talk about now and ap tests and boys and sluffing class and freaking attendance school.



Ill let you write on my heart, and ill write on yours. And lets promise each other to never stop writing.



Forever, HS



Sunday, April 26, 2015

free fallin

Dear i-think-you-know-who-you-are,


This is a letter from my heart to yours.

I’d like to call ourselves martyrs, if that’s alright.


I’m sure you don’t want me to post this. But that’s ok, because I’m almost 100% sure that I do. I don’t know how else to handle this. I never was as good as you at putting up a fa├žade.

I heard about you first. About the text from our jr. vice pres. and how she forgot the last letter in your name. I heard about you from GW. And CH. (And every other girl that walked the halls with you-besides my twin, cause she heard about you from me.) They all really liked you.

Then I met you at jr jam. You were wearing a white t-shirt and said you’d play ultimate if I did. So I did. (And you thought I didn’t play sports.)

I saw you in the commons (remember that awkward hug?!?!??), Be The Change, our club and co-presidency, at concessions (to which you went more than the average student council member) and we sat talking in your car even though it was 1 am. I saw your McDonald’s runs and perfect and notes we wrote to JM and KH and NP. I saw you and RO and that date we went bowling and you were with her and I wished it me was instead. I saw you at Gold Rush and odd jobs and caroling and when I ran outside and it wasn't just you that was thinking that.

But then I liked DM and I didn't really see you for 10 months. And you moved. And I’m still sorry I didn't hang out with you that weekend, and I never even came to say goodbye. I should have.

Then March 13th came and I was at the temple. And you came over and we went driving. Budapest came on the radio and you said you liked that song I wanted to say how ironic that was because that was the one thing that kept us apart for so long. Now it reminds me of the only two boys that have ever made me cry. And we sat on my couch for an hour and you were freaking out and so was I but I just pretended that I wasn't.

And just so you know I didn't kiss you because I wanted to be your first, but because of the times you listened as I ranted about DM or painted my nails for him. The times you stayed late at our house just to keep me company as I made my lunch and did homework. How the entire year and half that I've known you, you've never stopped caring about me. A year and a half is a long time. Because. I. Like. You.

Friday we stocked the wood as we drove up the canyon and both of us stood in awe as we lit the fire while we watched the sunset. I never expected the flames to be so tall and so hot. Then we tied ourselves to the stake at the rodeo grounds.

And slowly, slowly we burned.

We survived through the next day, hardly realizing anything was wrong. And then Sunday at 4:12, we died, also without us hardly realizing.


I’d like to think we were martyrs, you and I.


You called me sweetie. And I wished you’d never stop. You texted me about shotgun and I sent you one back that took too long to write and probably said nothing at all. We’re just bones and ashes at the bottom of an old campfire, but I can’t get you out of what’s left of me, of us. I never wanted to write about you on my blog. I didn't want you to become just another one of these boys, because baby, don’t you realize, we could’ve been so much more than the lines I write and the texts you don’t. But still you resonate like the last note of a beautiful song. Every time I breathe I taste the rodeo grounds and every time my heart pumps blood I feel the music we danced to on Friday. And every time I listen to John Mayer I hear the hours we drove and the song we belted because sweetie, it’s always been you and me both.

My heart is tired, but that’s old news. That’s old news.

Friday you taught me that we were martyrs. We died for time and unsaid words. Forgotten, lost words. And your mouth was never meant to throw knives. But every time you speak, you carve out the letters of your name in my heart. Friday you taught me that we really do create our own heartbreak. From our expectations and accusations and I always thought driving was our thing. But this time, this time it killed us. Friday you taught me that St. George isn’t a part of my universe, and neither is South Africa. And my heart broke a little as I realized August 6 would come a lot faster than I want.

I don’t know you as well as I thought, or so I’m told. But I think I knew your heart. And I wish time wasn't against us and I wish this last week hadn't happened.

Some would call us hopeless, over, done. Maybe you do too.

But we, you and me both, died a little for what we wanted. What we fought for. What we loved.


So I’d like to call ourselves martyrs.


Forever, HS



listen

Truth is always worth hearing.











So listen very carefully.


Sunday, April 19, 2015

i think of

























Please don't ever let me forget.


Love forever, HS







Saturday, April 18, 2015

america AKA amanda

This morning you asked me what I've learned this year. I know I didn't give you a good answer. Mostly it was filled with umm's and I don't know's. I know as an english teacher you must hate those.
   
Words come easily to you. And that's something about you that I admire. One among many. But I don't mean this post to be a thank you, because I know you won't ever see this, and those are best in person anyway.
   
Last week I wanted to write a post to teachers everywhere. That "We see you" must be a joke and "We're always here for you" is just a memorized phrase to throw out there whenever there is silence. I needed you guys to know that silence isn't always bad, a lot of times we're just scared about what you think of our poems and journals and proofs.
   
I've learned this too. Some teachers don't care, but some do. I'm sorry I didn't tell you this over our pancakes and blackberry jam. But then my fork broke and I wasn't sure how to say all this when I couldn't even remember the first time I met you. (I've been thinking a lot about that too. The beginning of my junior year at the BTC retreat at Elle's house.)
   
Because you teach March Madness and came on the Student Council retreat. You dealt with maggots and 3am screams and laughter. You read my poem to me and showed me your ring that one morning. You are real and personal and I think you do see us.

Nelson teaches us to love writing
Smith teaches us to never give up. I have never seen a teacher work harder at helping us understand or be so willing to dedicate his life to students
Birrell teaches us we can to hard things
Pead teaches us sass
Gary teaches us bacon and cheese and apples and oh my gosh I'm obsessed
Paskett teaches us to get high on life
Rees teaches us to think
King teaches us that anyone can create. And I think that if I didn't take this class before creative writing I would have been a step behind
Pack teaches us that even grownups can be in a band
Summers teaches us that students needs moms, not just teachers
Erekson teaches us that quizzes aren't the end of the world
Wentz teaches us that marriage is a very important thing
Wright teaches us to notice everyone
Beckstrand teaches us to not give up even if life doesn't work out the way you planned. I don't think I have ever been in a class where I laughed so much

So Garlock, while you are ever wondering if becoming a teacher was worth it, or your teaching at Be The Change is actually making a difference, remember that your class is always the first english credit to be filled on skyward. Remember that once while I was asking myself if my poem was even good enough to try, you were asking me if you should clap or wipe the tear from your eye. I needed to hear that. Remember Kyler and Grey and Lauren and countless others that came back to visit you and that I still remember poems from last year's Speak For Yourself. You should remember this year's line for trying out because it's not hard to tell this is going to leave an impact.


So I guess, teachers, we see you too.




As Always, HS



Sunday, April 12, 2015

confessions

......

one time I snuck out of Be The Change and made out with my boyfriend

I painted on my nails how much I missed you but I was talking to another guy the entire time

he asked me to Prom but I said I'd already been asked

my best friend and I decided to call you snot. and we have ever since

I thought your younger brother was hotter and so much for fun to flirt with than you but I dated you because you were older

I told you I didn't want my hair to be cut but really I just didn't want you to cut it

I was ok with being your kissing buddy for two nights and then I realized I didn't want that. I didn't want someone who was ok just using me for my body which sounds stupid but I think I deserve better than that. have fun with Madeline

I told you my manager said we couldn't leave for spring break because I didn't want to spend 3 days with my family

I watched more than a full season of One Tree Hill during spring break. and each episode is 40 minutes long. I don't know if I'd rather watch tv than spend time with them or I'm just tired

I told you I could fall in love with you and you said you just wanted to be friends and I said it was fine but it's not

......


I really am sorry. 

HS

Sunday, April 5, 2015

sunglasses

Honest. Real. Truth. I'm not feeling it. Any of it. I don't want to find something to write in my journal or share something on my blog. I'm tired of teachers acting like they care and students acting like they don't. It's summer outside but we're all still wearing black and writing essays. We're letting shoes inspire us when it should be the hot pavement against the bare dirty bottoms of our feet that draw the words out.



Listen real close, and I'll tell you something. 



People have never looked at what your feet were wearing and tomorrow they won't either. It doesn't matter if they're converse or pink or nike. It doesn't matter if you're wearing snow boots in August. You're not hipster. People don't look at the dirt your soles have collected and tell their friends, "mine has less." They don't even notice how worn through the fabric is right where your pinkie toe fits.

No one cares.
No one notices.
No one cares.

So stop matching your shoes with the earrings you bought yesterday and stop counting knots in your shoelaces. Stop squeezing into size 7 even though you're actually an 8.5. And start buying sunglasses.



Listen real close, and I'll tell you something. 



People look at your eyes. They can see broken stars and empty life and dirt that can't be blinked out. They can see the fake eyelashes even though you were promised they look real.



Please, buy a pair of sunglasses because people never looked at your feet anyways, did they?






Tuesday, March 24, 2015

a little more about auburn crane

Dear Paris,

I never saw the Eiffel Tower or your worn-down cobblestone streets they all rave about. I never ate those pastries or drank the black coffee they all said was to die for. I never stole one of your shirts that I can wear to bed or got your autograph even though they all said that was the best part.

But I fell in love with you. But I fell in love with you. And the stars you never said were out of reach and you and tears you wiped away and you and hearts you sewed together and you and souls you patched up and you.

But Paris, this post never really was about you. It's not about boys or loss, which you should know by now are a favorites of mine. This isn't even about love. This is just a little more about Auburn Crane.

This week Nelson asked us to reveal ourselves. Tell everyone who you are, he said.

But Paris, haven't I done that already?

Maybe you know who I am, I wouldn't be surprised. Maybe you don't know who I am, I wouldn't be surprised. Paris, would you?

Maybe you know me as the girl who dated a red-head for a long long time and wonder if it will ever be over. Maybe you know me as the girl who wears her sweater every Friday and planned Sadies. Or maybe, to you, I'm the girl that tripped on her way into Seminary and you asked if I was ok. I'm the same girl who may or may not be addicted to chocolate, adventures, and One Tree Hill. I have a weird obsession with Maine and fully believe that chocolate chip cookies can solve any problem. Maybe you know me as the girl who finally chopped her hair and looks up to both of her little sisters.

Maybe you still don't know me, maybe you don't really care.

Either way, I'm still me



As Always, Hannah Smith





Sunday, March 22, 2015

i think im iron deficient

I went to Dr. Sundwall last week for a check-up. The lady told me to not text and drive, come in for my shots in August, and was there anything else?

"I'm tired." I told her. I should have asked her to check my heart. 

She stuck a needle in me, and drew the blood from my veins that would tell her exactly everything she needed to know. She told me I was iron deficient, but don't worry, there's a pill to fix that. In addition, I should eat more spinach and red meat. 

I should have asked her to check my heart. 

But I'm tired of writing about shadows and grass that gets cut every Saturday. About clouds that let it rain and the formation an uncertainty of ravens create when they fly south. About the sound of leaves dying every fall and how to win a blinking contest with the sun. About love, laughter, boys that always leave. I've been told honesty is the best writing. 

All I ever wanted to talk about was the scarlet tears that forget to fall from shattered hearts. The toilet bowl that refuses to hold more than the lining of my stomach. And words like whore, faggot, shit that no amount of makeup can hide. 

I should have asked her to check my heart. 

You know me, but you don't know me. This is my last breath before you try to fit together both of the girls you think you know. All I ever wanted to try to fit them together. But it has been so long and I'm tired of trying. 

I'm tired of your loud words and my silent ones. I know silence kills, but I can't bring myself to speak because words last forever. I'm tired of knee length skirts and the acceptance to BYU that lays on my carpet with scriptures and hurried prayers. 

I should have asked her to check my heart.

I'm tired of the cycle we keep going through that I convince myself is nothing like what I learned about in sociology. I'm tired of texting. Call me because you can never fake that waver in your voice as well you fake how was your day. I'm tired of secrets I keep for him and the words I keep coming up with to explain them.

I've heard it takes just 21 days to get into a habit. But it's been 4 years and I'm still not sure how to respond when my stepdad  says he loves me. 

Maybe I should just stick to eating spinach and red meat, drink a glass of water to wash down that pill, and hope to God and Allah and Buda and every other God that is out there that I'm iron deficient. 

I'm tired, and I should have asked her to check my heart.  


-For Forever, Auburn Crane


Friday, March 20, 2015

it's raining

Tragedy falls like
rain
a drop for a forgotten birthday
a drop for a taunting mirror
a drop for what he said. What he did.

It's pouring and I
am drenched but how
can you explain the rainstorm by
each 
and
every
individual 
drop?

So I just say
I'm tired
drop
I'm tired
drop
I'm tired
drop

It rains 27 inches in 
Portland
every year
and only 17
inches in Alpine. 

So please tell me why
in a place that people 
pray
drop
attend church
drop
serve
drop 
so much more than a place 
like Portland
how there are more
drops
that
don't
ever
seem
to
stop
falling

I'm tired and its pouring outside

Sunday, March 15, 2015

12:58 am

I should be checking my rear view and slowing down at the yellow
I should be stacking lids and calling out orders
I should be dialing not now and get the busy signal
I should be curling my hair and careful don't burn myself
I should be talking about Denmark and figuring out what the derivative of 2 weeks is
I should be deciding if your front door is as inviting as the one in back
I should be wondering how that living room was filled with more than just couches and people and bowls of popcorn
I should be worried if you lost your chapstick because I lost my rose and I didn't even realize it
I should be listening to Sounds of the Sabbath not John Mayer on repeat
I should be telling you to charge your phone because its always dead and maybe I'm scared that will be your excuse
I should be trying to fall asleep because I know this weekend has to move away just like you did.

But I'm thinking about you.

-'Til Next Time, Auburn Crane


whoever cares to listen

I'm fake. And I'm good at it. I've got it down to a couple smiles, tight hugs, empty eyes. I go to school and look put together so I can cover up the broken pieces of me that can't seem to stay where they belong. I talk in the commons and laugh at the clouds.

But I'm tired. So tired.

So please let me be real for these next couple of lines, crooked and cracked and messy they may be. I hate messes.

I get scared looking through all the posts I've written; half of them are about boys and none of them are about the same one. We've only had this class for just over 2 months. I'm scared that boys are all I have, that they're the only things that can make me feel real. And I'm sick to my stomach that I just called them things.

I'm terrified that all those studies about daughters with no dads are true. I'm scared that I'm proving them right.

I was told this weekend that I have been dating all the wrong guys. And that you're not like most guys. And that I was your favorite part. I'm scared that you're right but mostly I'm scared that I'm starting to believe that you're right. And I think I could fall in love with you but I think I'd rather be fake and let you leave like the rest of them.

Truth is, I'm scared to be real with a guy because being fake is so much easier and doesn't ever leave a mess. And like I said, I hate messes.

Man With Tangled Christmas Lights Royalty Free Stock Photo







-Auburn Crane

Sunday, March 8, 2015

today was


maybe life is about today
today with 80 days left until graduation
today when we visited him at the hospital
today and Beto's runs and buying chapstick because I can never seem to actually finish a stick before I lose it
today and the call you didn't make and the email I didn't send and the adventures we didn't go on
today and one less today until july 22
today and one less hour of sleep
today that started this morning at 12:00 am and how I wasted  10 hours and 14 minutes of it sleeping
today and there is only one of those, of these
today and life starts now
today.

happiness and i

I straighten my hair, stand in the commons, dance at dances, and go to parties like the rest of them.

The truth of it all is that I'm not happy.
And I haven't been happy in a long while.

But a week ago I promised my smile I'd wear it at least for a little while. And that I'd dig out my laugh from God knows where I buried it.

And this is really just a list of happiness.
1. Chocolate
2.  Long calls on the phone for no reason at all
3. My brother comes home in June
4. Long walks
5. Lists and schedules
6. Customers that realize they aren't entitled and I'm giving up my Saturday night so they can have it off
7. Blasting music loud enough to make my thoughts give up on their relentless screams
8. Sunny days in February
9. Making him realize what he lost
10. Red lipstick
11. Lots and lots of blankets
12. Memories and phases and that song
13. Cologne (...dark temptation is hands down the best)
14. Christmas lights and I don't even care that it's March


So next time you see me straighten my hair, standing in the commons, dancing at dances, and going to parties, please
please, please, please
remind me of what really makes me happy.


Wednesday, February 25, 2015

this is not a break up post

This is not a break up post. Because we were never together in the first place, were we? This is a you're-the-boy-who-deserves-this post.

You comb your lies like they're your hair and then you drive to school.
You listen in class and eat lunch and take advantage of everything I ever gave you (but I never gave you that).
You play your instrument and basketball and me.
You go to practice and score goals but I'm not a game and you're still running in circles.
You cheat because you're all about easy.
You laugh at him and do homework and tell me again, show me again, remind me again that I am just an object.
You hang out and let me know that I am not enough.
You post on your blog and you're throwing your words around like they're candy but they're knives and you are killing me.
You proved me right and I still have no faith in guys.

So screw you and all the words you never could quite put together and the story you never could quite keep the same and the lies that never could quite lay as perfectly as your hair.

I know who you are.

-Auburn Crane

Sunday, February 22, 2015

anything except you

I want to write about anything except for you. Like maybe how much I hate dead grass but love chocolate and peanut butter (like could there be a better combination?). Or how when I sleep I have to surround myself with blankets so I feel safe. And how black nail polish isn't just black; it’s dark. Still I can think of



nothing



except for you. Maybe if I write this for you I can move on. I can get you out of my mind. Because every time he wraps his arms around me, or leans his head down so his lips can meet mine, I still feel you. I tell myself not to think your name. I tell myself to forget you.

I want to write about anything except you. And how you’re way out of my league. But I can still ice skate better than you even though you work at an ice rink and mine is 30 minutes away. Or how we found that constellation and named it and now it’s ours. Just like the lake and the night and the sunrise and secret looks and everything else we ever did together. The way you looked at me and how at that moment I didn't doubt anything but the next I knew nothing. And now I love Insidious even though I hate scary movies. And that you’re my best adventure buddy.

I want to write about anything except you. And how it’s been a while now, at least it feels like forever. The day you said goodbye you gave me one last hug. I remember so clearly my hand lingered on your shoulder and your eyes on mine. How you are all that's ever on my mind. All that I laugh and love and dream about.  How you still haven't texted or called me. How I have gotten really good at acting like I don't care. But I still do.

I want to write about anything except you.


As Always, Auburn Crane 


you built me

Maybe this post should be about me or bricks or any other concrete thing. But this one goes out to moms everywhere and most importantly, my own mom.

You built me

On wall ball and nature walks and 158th Pl.
Science experiments and homemade granola and picking blueberries
Little house on the prairie and words and trips to the Costco

You built me

You were awake every late night and early morning that I couldn’t sleep
You let me ride in the grocery cart
Drink the last sip of your hot chocolate

You built me

Your shirt became a tissue box
And I could count on pancakes every morning
You told me about being a girl
And chocolate became our best friend

You built me

Somehow you can tell when I’m mad and sad and happy and nervous and tired
Even when no one else can
You put up with him because you know its best for me
Accept him because you knew I loved him
Hated him for what he did to me

You built me with bricks I never deserved. With bricks all by yourself. With bricks that never existed for you.

You’re my best friend, biggest supporter,
A mom to everyone
And me

Thanks mom
I love you

Forever, auburn crane 

Sunday, February 15, 2015

magic

"Sometime you find the wrong person at the right time. Sometimes you find the right person at the wrong time. The trick is to find the right person at the right time. That is magic."
-Unknown
couple holding
        hands

Friday, February 13, 2015

this is for yellow

He was blue like innocent summer days with puffy clouds and hot pavement and dry grass. It was Intoxicated by The Cab and blistered feet. Full of too tall tree houses and too long talks on trampolines. I think it stayed awkward until you fell for JB and I for red.

Then I met black. He scoffed at blue because he was so young and finally we, him and I, were real. We were dark nights and rebellion and running in a cornfield. Half-truths and a whole list of firsts I could call mine. I showed him Beneath Your Beautiful and he figured out the Labyrinth within me. I said goodbye two months before he wanted me to. We both hated that day and that bridge.

I met red between the schedule of broken trains and fate. We kissed in every backseat that existed in our dreams and adventured through this world and our hearts like they'd never been explored. I fell in love through the pages of The Fox and the Hound and exponential equations we never could seem to focus on. And then the 22nd came way to fast and it's rained red ever since.

But this isn't for blue or black or red. This post is for yellow.

Yellow was in All of the Stars as we danced to Ed Sheeran. You brought sun to rainy days and light to the black one that sometimes still come. Basketball isn't as awful with you and I love 6'5'' and long walks.

This is for you, yellow. For you and the stars and second chances.

This is for you.

Forever more, Auburn Crane

Sunday, February 8, 2015

To: You

I’m sorry that you’re halfway around the world and I’m here and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about that.
I’m sorry that I’m not best friends with your favorite little sister. I think I’m closer to the one I don’t think you’ll never understand. Maybe that’s why we get along so well.
I’m sorry I’m a distraction (or motivation-whichever you feel you need to call it).
I’m sorry that I already know I cannot marry you.
I’m sorry I love you.
I’m sorry that I can’t let you go either.

All of me, Auburn Crane

Psssssst. Sorry that you won’t ever see this.