Butterfly Diaries A teen on a quest to be a better writer

Monthly Archives: November 2012

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Influenster College VoxBox ’12 Reviews!

So I know this blog is mainly a writing blog, but I just have to tell you guys about this!

I was lucky enough to get the College VoxBox ’12 from the company Influenster. (If you don’t remember my last post about Influenster, you can read about it here.)

This box contained the following things:

ImPress Press-On Manicure

NYC New York Color Show Time Glitter Eyeliner Pencil

Necco Tropical Wafers

Pentel EnerGel-X Pen

and a pack of 10 Energy Sheets

I was so excited to get the box and wanted to do individual reviews for all of the products! So Here goes:

Read more →

Mountains in Kansas

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I’m tired of my body being a topic of conversation during foreplay.
The truth is, when kissing leads to touching and clothes start coming off, I get scared.
As hands cover my thighs I remember when I had the pleasure of only being ashamed of the fat on my body.
That’s an easy thing to get over because they know before they get you in bed, that you’re fat.
He got what he bargained for on that one but the most embarrassing part of my body is not visible while I’m clothed.

 

Tonight his touch burns me with fear as if his fingernails were claws dancing recklessly above my veins.
As soon as my legs are bare, I get goosebumps of anticipation.
The god damn tattoo draws attention and I hope he doesn’t notice,
But I feel his kisses slow down when he reaches my thighs.
His fingertips start tracing in a different way, feeling the way how scars raise millimeters above the skin still managing to stand out like mountains in Kansas.
I stop moaning in sync with his movements. I know what comes next.
Shifting up on his arms he looks at me, climbing back up my body to kiss my lips.

 

“I’m sorry.” He tells me, “I’m sorry.”
Having to push away the hope we’re going any further tonight, I sigh, letting out months of curbed frustration.
“It was a long time ago. Don’t be sorry.”
He doesn’t like this answer. He wants to stay up and talk about them. He wants me to tell him a story about every time I bled. Then he’ll be okay with it. He needs a reason.
I remember when I wanted people to ask. I wanted them to notice and care and pay attention and now the scars host pure resentment.

 

I wish I would of used the medication earlier.
I wish I would of cut more so I could claim it was a skin condition.
I wish he was blind so he wouldn’t notice
but I never wish to go back.
Ashamed of the defects but solid behind their reasons.

 

This is not a topic of conversation, at least, I don’t want it to be.
Not every sad man on the bus needs to comment on the lighter burns covering my arm.
I just want to be able to have sex without telling them, “Yeah. I used to cut myself. I used to burn myself. I used to rip my skin open because I couldn’t breathe or think or live without it.”

 

Why aren’t self induced scars as sexy as the results of last year’s knife fight?
Why can’t we fool around strategically placed silence?
Either way, you won’t want to talk to me in the morning.
Either way, the scars will still be there, I can only hope they keep fading
like your faith in me.

Inspiration To Inspire-Poem

I never wanted to be a ballerina. I never wanted to be an astronaut. I never even wanted to be a rock star. Since age 5, I wanted to be a teacher. A shepherd. A compass.

Directing the sheep and teaching them to be wolves.
I wanted to be a pencil, a paintbrush, a muse.

Finding the kids who cry themselves to sleep and replacing their shot glasses and razor blades with this new age thing called art.

My goal in life since I knew the definition of the word was to inspire. To trigger the next Van Gogh. Not to better my own life, but society as a whole.

Like all the other dreaming children who became plumbers and insurance salesmen instead of dancers and spacemen, it all fell apart.

Acne and emptiness came hand in hand. I no longer knew who I was, and what I wanted to be became no more then an optimistic, “one day.”

My mind was once a thrift store, everything was second hand, but good quality.

Now it’s a flea market. Cheap Dora the Explorer knock offs drowning out any good thing that could possibly manifest.

I can’t inspire anything when my thoughts consist of the future and how the consequences of my life choices would fuck it all up.

Floating along, too busy avoiding the rocks and whirlpools to build the awesome waterslide I once had the courage to imagine.

What it comes down to, is I’ve lost my inspiration to inspire and that’s just sad.