Mind Racer Not Chaser

Wandering Soul.


Look around your college classroom, spot the virgins.

See, the truth is: you have no idea who has lost their virginity, because it doesn’t change you. It doesn’t give you some kind of glow or superpower or stamp on your forehead. You know the feeling of waking up on your birthday and thinking “I don’t feel any older whatsoever”? That’s what maybe they’re all so afraid of you finding out: sex doesn’t change you. Sex doesn’t make you an animal, sex doesn’t suddenly make your relationship a million times more stable or intimate or romantic – it can’t fix what’s broken, although it can make the pain go away for a bit. Sex doesn’t really occur with eighty tea lights and a thick white rug. Sex is ugly and loud and frequently awkward, sex is excellent and breathtaking and when you wake up the next morning, you’re the exact same person. There’s not some magical connection with the person in bed beside you. Believe it or not, pregnancy isn’t some kind of punishment – but practice safe sex, get tested, don’t spread your germs around. They want to tell you, “Sex can ruin you” and I’ve heard that a lot as a little girl, that some boy would join me under my sheets and then dump me four days after, used, unhappy.

But I figured out that I’m not a fucking toy. Letting someone have sex with me is not letting them “use” me, because I’m not an object. My father said the issue lay in the fact “Men are insecure and need to know that they’re the best you ever had,” but I think that’s a steaming crock of absolute-wrong and if I didn’t tell the people I’m with how many others I’d slept beside, there would be literally no way for them to know my number, because I don’t rust, I don’t wear out, I don’t get bruised. I’m not a wilting fruit, I don’t go rotten.

But here’s the thing: some people connect sex and emotion. I don’t personally because I am probably secretly an ice storm in disguise, but I still respect my partner’s desires. If they’re the type to want love and sex to coincide, I let them. I don’t make fun, I don’t pull one-night-stands or friends-with-benefits, because it’s not their “reputation” I’m afraid for: it’s their heart I’m defending.

Here’s the thing: Instead of worrying about people’s “purity” and how it defines them as a person, worry instead about how you can protect other people’s emotions.

Because here’s the thing: look around your room and spot the virgins. Look harder. You can’t tell. Sex doesn’t alter people, it doesn’t make them act in a certain way nor dress in a certain manner. Sex and personality have nothing to do with each other. There’s a reason that virginity doesn’t show on someone’s face: because having sex doesn’t cause you to change.


Holy Ocean.

Look girl, you are a holy ocean into which boys willingly plunge. They are standing on your shore, dying to drown in you. Look girl, we can all tell you hold too many untouched continents to count. We have our flags ready, hoping that you will let one of us claim you. Here is the truth: You are not like the others. You ring in our ears, you tangle our vocal chords. We sing you in our sleep. You are not like the rest. You are a bruise, you are a stain. And when you leave, the memory of you long remains. Your laugh is louder, your heart a shouter, your skin a secret we hope to breathe. We speak you like a promise-true, not yet ruined, always slightly out-of-tune. But, like all good things, you are so easily cracked and broken. You contain so much of what we want to be that we threaten to drain you completely. So, I tell you this: Keep your hills green, your lakes full of fish, your sunsets unphotographed. We will do nothing but cover you in slobber. Keep your trees standing, your passion demanding, your heart shining like the moon. When we come by the shipload, turn us away. We will only mark you, then leave. And you deserve so much more than our footprints on you.


If I was to become so vain
I would pick away every wound
And scar
I would be nothing
I would be empty
That’s why you fascinate me
It is a beautiful thing
You are you, riveting.

Old things.

If one day we part, if it happens at all
If they ask why
Tell them it’s because
I could never learn how to stop giving
You were you.
And that is all.


They say men are from Mars and women are from Venus but I fell in love with you on every planet. There are rings around my eyes like the limbs of Saturn from thinking awake about you instead of sleeping about you. I’m burning up staircases and tossing grenades and tearing apart orange blossoms for the sake of your smile, destroying myself whole so you can make me broken again and again. I want that first night you unwrapped me from my clothes like a bank of seaweed and skipped stones on my bare body with your tongue but first your eyes.

Scientists speculate that across the lifetime a couple’s love turns from romantic to companionate to eventually “just because” but you were never my “just,” you were my always and for and how and why and then and ever. Across my lifetime they could dissect my entire heart and it would never show signs of weakness or old age; you’ve made me immortal, made me turn like a knife in the night, made me burn and throw myself on crosses made of flame. You were my religion; you were my atheism and every circle of fate I formed from salt and tried to lose myself in.

Geology says that rocks form layers and strata and shale loses itself in charcoal and bone, that plates shift and rise through the earth and break through with the force of teeth through flesh. I broke through you with palms like knives, with fingers that wanted to explore every valley of your skin until the floods came and wore my nails down to the bone, down to sandpaper.

On early winter mornings language moves through the window and shatters like pane glass, and I look at you and your body with eyes fluent in everything buried inside you.


If two points are destined to touch, the universe will always find a way to make the connection – even when all hope seems to be lost. Certain ties cannot be broken. They define who we are – and who we can become. Across space, across time, among paths we cannot predict – nature always finds a way.

Maybe it’s more like you said before, all of us being cracked open, like, each of us starts out as a watertight vessel, and these things happen, these people leave us, or don’t love us, or don’t get us, or we don’t get them, and we lose and fail and hurt one another. And the vessel starts to crack open in places, and I mean, yeah, once the vessel cracks open, the end becomes inevitable, once it starts to rain inside the Osprey, it will never be remodeled, but there is all this time between when the cracks start to open up and when we finally fall apart, and it’s only in that time that we can see one another, because we see out of ourselves through our cracks, and into others through theirs. When did we see each other face to face? Not until you saw into my cracks, and I saw into yours. Before that, we were just looking at ideas of each other, like looking at your window shade, but never seeing inside. But once the vessel cracks, the light can get in. The light can get out.

-John Green


I want to meet someone that makes me feel alive. That makes me feel something, all. the. time. That asks me ridiculous questions. Doesn’t go running when I stare into their eyes. I want things to feel balanced. No doubts. Just restore my faith that there are people out there who want to know me as much as I want to know them; to tell me every dark secret inside them, the way they felt after their first kiss, how many times they lied to their parents, when was the last time they cried.

Spill your heart to me. I want to know you. I want to know people. I want to understand and I want to comprehend and I want to appreciate and I want to be intrigued.


Dear Santa;

I WANT A POLAROID CAMERA FOR CHRISTMAS PLEASE & THANK YOU.And a typewriter. And for the whole world to be happy.