I am sixteen (no shit I'm going on seventeen, I mean it's not like the numbers follow each other or anything). I'm of average height and build, blonde, and, not to be immodest, but I've got pretty good teeth. I'm over the top, insecure, creative, a virgin, crazy, """""unique""""" (although I just say weird), emotional, and I make a mean fucking cheesecake. I've had my heart broken, and have broken hearts in return. I'm not popular. I love my parents, but I have my bouts of angst. My ratio of close guy friends to close girls friends is extremely unbalanced, to the favour of the boys.
And above all, I write.
I go by a lot of nicknames. Quality, Surgeon, Burns, Opossum.... but as we all suffer Identity crises on the internet, I'll go by Vixen- given to me by my last boyfriend.
If I really stick it out on here, I'll post poems, photos, and whatever bullshit seems to run through my head at a moments notice.
Buckle up for safety, and enjoy the ride!
Lingering
I glance at my phone, at the last text that Mr. Varsity Jacket sent me.
"...text me sometime, lemme know how your party is. goodnight. :)"
I glance at the time. 6:47 PM.
The party was cancelled. Rach messaged me earlier today, saying that the neighbourhood that the party was in was incredibly sketchy, and that she didn't think it was safe. After some asking around, there were indeed no more parties. So now here I sit, one walk/run, a trip to a diner, and a batch of cookies, later. And I'm contemplating texting... well, you know.
I click my phone again. No messages. Aren't I popular. Well, Arien did text me this morning, congratulating me on my "wheels". Rach also congratulated me, and thankfully, she wasn't upset that I had stolen her wheels (she visited her boy that night and made amends). All the while she was talking this guy up, saying how awesome he was, how smart he was. Which only makes me more hesitant to contact him.
I can still remember the heat of his body against mine, his scent surrounding me. I hear the music blowing through the speakers and into my ears, buzzing through ever bone in my body. I feel his fingertips tracing my skin, his soft lips on mine. Always lingering.
.....God dammit.
I crack my neck and look down at the poem I just wrote. I hear dad moving around downstairs, coughing loudly. "Getting hungry, honey?" He calls out. My mind wanders to the steak teriyaki and rice in the fridge. "Nah, I'll wait." I call back. Gotta finish this post.
I check the phone once again. Nothing.
I don't want to seem like a major creep. How the hell can I scare off a guy THIS early? I mean, fuck, god knows I've done it enough.
Ah screw it. I'll try him at nine- no, nine thirty.
Here's the poem I wrote about last night. Enjoy:
Swayze Ain't Got Nothing On Me
The rolling, slamming masses
Of adolescent humanity
Crushing up against each other,
Swaying, grinding to the beat
Of the overrated buzz of "music"
(Kids don't know how to dance to rock n' roll,
Seems they can't dance to electronica either)
It's do or die on the dance floor-
You're either locked in the embrace with another,
Taking 'Dirty Dancing' to a whole new level
Or you're the wallflower,
Clinging to the edge of the dark gym
Like you may be sucked away.
But even a wallflower
Can burst into bloom,
Come alive, lose control,
If a shove is given.
They can fall into the right arms
And they can learn to sway-
Feeling the burning contact of someones skin
And have their worries dissolve
Into the thick, hot air,
As they lose it all,
As they begin to fall
From a soft, sweet kiss.
-V.
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