Of Chances and Changes

I started high school with short hair. It had purple and blue streaks. All the other girls got in trouble for having brightly colored hair, but I didn't. I think it was the confidence I had. No one questioned what I was doing, even the adults.

I don't have that confidence anymore.
The kind that says "I'm perfect--I would never do anything wrong."

I was quiet and kept my head down. I blushed when the football players talked to me. I studied for tests. I had never been kissed but I had read so many ridiculous romance novels that I felt like I had. I didn't swear. I didn't lie. Ever. I only had one notebook filled with my random musings. I never pushed the rules. I never questioned anything. My bra size was 32A and and my jeans were a size 7 and I really didn't mind.

Now I'm starting college.

I have a different confidence now. One that says "I don't give a shit about anything."
That would probably because I like to pretend I don't give a shit about anything.

(I give a shit.)

So, college. I've already been kicked out of an apartment. I flip off the football players. Police Officers have caught me making out about 5 times. I swear too much and I lie. ALL THE TIME. I keep my head up and I have an excellent "don't bother me face" that works incredibly well.  My sarcasm has reached perfection. I have at least 35 notebooks filled of my random musings. I'm a feminist and sometimes dress slightly slutty. I'm a size 3 in jeans and my bra size is now a 34D. Let me repeat that, because it's kind of a big deal. My boobs are now a D cup. I would like to end there, because my bra size is very important, and it would create a nice emphasis but I won't, because that would make things uncomfortable.

Actually, I AM going to end it here.

I am officially a big-boobed blonde.

Here I come world.

I might have a chance now.

Shipments from Urban Outfitters

Things that fit in a box.

Frozen Mozzarella Sticks

Condoms

Ticket Stubs

Film Negatives

Toothbrushes

Envelopes

Cookies of any kind

Rock collections

Shipments from Urban Outfitters

Sticky Notes

Mexican Coke

Things that don't fit in a box.

Kisses

Souls

Reckelessness

Music

Things too big for boxes

Excuses

Stereotypes

Fears

The world probably doesn't fit in a box

Maybe we're just living in a giant box

Time

Sarcasm

Second Chances

When you first kissed me I tried to put it in a box but it didn't fit no matter what I tried. I still felt it on my lips but it was disappearing rapidly. I desperately needed somewhere to put it. But the box wouldn't accept it. So I took the kiss out of the box and gently gave it to my memories. The kiss meant something. Every kiss must mean something. Is there such a thing as a fake kiss? The staged ones, the planned ones, the filmed ones, do they mean nothing? A kiss is never just a kiss. And kisses don't fit in boxes.

Sometimes my soul does the talking. It says hello and introduces itself. It knows you're going to be my friend. It keeps talking while I stay silent. And when I begin to walk away, apart of my soul latches onto you. The first time we met my soul knew, it knew, and it gave a piece of itself to you without any doubt. It does that sometimes. I don't give it permission and I don't really appreciate it. People are walking around with pieces of my soul. I would like them back please. I can put them in a safe box where they won't get hurt. But they don't fit. It doesn't work that way.

The psychiatrist always tells me to put things in my box. "Put your fears in your box my dear" she says. "Put your past in your box" she says. "Put your cynicism in your box" she says. "Put your recklessness in your box," she says."This will help you get better!" she says."Lock up your box. Now throw away the key," she says. "Throw away the spare key, too. Now throw away the box," she says.

"Shut the hell up," I say.

Please stop trying to put me in a box. 

Even if I fit.

Just Make a Run For It

M Y  D E A R E S T  G O D,

Do you actually know that you're God? Are you living in oblivion? Are you even alive? Do you know that we see you as perfect? Do you know that we worship you? Do you know that we are living in hope to become you? Is this hope for the hopeless? Because God, be honest with me, do you like being God? Are you looking at us thinking that we are ridiculous because we want to be you? Are you miserable and wanting us to CHOOSE THE WRONG so we don't end up like you? Well, just in case, I've decided to play it safe and walk the beautiful line between right and wrong. I have been told it's impossible, but I've been doing this for years. I have no idea where the hell I'm going. Do you?

Are you disappointed in me? I just don't know what I believe in anymore. But God, I believe in you. I'll always believe in you. I will even believe in you in February. I don't believe in anything in February. I don't believe in me. I don't believe in anyone. But God, come February, I'm going to believe in you even if I pretend you don't exist. Even if I pretend I don't exist. Because God, I think you save my life everyday.

You're my friend when I'm lonely. I know that. You're always my friend even when I'm not your friend. But God, do YOU need a friend? Are you lonely? I can be your friend. Maybe you're bored. I can entertain you. Maybe your sick of being God. Maybe you want to run away.

What would happen if you ran away? Maybe I don't comprehend all that you do. Would babies be born? Would people die? Would the sun rise? Would the rivers run? Would smiling still exist?

God, you probably shouldn't run away.

But if you need my help doing so, give me a call. I'm assuming you know my number.

Real Talk: I Never Planned on Living This Long

Here I am. I'm telling the truth.
The truth?
This kid is not alright.
The truth is I'm alive.
I'm alive. But I'm not the only one.
So the truth is: I'm not different.

I paint but I'm not artsy. I drive a hybrid but I'm not a hippie. I'm blonde but I'm not a cheerleader. I'm not a goth or a prep or a skater. I'm not some treasurer or co-captian. I'm not gay and out and proud. I'm not that kid from Sri Lanka, not a triplet, not a drunk, genius, or slut. I'm not even one of those super Mormon girls pretending to love everyone.

Pretending pretending pretending

I'm nothing. There's nothing worth looking at here.

I'm sneaky and get caught, I'm nice and faking it, I'm drunk but I'm not drinking. I probably agree with liars all the time. I'm just wandering around in search of a really nice mental hospital. But no one will let me in.

They don't know I'm battling these things inside of me. They don't understand how hard I've been trying to keep it all together. All they can see is the expertly painted mask that I have plastered on my face.

That's all anyone sees.
Anyone but him.

And I'm in love with him, thought I'd throw that in. This was not meant to be about love because I am sick of all the shit about love. Love love love. But this is now about love because everything comes down to love. How can the world love even fit in this mouth that tells so many lies? At least lips are pretty. Can lips be pretty?

We're swimming, but not in the lake. We're swimming through life. We're swimming in this life and I think I'm drowning. I'm drowning in this sea of supposed good new. I drown when I look in your eyes. But I like your eyes. Your eyes are my poison and I've been frantically staring at them all along. But this damn drowning makes me feel alive so I'm not going to look away. How does the word ALIVE even begin to explain this? Alive doesn't explain it. Alive can't explain it. But maybe love can. Maybe love can explain everything. But the word LOVE doesn't even fit in my mouth, which we already talked about and hey, I'm repeating myself again. Will you please just let me into your really nice mental hospital?

Of course not.
Butterfly you.

The things that keep happening to me appear to be a work of fiction. But this is not fiction. This is my life. And this kid is not alright.

I'm not alright because life's a bitch.
I decided this when everything shoved me down that hill--while pointing and laughing.

And when I finally stood up, my boots were untied and my hair was ruffled. That's when I realized it.

Life IS a bitch. But you. YOU are not.
You're not and I chose you. I chose you before I knew of your suffering, before I knew of your strength. And my bitchy life isn't so bitchy, because I still have it all and it's pretty bitchin' compared to you.

You have nothing. But me. You'll always have me.

Because life's always a bitch. And this is our life. So this is the story that isn't a story. Because life IS a bitch. But we're not alone. And hey, life's still a bitch. But at least we're alive.


My name is Kat Stratford.
And I just want to be in a really nice mental hospital.

So this is posted pretty late, but here it is. Real talk. Poetry slam thing. I can't believe I read this in front of all of you. Sorry about the swearing. Okay I'm not sorry at all but I've been working on being nice. Well nice-ish.

Graduation put me in the hospital.

It was supposed to be grand. Graduation. Class of 2013. Funny hats and nun looking gowns. Tassel cord things that cost $6.50. High heels and black ties. Fancy dresses and fake smiles. Perfection.

It's a load of bullshit.

I don't care if you got a gold or silver tassel cord thing that cost $6.50. I don't care if the dress you were wearing was $200 at J. Crew or $12.47 on Targets clearance rack. I don't care if you took pictures with every person you ever knew, pretending you'd been besties for life. I don't care if your parents brought you flowers and your whole family came to cheer you on. I don't care if you posed in front of the camera while walking across the stage or tried to do something funny so maybe you would be a little more remembered. I don't care where you went to eat after or how many pictures you posted on Facebook. I don't care if you gave Chip Coop an open condom while shaking his hand.

I don't care.

I think it was supposed to be a good day.
I think that is what I've been told all high school.
I think I was supposed to be happy.
I think I was supposed to smile when I walked across the stage.
I think I was supposed to be on time.

I think I was supposed to care.

But it's all a load of bullshit.

And I ended up in the hospital.
Where they didn't even give me the good drugs.

This says bitch 19 times.

Life’s a bitch

Please excuse me for my language

But life’s a bitch to me

Life’s a bitch to you

I never knew how perfect

How perfect my life was

Riches, Beauty, Friends

Until I met pain

Shook hands with despair

Kissed defeat on the cheek

And slipped regret the tongue

And when I finally stoop up

My boots were untied

My hair was ruffled

And I realized

Life is a bitch

Life’s that bitch

That brings home

Your high brother

Your drunk brother

Gives it a desperate hug

And whispers beggangly

We love you more

Than them

Life’s that bitch

Who calls to announce

She’s dead

At 7:52

Without out bothering to check

Her vitals

Life’s that bitch

Who knocks on your door

Holds a gun to his head

Demands a hundred million

And declares he must cut

All loose ends

You’re a loose end

Life’s that bitch

Who paves the rest of your life

With 43 steps to the bathroom

Where it forces you to throw up

And doesn’t even bother to hold

Your hair

Life’s that bitch

Who cuts open your stomach

Lays your intestines on the table

And leaves a friendly reminder

You will never be the same again

Like you didn’t already know

Through the scars

Life’s that bitch

Who asks

How do you feel?

Over and over

And over

Expecting some miracle

While taking away

Every single angel

That could possibly perform one

Life’s that bitch

That takes off its cowboy boots

Catapults them toward your face

Gives the look of shattering disappointment

And gives you permission to cry

Exactly 3 tears

Life’s that bitch

Who makes you fall in love

Then decides

It no longer feels

The same way

And leaves you wondering

If it was just trying

To get in your pants

Life’s that bitch

That cripples you

Desensitizes you

And leaves you so numb

That the venom it delivers

No longer changes

The expression

On your face

(But you.)

YOU are not

You’re not and I chose you

I chose you before I knew of your suffering

Before I knew of your strength

And my bitchy life

Ain’t so bitchy

Because I still have it all

And it’s pretty bitchin’

Compared to you

You have nothing

(But me.)

You’ll always have me

Because life’s always a bitch

And this is our life

So this is the story

That isn’t a story

Because life IS a bitch

But we’re not alone

And hey, life’s still a bitch

But at least

We’re alive

I remember so much more.

I remember coloring on the wall behind the green couch with old crayons. That is when I got my first kiss. He name was Marcus and he was asian. We were 4.
I  remember going to the store with her tired eyes and buying 10 gallons of 2% milk 3 times a week.
I remember the day he threw my cat off the deck. It never came back.
I remember getting attacked by a swan. I was 3. You were getting your graduation pictures taken, but you didn't actually graduate.
I remember the warm blankets from all the hospital stays.
I remember the day the dog swallowed a knife and died. I cried at school. They took my to the only cold drinking fountain.
I remember the first bra she bought me. It was purple and polka dotted. I was sitting on the stairs.
I remember when he was born and being called out of second grade computer class to be told that I was an aunt at 7 years old.
I remember when I fell in love with you. We were driving home from Smiths. You made a dry comment about the cookies tasting like crackers.
I remember the first time I ever doubted God.
I remember when she died and I cried at the foot her bed, holding her cold hand, for hours.
I remember the first time we cuddled and my dad walked in so you gave me a nougie and we started wrestling.
I remember Flintstone Gummy vitamins.
I remember my first sex talk. I was 9. It was my birthday. It was the first time in my life all my siblings were gone from the house and I was alone with my parents.
I remember sitting in the police station for 5 hours. I remember the detective and his mustache. I remember the swivel chair and the only magazine.
I remember when he held me close and gave me a hard kiss on the lips. He cried. He thanked me for saving their lives. We were standing by the refrigerator.
I remember the first time I swore. I said hell. We were in Lake Powell. I tried to convince you I was talking about the weather.
I remember the first time I lied. It was her Birthday and we went to the Fun Dome.
I remember when I saw you cry because of all the shit our brothers were pulling. Nobody noticed but me.
I remember answering the door and letting the police in. It was normal occurrence. Another mailbox had been blown up.
I remember when he walked home from rehab. He had crazy eyes and crazy ideas. And I was the only one who accepted him.
I remember stepping on the scattered action figures. It stopped hurting by the time I was 4.
I remember my first rated R movie.

I remember when he was born and he couldn't breathe and no one would tell me what was going on.
I remember the first time I said the F word in my head. I was mowing the lawn. I remember the first time I said it out loud. I remember being pissed.
I remember asking who he was when he came home. You told me he was our brother.

I remember peeing in the corner of my room because I wanted to be a dog.