The Wind Knows Things

I hope that girl who told me I couldn't play with her
and her friends at recess
in 3rd grade knows what that did to me.
I hope she knows how embarrassed I felt,
or the guilt that took over
when I stained my moms new sweater with tears.
Because that was a real thing.

And whenever I look at that damn purple skirt,
the helplessness envelops me again,
and I don't think I'll ever be able to give it away
because it still smells like you...
and that's the realest thing I've ever known.

Scratch that.
                                              You  were the realest thing I've ever known.

I hope one day,
I'll be able to forgive myself
the way you forgave me when I thought I was too cool
to be your friend.
Because icebergs are cool, mike posner is cool,
polar bears & penguins are cool, "Ice Ice Baby" is cool.
You were cool.


But I was blind with my "shades" on.
And I drove past you too fast in my sports car
to see that you needed help.
And the designer jeans stopped the blood flow in my legs
and I couldn't run to you when you needed me most.
And now I'd rather forever
be part of the math club and find out what x equals with you,
then sit with "the cool kids" at lunch
and only be able to talk to your mom when I miss you most.
(Which is every day.)

These tears hit me like bricks every moment
of every day.
And the memories never stop,
and I'm still not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
And I'm losing friends because
I talk about you too much,
and it makes them sad.
But it has a tendency to bring a smile to my face.

There are plenty of things I could say are fake 
about my life, my emotions, my thoughts, my words.
But these smiles are always real,
Because the memories are sunshine.
And I'll be forever glowing with thoughts of you.

I hope that girl way way way back in 3rd grade knows what she did to me.
I hope she knows that she taught me what it meant
to be real.
I hope she knows that I don't get embarrassed anymore,
and I only blush when a boy tells me I'm pretty.
The tears washed out of my moms sweater,
and the guilt is forever fading with the wind.

And the wind is forever reminding me to forgive myself.

Daveni Rush. 

Teenage Angst and False Bravery

Last night I let her sit shotgun

cause I thought you would like that. And then you grabbed my arm in the store and spun me in circles and I don't know if you liked that, but I did. And when you hid from us  I was hoping I'd find you first. I love her to death and sometimes I feel like you do too and that kills me.

Please mom, can I keep him? I've spent my life giving away the things I love most because I don't know what else to do. And as selfless as that sounds, I'm selfish. And that scares me. Just this once I'd like to know what flying feels like. To be so blindly completely happy and free that the world won't scare me  anymore and I won't cry every time I deposit a check online or think about calling my mom before bed instead of just walking to the next room. 

Last night you were so curious about why people thought that we were dating and I felt my heart stop each time it got brought up because I knew the simplest of words could break it and I didn't want to go home with a stomach ache. Simple words and broken hearts make for a bad combination, I know this... I know I should distance myself from the oblivious boy but I think it's adorable when he flips me off with his ring finger and rests his head on my shoulder. I'm like a deer in the headlights, trapped. And the end of this story is already foreseeable in my minds eye. 

Unmoving on the side of road, unblinking, unseeing, unfeeling. Covered in flies and waiting to be taken away from the public's eye because people don't care about the broken heart on the side of the road. And I know she'll be sitting shotgun in the side of your car when you drive past, because I'm a coward. And I know you won't give it a second thought because it happens all the time. 

And I'm so tired of writing about you, and writing about love because I'd like to believe I'm still just a stupid kid. Adults say I don't know what love is and I'm praying to God every night that, that's true. That love isn't all broken hearts and tubs of icecream. That it isn't redheaded boys and meetings with my bishop or trips to kohlers and always feeling not good enough. I'm crossing my fingers it isn't Taylor swift or all the tears I've already cried about my false pretentions of "love". Because love is killin' me. And I'm too young for this. 

Daveni.

THIS IS FOR YOU.

Dear [insert your name here],

I wish I knew a better way to start this...but this post is for you... Yes you. This post is for you because I know you're struggling. You know how I know that? Because everybody's struggling, because you're not alone. And I really want you to know that you're not alone. And no, I didn't just attend Be The Change. And no, this isn't about bullying and shit...well it kind of is. But if you're being bullied then freaking stand up for yourself and bitch slap them... Kay sorry. That's beside the point. The point is, you're beautiful and amazing and I don't EVER want you to forget that. The point is, it's okay if your hair is insanely curly or freakishly straight. The point is, it's okay if you don't wear designer jeans and it's okay if you do. The point is, it's okay if you don't play a sport or sing or dance or cheer or play chess. It's okay if you don't feel like you belong. Because I've been there. I've felt that and it's okay. Are you listening to me [insert name here] ?? Are you even still reading this? Because I wrote this letter for you. THE POINT IS, one day you will find your place, your calling, your nitch, your thang, whatever it is you kids are calling it these days, you will find it! You'll find those people that "get you" and you will love them unconditionally and they will never forget you, because you'll give them a reason to always want to remember you. And that's a whole different story. One day you'll find yourself and you'll always remember that day because it's wonderful. One day you'll realize YOU. ARE. WONDERFUL. And if nobody out there is rooting for you, I am. I'm on your side. I'm cheering for you. I'm the one sleeping under your bed. Ok...I'm not really, but you get the point. This letter is for you, [insert name here]. Hang in there champ. 

Love,

Daveni Rush

A Letter to The Ginger.

Dear green eyed boy, 

I bet your dad took you fishing when you were little because I've been called elusive and you caught me. You caught me, and then you kept me. Which is more then I can say for the others. And I don't know how you made something you caught love you, but you did. And I don't like being referenced to a fish... But I am one because I loved you. I'm a fish because I fell for the boy with red hair and mother laughs because that was something I swore I'd never do. It made me stop missing his brown hair, and his blonde hair, and it made me start craving yours. I found myself standing at the edge, constantly thinking about when my next brush with fire would be and that's dangerous. But you already knew that. You knew you were danger and I was innocence and I knew that. And I liked that.  And that scared me. 

And I loved that. 

And innocence loved danger because it made her feel free and mature. Danger made her feel beautiful and worth somebody's time and that was enough. Nobody craves innocence like they crave danger but danger wanted her. And mother pursed her lips. 

I wish you could have been the man I always dreamed you would become but you were just a boy when you walked away from me. I want you to understand that every time you ignored me, I wrote a poem. There are a lot of poems. And every time you loved me I slept under the stars. I blame you for the lossed meteor showers and whispered wishes. I blame you for the lack of grass cushioning my back and the warm breeze across my legs. Because now it's cold outside and the stars hate me because I chose you. And I hate myself because I chose you. I blame you for my meetings with the bishop even though I think the guilt broke me more then it did you and I hate you for that. I hate that I felt more then you did and I wanted so badly for the guilt to

crush you and it didn't. 

I hate that you make me hate because I'm a lover, not a fighter. And I promised the tooth fairy that I'd never forget her and I promised the rugrats that I'd never lose my imagination, and I told pikachu that I'd always choose him. And I lost myself.  And now I'll spend my days apologzing to my childhood friends because we'll never be the same. 

You keep trying to prove to me that you're different. But so am I. 

You: why did you ever like me?

Me: good question. 

Daveni.

Commitment Issues

Don't worry sis.

One day I'll let him love me. One day I'll let him sweep me off my feet and not be worried about my weight. One day I'll let him tell me I'm beautiful, and I'll believe him. One day I'll let him hold my hand in front of tons of people and I won't be worried about what they think. One day I'll find my bestfriend that I can't imagine spending a day without...but that day hasn't come yet...

Mostly because boys scare me.

People in general scare me.
Okay?

Commitment issues.

I believe that's what I have. I toss the word  love around like it's a frisby and I'm playing fetch with my dog. But I keep forgetting that this dog can throw back and I'm not very good at catching. In fact, I'm  terrified of it. Slippery fingers and a broken heart don't make for a good baseball player and I'm sorry about that. I'm desperately trying to be good at sports for you because I really don't feel like running away again...

But maybe with you it'd be different.

  I think I could let myself be happy.
                                                                Even if only for a moment in time.

I've never met somebody who gets me as perfectly as you do, and if you knew how much that freaked me out you'd probably stop finishing my sentences.

When I'm with you, I'm okay with the fact that I snort when I laugh because I know you're waiting for it,

And I'm still waiting for you.

I wish I could tell you that. That I'm still waiting for you to remember that you love me. And some might say 'realize" is a more appropriate word but I want to believe that it's always been there. That as an eighth grader you felt those same butterfly's that I did, and that when you started dating that one girl you were really just too scared to ask me, which is fine.

I would have said no.

I would have said no because your smile is just too perfect and I spend too much time trying not to stare because I always find you looking back at me, and mother always taught me to play hard to get. And I'm really trying mom.

Pinky Promise.

I'm really trying to be okay with this whole "just friends" thing because I'm the one who initiated it and you laughed at the thought of anything more. Not even knowing that with each beautiful sounding cackle bits and pieces of my heart were breaking off and floating through space and I want so badly for you to zip up your space suit and find them for me...

Because I'd really like them back now.

I'd really like you to give them back now.

And I'm scared because I never thought the word cackle could sound beautiful but you make it sound lovely. And that's the worst because I know that you'd laugh if you read this poem... and you'd run if you knew it was about you.

And I'm the one that's supposed to do all the running.

You know how it is *cough cough* commitment issues.

Daveni.

 

Yo Ma... It's Okay.

Today my mom asked me why I'm not part of the "popular crowd". Well ma, it's quite simple really. It's probably because I wear the same jeans 2 days in a row. It's probably because none of them follow me on Instagram. It's probably because I have zero brain filter, which results in a serious swearing problem... which I don't give a damn about. Or it might be because I read too much, or I write poetry. Or I have an iPhone 4S instead of the newly coveted 5C or whatever that is... It's probably because I trust no one and the wifi sucks at our house. It could even be because I have blisters on my hands and bruises covering my legs. It might be my infatuation with cats (which scares most people away, popular or not)  it's probably because my comforter is yellow and my sheets are black and I still sleep with a dog shaped sack filled with beans and I have a tendency to cry while watching Good Luck Charlie. My life's a mess and I blush every time the student body president says hi to me and that's just silly. 

I'm not popular mom. I'm not really trying to be either. 

Daveni.

Things I don't like.

• sophomore boys 

• junior boys 

• senior boys

• just boys in general #sorrynotsorry

• leather pants

• people who whistle when it's quiet. 

• my job

• feet 

• incorrect grammar

(Did I spell grammar wrong?)

• people who spell the word grammar wrong.

• the man

• people who tailgate

• people who don't use their blinkers

(UGHHHH) 

• latex gloves

• doctors

• cancer 

• blog posts that are lists

• irony

Nostalgia's a B*tch.

Heart racing fast. I wish I could tell you how much I miss those days...

how much I miss you.

Lately I've been sick. The doctors can't diagnose it.

But I think it's nostalgia. Insomnia. Schizophrenia.

I'm suffocating, drowning in these memories. And I want so many of them to be real.

All of them.

Most of them.

Some of them.

None of them.

You looked at me with those green eyes, and then she was gone.

And now I'm 10 and I don't even know what love is.

I thought I was in love with Aaron Carter cause he wanted candy.

And I thought I was candy. And I thought that was love.

You looked at me with those green eyes, and then dad was gone.

And now I'm 7 and I accidentally walked in on my mother crying.

So I walked out.

Papers in a purse and Dora on the TV screen. And swiper keeps stealing my things

and scraping my knees.

Thank God daddy's back. I need a band-aid.

You looked at me with those green eyes, and now you're gone.

And I'm 75 still looking for some crayons, but mom doesn't keep them in the house anymore.

Digital paints, and markers on a glass screen,

and that was my little sister's childhood

and I'm sorry for her.

I couldn't ever bring myself to color inside the lines

but she's a straight arrow. 

So much potential to make beautiful things and a glass screen consumes her thoughts.

I'm pedaling away on a bike I never ride anymore and

drowning in a kiddie pool that has a hole in it.

I'm coloring on the walls with markers that are dried out and

eating cherries with a grandpa who's in heaven.

I'm laying in the sun getting skin cancer 

and I don't even care.

Daveni.