#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

-Tourists

-A picture of my dad and I

-Kittens

-The Book of Genesis

-Intestines

-My Ed sheeran album

-Head lamps

-Ovens

-A smaller box

Things that don’t fit in a box:

-My Ed Sheeran album

-Juniors

-Fantasies of Nutella and Edward Cullen

-15 minutes

-Grandparent small talk

-If you’re going to be home next week.

-Kissing

-Niagra Falls

-Waiting for instant rice

-“instant” death

Just, Hazel Grace

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. 

Like,

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

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.

Indiscreet.

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. 

 

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.

 “HEY GREASER GIRL!”

 

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.

A Seven Word Story.

Your finger tips have not washed off.

Just, Hazel