“So. They asked me about you. That boy’s night? They wanted me to spill about you.”
“Like what?”
“They were just asking me about you being a good girl, wanted some dirt.”
I processed this for a second.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t say shit. I wouldn’t do that.”

I smiled.

7 years ago, I was dubbed — and people still call me this — the nymphomaniac. I was totally down to party hardy and get all up in the grills of other girls, which I did to some extent.

But I’m not a “good girl” because I’m a Christian. Or well, I am. But it started prior to. I’m a “good girl” because I’ve seen way too many bad things.

As a kid, I saw the shit you people consume on a regular basis tear my family apart. Almost bleeding eyes were something I used to see almost every day — and not from weed. I didn’t think too much about it and almost ignored the fact that it was around me until I hit 16.

When I was 17 I came out of a relationship that was abusive and amounted to almost no trust. A huge part of that lack of trust was alcohol. Because to me, alcohol = lies. Wherever I went, alcohol made me very uncomfortable. You ask me back then to hang around the people I do now, I would have said no. The very same people who I love now would have completely disgusted me then. And it would take 19 before I would even lighten up a little about it. I still get flashbacks when someone takes it too far.

What happened to the girl who used to beg her best friend to kiss her by senior year? Who used to down wine coolers because that was the most action she was going to get until she started hitting parties with real drinks? Who could actually prove that she was a total freak without anyone questioning her?

She became traumatized by her own life. And then she got married to the Army and made herself comfortable there. It was her safe haven. It was something she could trust, something that was honorable. It was the safety and all of the comfort that she had been craving for prior. Then she found God and the rest is history.

I don’t have to prove shit to any of these assholes who rounded themselves up and tried to get the dirt that doesn’t exist on me. They are all of this world and I don’t want any part of that, as tempting as it is. Though my pride is shot from being unable to prove myself to be the girl I used to be, I have enough within myself to know that this is not where I belong. And knowing that, knowing Him is much more important to me than allowing for any of you to get to know me.

But even then, I don’t think you’d be able to freakin’ handle knowing me. So tough.

Z.

The night was cool, like any other night on the island. The stars were twinkling like they do and amazingly enough I had seen two shooting stars. One of them being the most amazing one I’d seen ever — bright and bold. We were sitting side by side, staring at the ocean getting ready to close the night. Our knees pulled up to our chests, arms enclosing them. 

“You know what my favorite thing to learn about people is?”
“What?”
“Their damages.”

I could almost feel him quickly zooming back into his past, reliving all the damages that I likely will never know about in just a split second. 

“Is it relationships?”
“Mostly.”
Silence.
“Mostly, anyway. There’s other stuff like family. But it’s mostly relationships”

Something that is very easily noticed about me is that I like to ask the hard questions and I’m not afraid of them. The problem is that people are afraid of their pasts, they’re afraid to answer the questions. They don’t want to open up Pandora’s box. For me, though, that box is the key to the person that you are. It’s something that must be held tightly and accepted in order to move forward. I my past in a locket around my neck, displayed loudly and proudly. I’m not afraid to dish as long as you’re not afraid to listen. 

I look at people and I observe them, trying to figure out the facade. I try to figure out where they are coming from, why they are the way they are. Speculate the possibilities of the way that they interact behind the happy girl, the cool guy and the passive-aggressive figurehead. 

I was told this morning that someone mentioned that they were glad to see this guy with someone nice — despite the nothing that is going on.

“I like you Rizzle”
“But you don’t know me. How could you possibly like me?”
“Maybe I don’t like you but I’m definitely attracted to you.”

“Hey. Are you still under that impression that you’re attracted to me?”
“Maybe.”
….
“I’m still in that area in which I believe it’s best that you don’t like me”
“That’s just your stubbornness. I’ll do what I want.”

Dear land person, 

I still don’t know myself yet. I’m going to twist and turn and change right before your very eyes, I’m pretty sure. I’m still young. But at the same time, I’m still knowledgeable about things that most people my age won’t figure out for another five years. You tell me that you’ve had better conversations with me than most people YOUR age. My foundation will remain the same and I will always be the fearless badass who you don’t know yet. So at least you have that. 

The reason I don’t believe you should like me is because I’m a hard ass. I call things like they see it and I hold stronger to my ground than the C-stands you throw sand bags on. I’m going to make you talk in ways that you never thought you could talk to a person you’d just met. I’m going to impress the fuck out of you because I’m not going to be like any girl you’ve ever met. And I will never give a shit what people think about me as long as I know in my heart that I’m in the right. I am fearless. And you should be scared. 

I’m going to attempt to make you think about things you don’t want to think about.

I’m going to do everything I can to open up your Pandora’s box. 

You better run before I get interested. 

I don’t believe you should like me because once you see me standing in front of you holding that box, I know you will run. 

But I don’t know you. So maybe I’ll be impressed. 

Dear person without land, 

I’m sorry that I didn’t even pick the box up for you.

Despite the fact that I already knew what was inside. I’m sorry I fucked things up for us. All because I let you hold the box and I turned away. I’m sorry that I — we — screwed up a kind of connection that most people search their entire lives for. Just promise me you won’t ever do this again. Though now that we’re over and done with, I’m here holding up that  box in the hopes you won’t run from me anymore. In the hopes you will stop being so scared of talking now that I’m no longer yours and you no longer have to fear hurting me. Something I should’ve done a long time ago. I’m still not going anywhere.

But I’m glad you love me too. And I’m glad we cleared that up.

Damaged Goods

I don’t want a package that comes in nice, neat and pristine. That’s boring and uninteresting and fake. That’s nonexistent and I know it. 
It’s not that I’m looking for damaged goods. It’s just that I know that all the goods are damaged. Just gotta find someone whose damage is worth working with and who will let me work with it. It’s not the label that matters — because that’s just something that was highlighted that didn’t need to be—, it’s the openness to the fact that it’s there.

“I’m a bad person.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It’s not that I think I’m a bad person. It’s just that. I think I’m more open to myself, who I am.”

Exactly.

And thanks. You gave me some pretty awesome quotes to work with. 

– ZelleZ