Sunday, October 27, 2013

#stolen from V.

You kiss me and leave goose bumps like braille and I feel your love through your fingertips as you read them.

Just, Hazel Grace

Things that fit in a box:

Things that fit in a box:
-A waffle
-A picture of my dad and I
-The Book of Genesis
-My Ed sheeran album
-Head lamps
-A smaller box

Things that don’t fit in a box:
-My Ed Sheeran album
-Fantasies of Nutella and Edward Cullen
-15 minutes
-Grandparent small talk
-If you’re going to be home next week.
-Niagra Falls
-Waiting for instant rice
-“instant” death

Just, Hazel Grace

Sunday, October 20, 2013

Don't cover your ears, Love

The flash of light coming through the wholes where the windows should be indicate storm. There is rain and I love the smell of wet pavement. But I'm afraid that if you leave, the only thing I'll smell is wet pavement.

Don't cover your ears, Love. Lightning is frightnening but brave will save you. The wet pavemnt smells slightly like pennies, ripe blood, that copper tinge, and your scent is dulling as the pavement gets wetter and wetter. drop. drown. dead.

One thing I'm sure of is that I am a volt and you are lightening. I spark triple A batteries and you haunt the nightmares of the bravest child and you, you do not tremble me.

Just, Hazel Grace

A girl needs her space.

I think we’d all like to know.

Really know. 


Know how to make a person weak in the joints, or forget they have joints at all.

Know whether or not a higher being watches you and makes adjustments in his notebook.  

Or know if my Dad will pay to put the heater on. 

Some know that the moon is 238,900 miles away from my satellite dish. 

Maybe legalizing gay marriage wouldn't be a good thing because I’d watch too much sitcom gay marriage court.  

run. run. run.

I wish I got texts from NASA when the International Space Station crossed over my head at night. I’d run outside feeling my adrenal glands pump and watch it in a stilling silence. 

Catching stutters and half sentences as my thinking thrives into oblivion and wastes pen ink. 

Just, Hazel Grace

Sunday, October 13, 2013

Space Camp

I thought of being an astronaut. But I’m afraid of heights.

I could be a guitarist. But I hated Middle School choir and they usually sing backup.

Once my Mother suggested I go out for the track team. I’m picky about shoes though,  and they didn’t have my color.

I dread a future of ever being an astronaut, a guitarist, or a track star because of my own quick concluded mind. I extinguished those futures like tears on lit birthday candles. Sizzle.
I wanted to be a princess.  But it isn’t “in my blood”. 

You can’t tell me what’s in my blood.
Or my drippy knees
Or knobbly nose.
Or my blood.

That’s thick-headed and shortsighted.
Half-baked: [haf-beykt,]  adjective , stupid; not thought through.

I sat up because of an improper thought that started a tapping in my marrow and a pulsing in my lashes. You may have aimed for my eyelids but the pain seared out to my lashes. It was my blood that caused that wasn’t it?
You would say that.

I’ll write a story that gives you more freckles and tells your wife she’s on fire. 

space camp photo: space camp spacecamp.jpg 
Just, Hazel Grace

S/O 2 Su-Z

Do you slap the wad of hair conditioner at the top of your head or begin at the ends? It makes sense with the shampoo. You drop it on top. That’s where the grease is. That’s why we shower right? To get rid of the grease?  I should ask Suzy E.

Are greasers the people that don’t wash their hair? or just use lots of moose and hairspray. *turns around*  I’m so uncultured.

Just, Hazel Grace.

Sunday, October 6, 2013

A Seven Word Story.

Your finger tips have not washed off.

Just, Hazel

Suicide is like Hide and Seek.

Little kids play hide and seek.

They all have been affected by the game at least once.

Whether they played in the game themselves or know someone who has.

It’s no big deal.

They don’t realize that after playing, one could fall asleep somewhere, be lost for hours.

Kids cry like it’s the last game they’ll ever play if they lose to hide and seek.

But within a few days, hours, or if they’re young enough, minutes, they forget they ever played, that they ever lost.

And they’ll never think about that moment again.

Their minds forget.

Until maybe they grow up.

Grown ups don’t ever play hide and seek anymore.

Their memory of the loss lasts longer than kid’s do.

It’s a game they think about playing when the power is out, when they want to leave their treacherous life and demanding schedules for a while.

To just be a kid or maybe to leave all together.

But hide and seek doesn’t end after a quick game.

Grown ups know this.

They wait for the seeker but sometimes he never comes. He forgets them completely if their hiding place is that dark,

if the seeker is that bad at seeking.

Grown ups are nervous to what people will think if they actually want to play the game.

People will judge.

Those who don’t care what people think? Play anyways.

And the little ones will be too young to remember.

I’ll remember. I’m old enough.

And don’t count too long or be a bad seeker.

Just, Hazel

Thursday, October 3, 2013

Itchy Feet

It’s that short breathing, feet sweating, lip biting kind of scared.

It’s the heaving breaths of your own conscience enveloping the tremble. I mean, I’ve got it too.

I’m scared of thinking so much that there won’t be any wonders or stutters left.

I don’t want to run out of books or concerts. Most girls are afraid they’ll run out of Nicholas Sparks. Slap yourselves. And read a book with 3 words you don’t understand. And read them and read them because you don’t understand. You really don’t get it. Quit being scared of not knowing.

I’m petrified of not knowing.

“You don’t know.” -Mom

I’m scared out of my wits of suicide because I’m afraid of my inside wanting to finish off my outside. And all because of the outside. And I don’t know about suicide or what the side effects of suicide are or wtf suicide is.

Being is a side effect of suicide.

Eating out and reading the encyclopedia seem like viable side effects of suicide.

Every lullaby and utter and knee slap are side effects of suicide and how does life not lead to suicide. I mean, our body is what kills us in the end.

Psyching myself out.

Knees cold. Feet itch.

Lets play paranoia I’m scared.

Just, Hazel