Maybe I'll Be Charlotte Forever.

Or at least I'll try.
Because when you find out who I am in real life, you'll be disappointed. 

"Oh.  That's her?"

Yes, that's me. 
I'm sorry I'm not really Charlotte, let me say that now.  You must know that I wish with all my heart that it were true.  She's much more interesting than me.  Sometimes I even think that I am her.  But then I mess things up, and I know it'll never be so.  Because Charlotte is not a coward.  Charlotte says what she's thinking and doesn't do what she's told.  She's beautiful in a sad way, and never runs out of things to say, and she wears hats.  She has the right kind of head for them.  Charlotte talks just the right amount, and makes others feel welcome, and she isn't awkward or shy or fat.  Charlotte can sit in a quiet room for hours and still be happy, content with the way the light bounces off a coffee can.  That's another thing: Charlotte turns on the lights.

 I know Charlotte isn't real.
And I'll never be her.
Maybe she and I will just be distant cousins, or pen pals that don't have time to write.  She'll be living life, and I'll be watching on the other side of the glass.

I wish I could be Charlotte forever.
But I can't.

Goodbye, my friend.
It's been so much better than I could say.

Love always,
Sariah May

I'll Build Me A Paris Out Of Fountain Pens And Lined Paper.

Paris is waking up in the morning and having ten extra minutes to do your hair.

Paris is finding a 20 dollar bill in your pocket.

Paris is kissing someone you haven't seen in a very long time.

Paris is figuring out why you're angry.

Paris is being able to breathe.

In, out.  Out, in.

And that's why when I finally walked under the Eiffel Tower, I cried.

That's what beauty does to you.  It makes you cry.  And Paris is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.  I stay up all night staring at it, and wishing that I'd never have to leave.  

I'll always want Paris.

Because Paris is the only place that gives me the good kind of chills.  Paris is a time when I can forget about derivatives and muscle anatomy, and remember the times when my mother would pick me up and sing "A Bushel And A Peck" into my ear.  Paris makes me think about my dad and how I'm actually really mad at him, but that's okay.  Paris tells me that I'm not perfect, but that I could get pretty close if I tried hard enough.  Paris makes me feel important again.


I try to do Paris right.  I try to give back what Paris gives me.  I wonder if Paris knows how much I need it.  I wonder if Paris knows that I've never been good at anything before.  And that I still don't really know my way around Paris yet.  But I'm connecting the streets on the back of my hand, and I'm writing down pronunciations of hard words, and I'm making my way through all the best restaurants and parks.  Paris, I'm just starting to smell the cracked bread and the wine.  I'm seeing strings of lights in my dreams.  I'm waking up to roses on the nightstand and the lingering scent of perfume on my pillow.  I'm figuring out where to start my life.  And I hope to do it in Paris.

Except I know there will be a day when I wake up and Paris is closed.  You promised me I'd always be able to find you in Paris.  But you never mentioned that Paris kicks you out after 6 months of residency.  I won't know what to do with myself.  If Paris is closed, so am I.  

I love Paris.

Paris doesn't love me back.

Denver Isn't Going To Save Us.

"Why are you so nice to me?"

"Charlotte, you're so beautiful."

I don't know why, but those words felt so empty in my head.  They rattled around like some loose change in a mason jar.  And then I started thinking about floral arrangements, and you started to sound a little bit like the teacher from those Peanuts comics.

What was that you just said?  Something about train tickets to Denver?  I don't know about Denver...  I used to live in Colorado and the people there like dogs more than humans.  That's weird.  I don't want to go to Denver.  I don't want to go somewhere that snows just as much as it does here.

And why are you inviting me to go?  You don't even know me.  We met three weeks ago.  What would you even say to me?  What would I say back?  Would you try to hold my hand?  Would you tell me I'm beautiful again?  If you do, would you say it like you did the first time, like it was so obvious?  Like it was the most ingenious thing you've ever said?  Would you take me to cafes in the mountains and let me get a dessert?  Would we wake up early in the morning and watch the sun rise?  Would I like that?

You don't even know me, yet.  You don't know that I prefer to sit in silence.  You don't know what I look like without make-up on.  You don't know that I get sad at 8:00 p.m.  You don't know that my palms sweat when I'm nervous and that I eat my food like a three year old.  You don't know that I stutter when I don't know what to say, and that I hate being around large groups of people.

You don't know what Peter did to me.

And in two minutes when you stop talking I'm going to tell you all of this.  I'm going to let you know.  And you'll smile politely and say, "some other time, then."  And you'll go back to what you were doing before, and I'll turn around and walk to my car.  And months will pass by, and you won't ever call.  And you won't ever tell me I'm beautiful again.  And you'll take a different girl to Denver.  

And I'll be happy for you.  

Or at least I'll make it look like that on the outside.

Pobre Alfred, Pobre Charlotte

The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock (<-Click to read the whole poem.  It's long, but worth it.)

by: T.S. Eliot

To me, this poem is everything.

I am Alfred.

"Do I dare disturb the universe?"

Do I?  Do I dare to speak?

"For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,         

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons..."

With coffee spoons... because I am oh so very dull.  Like the thud of heavy feet on the steps leading down to the cellar.  That's where we keep the applesauce and the canned beans.  I am so dull, like the food my dog eats.

"I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid."

My last chance came, my last chance passes.  I watch it go from the backseat on the bus.  I wonder where I'll end up, now that we've parted.  And I'll try to not care so much.

I'd rather stay sleeping all day.  

"Would it have been worth while

If one ... should say: 'That is not it at all, 

That is not what I mean at all.'"

That is not what I mean at all.

That is not it at all.

I Don't Move On.

Two steps outside and I know I've already ruined my chances.

Thanks for telling me I'm exactly what you're looking for, but that you're not exactly looking.

Oxymorons were never really my thing.

So okay, I'm not a philosopher.  I'm not ready to be enlightened.  

I'm not ready for applause or sweet perfume.

Those things are for grown ups.  And I still write letters to Santa. 

Not because I believe in him, but because I believe in routine.

I've got three hundred problems, and you're every single one of them.

Don't forget me, please. 

I wish I was actually saying something that was worth while.

But this feels like violins.  Not even an hourglass could take this away from me.

I'm losing my mind.

Please Capitalize Justice.

"So don't go around telling people that we're going to start over... this is what happened to me three years ago, and I lost my home... let him know we're struggling... This is his call, this is what he's done to me... Why have you done this to us?... He wants to protect his job and his interests... serves him right... everything points to him now... So let's go take what's mine... for all this suffering I've got to have something... this is his fault... I want Justice."

-Mr. Charles, the one and only.

I don't know who "he" is, but he sounds like a real tool.

Or at least that's what I thought 3 years ago.

Now I'm just tired.  And it's the kind that makes my mom look sad.  

I'm only 17.  I'm not supposed to be that way yet.  I haven't even been in love before, and she's had 4 kids.

I was mad at dad last week.  But only for a few minutes.  I wrote it down, and then erased it. 

I can't remember exactly what he said... but it felt wrong.

"I want Justice."

He just kept yelling it, over and over again.  

"I want Justice, I want Justice."

And then he cried.

I didn't know what to do.

So I just got real quiet.

And I'll never forget what he said next:

"Set your expectations low, little Charlotte."
                                   

              "Why?"

"Because no one wants a used napkin."