The Downward Spiral

I think my parents think I'm on drugs.

I'm not sure what's wrong with me.

I walk into rooms and forget why I came in. I'll spend minutes standing in a room staring into space.

I've basically moved into my head permanently. I spend hours down in the basement imagining things. It's like my own private Terabithia. There's nothing down there but me and my thoughts. I just sit on the couch and think. It's not even like when you're a kid and you make believe and talk out loud to yourself. It's just living in an internal world while the external world sees you staring at the ceiling and occasionally smiling or making a movement to mimic what's going on in your head.

My rationality has shattered. I'm softer now. My vulnerability has shattered. I'm darker now.

It's like a split personality. Sometimes I'm fun Rhiannon. Sometimes I'm cynical Rhiannon.

I went an entire day talking in the third person because I don't know who I am.

I've never been so happy, and yet, I've never been so sad. For once in my life, I actually feel included and have friends I can talk to for hours, but yet, never have I felt so isolated.

Like it's all unreal and it could shatter at any second.

It wouldn't be a surprise if it all turned out to be just another day dream.

The Drugs Can Have My Mind

"One of my friends used to say, "You live. You die. Why is that so complicated?" I wonder that a lot."
-A Boy With Wisdom Beyond his Years

I woke up this morning and realized I don't remember becoming friends with most of the people I would consider friends.

The act of friendship is a funny thing. What really separates friend from friendly acquaintance? I often hear people saying, "So I was talking to my friend Jim, well he's not really my friend, but you get the point." How odd of a thing that is. I guess I'm just one of those people who will be friends with just about anybody and even people I don't necessarily like I am at least cordial towards them. So it strikes me as odd when people say they only have two friends.

Then again, I've been there too. I've been in moments where I felt like I didn't have any friends, yet, every day there were people I'd pleasantly converse with. So how could that be true? Maybe people just don't like to consider people who they haven't known very long good friends.

Anyways, back to the crisis at hand. I'm lying there in bed and I realize most of my friends, I can't remember becoming friends with. So I get out my laptop and I check myspace and I look over all these people in my friend list, trying to remember how they became my friend or at least how I met them.

-Nichole Fiore, met in second grade, became friends the normal grade school way, reintroduced in seventh grade, hated her, loved her, hated her, repeat.
-Helen Rose, met at freshman orientation, became my good friend when we went ice skating, became my best friend somewhere along the lines of our daily walks to Byington.
-Sarah Craft, met in first grade, became best friends, lost touch, met again in seventh grade, became friends through a nerdy love for Star Wars, and the fact that technology classes are super boring.
-Cortnee Ruthann, met this year at lunch, friends with Emily, really funny, a good deadpan humor to combat Emily Boling's crazy humor.
-Savannah Taylor, friends with Stacey Padilla, was in my Visual Communications class, we shared similar tastes in music, movies, books.
-Jaclyn Rogers, my cousin. Been friends since I can remember.
-Ryan Clark, heard about him and his music through Emily, met at sophomore orientation, befriended because he's the nicest guy I know.
-Kasey Lee, met on the way up to Toledo, befriended at Cedar Point, but even with her, the memory's slipping, I can't remember how she went from an awkward acquaintance to probably one of my closest friends who can make me laugh no matter how bad of a mood I'm in.
-Thomas O'Connor, met through middle school youth group, thought he was the biggest prick ever, realized he was a decent guy on the pope trip, we both love Say Anything and he's pretty damn funny.
-Kayla Dean, the bus, basically adopted as my apprentice. We go through the same phases at the same times. When I was an angsty eighth-grader, she was an angsty sixth-grader. When I was a stupid freshman, she was a stupid seventh-grader. I'm a hyper sophomore, and she's a hyper eighth-grader.
-Sierra and Allison, the English class I'm currently in. I let them copy off my homework, help them cheat on tests, do their projects for them. They don't think I'm the craziest human being ever.

The descriptions get quieter and quieter as I realize I don't know most of these people. Or worse, we were once better friends than we are now. That's what scares me more than anything.

No, that's not true. What scares me more than anything is I can't remember how I became friends with Skylar Childress, Stacey Padilla, Laura Dalton, Emily Boling, Cassie and Taylor, Megan Gerlach, the list goes on.

Then I realize a trend in these people. All of them I met in middle school. That's when I realize I can no longer remember middle school. Okay I do. I remember rejecting pop-culture. I remember being hated. I remember a kickball to the face. I remember a fist fight between Slade McGuire and Kate Brownell in which Kate kicked his ass. I remember my first C. I remember my first D. I remember my first day of public middle school. I remember an obsession with Lord of the Rings. I remember every crush I ever had. I remember singing the cookie song on the bus. I remember my first failed class. I remember feeling isolated, but I always feel isolated. I remember Ben, but even I often forget that we "dated" or whatever you want to call it. I remember Fall Out Boy, Hot Topic, black eyeliner, and refusing to be labeled as an "emo". I remember suicide threats. I remember jealousy. I remember singing John Cougar Mellancamp's "Hurt So Good". I remember being sunburnt. I remember my last day in eighth grade.

I remember the things. I don't remember the people.

I've finally forgotten it. I always did say I wanted to forget who I was back then. Now I'm realizing though middle school Rhiannon was annoyingly stupid, she was still a part of me and my history. With everything I forget, I'm losing myself.

Then my mind turns to Rhiannon from August to November of 2007. That stupid, slutty, hypocritical bitch. That liar and that fake. That thing that makes me ashamed to even think I could have ever been so retarded. Really that's not fair. She was split into two. Probably the closest I've ever been to actually having a mental condition. One side was Rhiannon the way she's always been, awkward, angry, and giggly. The other side was this fake, lying whore that was born out of a need to stop living in somebody else's shadow.

Do I really want to forget her?

What's worse is I've already forgetting the normal Rhiannon of that time. I remember moments, but I've forgotten myself, except for her. That stupid blonde bitch. I make jokes that I'm a redheaded whore, but redhead Rhiannon hasn't ever done anything nearly as awful as blonde Rhiannon did. Hell, redhead Rhiannon actually had the balls to stand up for herself in a way that blonde Rhiannon never could. That's not fair, after her parents found out about a couple things that were going on, the freshman version of myself ended somethings, but only after they had already gotten to the point where there isn't a day that goes by where I don't want to travel back in time to the day of freshman orientation and just slap her in the face.

I hate her.

But she's a part of me.

I can't go back in time. It's all been done. I'd like to think I'm a better person for it, but I'm not. I'm still awkward Rhiannon who doesn't understand volume control and says all the wrong things at all the wrong moments. I guess I'm okay with that now. I can deal with it. I don't feel this need to be somebody other than who I am. Because of it, I'm less jealous, less angry, less miserable, and less likely to do something stupid for a guy. It's not that I'm a better person. I'm just more okay with who I am. Some of us are born to be cool. Some people will go through their entire lives happy. I know it helps some people to believe that the kids who are cool now will be miserable later in life. I know I've done it before. But what kind of thing is that to wish upon a person? It's petty.

Because at the end of the day, it doesn't matter how many or how little friends you have, how good or bad your grades are, how cool your clothes are whether they be from Hot Topic or Abercrombie, how much you do or don't conform to society, or whether you have a boyfriend or girlfriend. The only thing that matters is whether you are okay with who you are. We forget that the things around us do not define us as individuals. I am not Rhiannon McHugh who wears scarves and hangs out with Nichole Fiore, Emily Boling, Skylar Childress, and Helen Rose. I'm Rhiannon who is.

I am.

Angsty Eighth Grade Poetry Written by Angsty Eighth Grade Rhiannon

I found this on my Fictionpress Account, I'd almost forgotten about it.
I thought it was somewhat decent.

Gray Matters

i’ve never been able to see it in

BLACK and WHITE

some times i see things that

are aren’t EVEN there

they haunt me like the shades of GRAY

that stain my HEART

and those bastards

DON'T care

where can you turn
when the shades of

GRAY

turn and decide to
kill you any

WAY

cause the people in

BLACK and WHITE

they want to kill you
because you told them
just cause someone did

something WRONG
doesn’t make it RIGHT

to persecute him
to crucify him

CRUCIFY HIM!

you can crucify me on your

CROSS instead

i have nothing left to

care ABOUT

and the trumpet march

goes ON

cause those bastards

DON'T CARE

they just need someone to

BLAME

they need someone to

HATE

If You're So Smart, Why Are You Working at The Cluck'n'Buck?

An Honest Love Poem

My heart won’t beat for you
And no, you can’t have it.
It pumps to keep me living
And to be honest, I kind of need it

I’m not going across the world for you
And no, I won’t walk through hell
I have responsibilities where I am
But I’m sure time can only tell

I won’t do anything for love
And you are not my daddy,
Nor my baby, nor my muffin.
You’re not that edible.
(Believe me I’ve tried)

You’re not the most handsome man ever.
You’re not the funniest either.
You didn’t like Die Hard.
And you actually like Vince Vaughn
Stop messing with your bangs!
Your romantic side is a tad cliché
For every imperfection you possess
It doesn’t make me love you any less
<3

Cigarette Burn

Enter with me into a dimly lit dank bar in the middle of the city. Naturally, it is a Friday night. Outside all are hustling and bustling, shopping for a new pair of pumps with their girlfriends, passionately kissing a lover in the back of a cab, or finding one at the nearest club, but not in here. In here, the bartender's alcohol never stops pouring; the shots are thrown back like the booze is the antidote to a lethal poison that is the patrons' lives. Just a couple blocks down there is an old church, with stained glass windows of saints and statues of the virgin mother, but here in this haven, there are no saints or virgins; there is no God. All that exists is the patrons impending death, and the mixed stench of cigarettes, scotch, and failure that both hang in the thick air.

The hero of our tale sits at the bar in his usual stool. Every time he walks in, the bartender greets him by a pseudonym, for he'd never admit that the man who he was outside the bar spent his Friday nights in such a dismal place. But it does not matter who this man is on the outside world. All that matters is who he is in here. In here, he sits keeping to himself, drowning himself in whiskey. There's something he wants to forget, and of course, he doesn't know what he's hiding from has been tracking him down and is about to stumble into his very sanctuary, trapping him like a fox running from the hounds. Dogged and unyielding, his own resoluteness is his greatest quality and his greatest flaw.

Despite his grisly appearance against this miserable place, when he steps into the real world, he's considered a good-looking man. As a man of at least twenty-four years, his boyish appearance was still acceptable, but as he nears his twenty-fifth birthday, now less than half a year away, and had now graduated college, a shave and a haircut would be a proper rite of passage into manhood. For now, he relishes in his last months of young adulthood with his soft, chestnut brown hair hanging loosely in his face. When he stands, he’s near six-foot two-inches. His thin face is birdlike, with cheekbones high and pronounced, not to mention a strong, manly chin. In the outside world, his large, round eyes are deemed one of his better features, but in here, his eyes were sunken and heavy-lidded, like he hasn’t slept in years. Nicotine stains his fingers, and the ashtray next to him is filled with his burnt out stubs.

The bell on the door dings quietly as somebody enters the bar. The bartender looks up, but he doesn’t. His whiskey is all that matters.

“Hey there, stranger,” a cheery voice greets him as its body sits down on the stool next to him.

He grunts in acknowledgement. His eyes glaze over just long enough to see that the voice belongs to a young woman, around his age, with such short blonde hair and such a flat body, that if it weren’t for the feminine clothing, girly face, and the fact that a gay guy wouldn’t dare step foot in a bar like this, he wouldn’t have been sure if it was woman at first.

“Not much of talker, izzy?” she asks the bartender as she makes her order of scotch on the rocks.

“Naw, don’t mind Sam,” Carl replies. “He’s just a little bit of a grouch.”

“Your name’s Sam?” she asks, with a cheerful tone to her voice. “Well, I’m Stephanie, but most just call me Stevie.”

At this, he raises his head a little too fast. There’s a panicked look in his eyes but he doesn’t want to give it away. His face is straight, but his eyes are wider than usual. Al looks at him a slight shock at his odd behavior, but goes on to pour some more beer for another client.

“Well that got your attention,” she remarks with a sanguine smile. Despite her pixie-cut, Buddy Holly glasses, and trendier clothes, she can’t hide that fifteen-year-old girl with long, braided, sandy blonde hair who wore white blouses and knee-length skirts. That elfin face was unforgettable.

“What’s wrong, Sam?” she asks. “What’s wrong Steve?”

It’s getting harder to breathe. He wasn’t expecting this. It was impossible.

Awkwardly, he spits out, “Yes, my name is Sam.” He manages to stand up. The room is swirling in his head and he props himself up against the bar with his left arm. Extracting a box of Lucky Strikes and a lighter, out from his pocket, he leans against the bar unsteadily while he slowly pulls out a single cigarette, puts it to his lips, and lights it shakily, taking three or four tries of flicking on the lighter for it to work. The other two exchange confused glances and watch him, unsure on what exactly they are witnessing.

Well at least, that’s what they look like on the outside. On the inside, she knows exactly what she’s looking at.

“Seems like you need to lie down, Sam,” she suggests, innocently. “I could hail you a cab.”

“No, no, I can do that, without Sam­– Stevie,” he replies, hurriedly, trying to make his way to the door, calling back to the bar. “Put it on my tab Carl!”

“Will do Sam!” the bartender yells back at him.

The door closes behind him and our hero stumbles into the alley adjacent to the bar, vomiting out all was inside him.

“Are you okay Sam?”

“Leave me alone,” he growls.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the pixie replies, callously.

“It was a long time ago. I just want to forget.”

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t tell everyone!”

His stomach lurches and he tries to stand up. She steps in front of him, making sure not to tread in the acid on the ground, but he refuses to look at her.

“Because you’re dead!” he yells, hands on his knees.

Angrily, she steps forward, not caring that she’s now standing in what was once in his stomach, grabs him by the collar, and forces him to look her in the eye. “Do I look dead to you?” she screams.

“Where do you get off being mad at me?” he spits at her and pushes her off of him. “You’re the one who said that Samantha was dead.”

“What?” she asks, in disbelief at his reply.

“Don’t touch me, Steve. I’m dead! It’s all your fault, Steve! If you hadn’t left me, it would’ve never happened! That horrible man did terrible things to me and it’s your entire fault! I was a kid, Sam! I was a stupid fucking kid! How was I supposed to know that it would happen? It was movie stuff! Things like that didn’t happen in the real world! At least not to us!”

Caught up in the frustration, he kicks over a garbage can and strikes his fist against the brick wall. With a crack, it bounces off and begins to pound with pain. Wincing slightly, he ignores the throbbing ache. It’s nothing compared to the ache in his head.

“You were my friend,” she whimpers. “That’s all I needed from you.”

“I was a kid,” he repeats calmly. “The lines got blurred somewhere along the lines. I didn’t know that it would result in this.”

“But it did.”

“What do you want? An apology? I didn’t do anything wrong! At least not to you! What do you want from me?”

Silence fills the alley. He can’t even see her in detail anymore. All he sees is a shadow in the darkness, but he can still feel her eyes burning into him.

“I want your cigarettes.”

Taking a step back, he stares at her. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re not getting my cigarettes.”

“Give them to me!” she screeches.

“Fine!” he yells back, digging his hand into the pocket and removing the pack. Heatedly, he shoves it into her hands. “It’s just one pack. I have at least seven more at home, and I can always buy another.”

“You’re never going to smoke them again.”

“What?”

“Stop pretending you don’t hear me!” she demands and pushes him against the wall.

With every fiber of his being he wants to just punch her in the face, but he doesn’t. He just stands there and snarls, “Why should I?”

“Because if you do, you’ll have my forgiveness. That is what you want, right?”

“What makes you think I give a damn about your forgiveness?”

She scoffs, “Please Steven, you use my name as an alias. You spend your nights in that squalor of a bar. There’s no way you’ve forgiven yourself for what happened. It still haunts you to know that somehow you’re responsible. You justify your actions. You claim that because you didn’t perform the act, you’re not at fault, but the fact of the matter is you know that if you had just been my friend, none of this would’ve happened. And it kills you inside.”

His eyes are burning and his lips whisper, “Leave me alone.”

“All you have to do is make that promise to me, and you will never see me again.”

“Why do you think I’ll honor it?”

“You will,” she states.

And he knows he will. It doesn’t matter if she physically does come back when he breaks his promise to her. Every time he puts the cigarette to his lips he’ll think of her and that will be enough to keep him away from it forever.

“I promise I’ll never smoke again.”

“Then I forgive you.”

Turning, she walks away out of the alley. His eyes follow her but he can’t move.

“Sam,” he calls out right before she steps out into the sidewalk. The streetlights silhouette her dainty figure.

“Yes, Steve,” she replies.

“I’m sorry.”

“I am too.”

The Roommate

The apartment door swings open and closes with a slam. The sound of sobbing fills the room.

"God, did he reject you? I knew it. I told you! You were getting in too deep. You belong nowhere."

There's a sound of a purse and a jacket being dropped. Clicky shoes cross over to a drawer to retrieve a spoon.

"I’m sorry. I should’ve known. I just thought-"

Shoes are kicked off and the freezer door opens. A half-empty carton of vanilla ice cream is removed, and the door is shut again. The top is torn from it, and spoon violently digs into the cold vanilla cream.

"Oh really? You thought! Leave the thinking to me, girl! We’re not made to love."

A body sits down on the recliner, curling up under a thinly woven blanket.

"But I was! That’s my whole purpose in life. I love! I love my family, my friends, and-"

"Him?"

Tears are silenced and a sigh escapes a pair of lips. The room is still. Massive amounts of a cold, comforting, sugary treat are consumed until the entire carton is empty. The spoon is deposited into the empty shell and discarded on a coffee table.

"Yeah, him."

"Well he doesn’t want you. I told you that from the beginning."

There's another sigh. A head pounds. Eyes shut.

"Stop it, just stop it. Somebody will want me. If not him, someone. No one can go through life without ever being loved."

"No they won’t! And yes, people like us, well, we’re better off alone."

An exasperated scream silences the apartment once more. A calm fills the room right before an emotional storm unleashes itself. The blankets are thrown off. The coffee table is overturned and a picture is thrown onto the ground, shattering into pieces. CD's are smashed; shoes are thrown at the walls. A cellphone vibrates on the counter only to be hurled against the wall. It vibrates twice more and stops.

Footsteps slowly cross to the phone. A curious hand checks the number. A small smile appears on chapped lips only to be quashed by a-

"Don't even think about it. He just wants to make sure you made it home safely."

"Because he cares?"

"Because he doesn't want your blood on his hands."

A heavy sigh is heaved and the door to a single bedroom is opened, closed, and leaned against. Curled in a ball, hair is let down and falls on a face. Tears return, but quietly. On the door a cellphone vibrates three more times, until finally somebody gives up hope on contacting a weary friend.

"I’m so tired."

Lights turn off. Blankets are sought.

"Just go to sleep. When you wake up, you won’t feel a thing. I’ll take it over from here."

Just sleep.

Since I Lost My Notebook

Just some poetry I had stashed on computer. The first couple are more recent than the rest.

Smoke Screen

Smokey girl with eyes like fog
Why is it me that you must taunt?
Isn't it enough that you have
What I can only want?

Yet you whine about his imperfections
His every flaw you never fail to mention
And through this you forget
All of his good intentions.

Your shallow veil wears thin
His love for you I can only imagine
And is coveting really such a sin
When you don't even care for him?

Over the Moon

Now she’s over the moon
You can count that soon
She’ll be jumping with joy.
Over some silly boy

They’re under the moon
Where he makes her swoon
They fall into a perfect bliss
With one flawless kiss

The dark side of the moon
Hangs around in her room.
And the stars have all burnt out
They’ve both filled with doubt

Now she’s over the moon
You can count that soon
She’ll run out of tears to cry
Over some silly guy

Lenny

I miss you
My best friend
I miss you
Don’t pretend
You miss me
I know you don’t
Miss me
You said, “I won’t.”

Dear Sergeant Pepper

The fact that she’s gorgeous doesn’t help
Nor do those freckles on that angel face.
Neither does that she’s only five foot two
And that she has a twenty-six inch waist.

It doesn’t help that she acts like a child.
She and I are nearly identical in our ways
That’s not to mention, I met you first
So answer me this, why are you with her?

So once more, here I sit all alone
Remembering a more cheerful time
Your words were like a poet’s verse
When you said to me what’s now her rhyme.

Censor

A sudden kiss, finger tips
Crashing lips, swaying hips
Uncensored.

Screaming fights, moonless nights
It’ll be all right, not too tight
Uncensored.

Mating call, lined with chalk
Against the wall, pillow talk
Uncensored.

I love you more than you’ll never know
I’d follow you wherever you want to go
Censored.

Romanticism Was Never My Style

So I lost my book of poetry.
Nyahhhh, this is not good.

I had some really good stuff in there.
It's probably on the bus.
:/