My Composition Journal

I've been alone out here for five minutes and twenty-eight seconds. I had to get out of the house. The party was just not my type of thing. I wish it were but its not.

I spent most of the time in my room writing. It calms me, so much has changed since last year and I can't exactly say I like it.

So I sit here, with my back against my favorite tree the branches circling it closing me whole, and letting me be unseen as I watch the farm across the lake, and review my song.

I read:

It’s been so long since I’ve opened a window.

It’s been so long since I’ve felt the breeze on my skin.

Along with this Ani Defranco tune comes relaxation.

Times like this I wish I had an acoustic guitar.

To let my soul out without hesitation.

This feeling of liberation is my motivation.

I wish I had the voice to sing this song.

I wish someone will find me and take me in.

As I hear the tree leaves rustle and the breeze on my skin, I feel serene.

Something that doesn’t come easy to me.

The lies I’ve told eat away at me till I want to lie down and die.

So I try to change myself.

Trouble is I’m neither nor.

I pretend to be who people want me to be.

I live in a fairytale land that I made up in my head.

I wanted to escape my harsh reality.

The breeze cools my skin.

I want to go with it.

To find the me I lost long ago.

To be happy for once and let it show.

I want there to be a cowboy my age in the farm behind my house.

I want him to want me and be my fairytale.

I imagine it as the breeze coming from my window hits me again and again.

It’s not the best thing in the world, but it shows me and I like it. Meeting Trevor was weird. I always new Maylene had a brother, but I didn’t expect to meet him. I doubt I even wanted to meet him. Now I have and there’s nothing I can do about that.

As I sit here, I remember how many times I’ve changed myself to fit into my surroundings. Now I realize I change myself to fit in here too. Of course, maybe this is who I really am, and here I'm not afraid to show it.

The breeze sways my medium jet-black hair; I get leaves stuck in it.

I know Maylene’s grandpa lives in that farm but I’ve never been over there. Maybe if I did go over there it would ruin the illusion I have of it.

I hear the rustle of leaves when they’re stepped on but I don’t move. I’m too serene to move, I like it here and maybe if I don’t say anything they won't find me and talk to me.

“Hey,” the voice I now know as Trevor says. I'm not going to answer him in hopes he goes away.

“Katy said you’d be out here,” his voice lingers in the air after he states that fact. I still make no motion to show I'm alive.

“Do you ever talk? I mean, because when we met you barely said two words before you and Maylene walked into the house and saw the party. After that I didn’t see you and Maylene said not to worry about it.” Still silence on my part still. This guy knows how to ruin my serene state.

Trevor takes my silence as an invitation to sit down beside me. “What’s that?” He asks pointing to my composition journal with my most personal, poems, songs, and thoughts inside. He tries to grab it but I instinctively pull it away, only to realize a second later he has it and is about to open it.

“Please don’t open it,” my voice is barely above a whisper. He stops for a mere second and takes a look at me. His light blue eyes shining bright from the moon light and the flashlight in his hand.

“Aw you finally talk. And all I had to do was take your diary.”

“It’s not my diary…. I have songs and poems in it,” he raises a quizzical eyebrow, “and yes some of my thoughts might be in there.”

I reach to grab my journal back but he keeps it out of reach. I gulp knowing that he’s going to open it. I rest my eyes on the leaves next to my thigh and wish it were skinner.

I can hear him open it, every page flicker as he stops. I know what page he's on and I dread, what he’s about to read. It’s one of my most sensitive subjects that I don’t share with anyone.

He begins to read, there is a lump growing in my throat and I have an urge to cry.

“Who am I? Will I ever stop pretending to be happy? Maybe I am bipolar. One minute I'm happy the next I'm sad. Maybe if I were skinny I wouldn’t be the weird loner at the schools I go to. Maybe if I could fit into a size seven jeans I could laugh like them. Why can't I sing to express myself? Will anyone ever look into my eyes and see what I want them to see? Is it wrong not to find African-American guys attractive?”

That was the end of my thought on that page. I mentally prepare myself for laughing but there comes none. I sit up and start walking to the house.

“YOU FORGOT YOUR JOURNAL!” Trevor yells after me. But all I do is flick him off. Maybe I should never let a guy get close to me. Maybe mom is right to move all over and never let me get attached.