What did I do to get those stares?
Why do you guys look at like I'm a freak.
They whisper and stare at me when I Board the bus.
I'm just like you guys.
I came back for the Love of the Sport.
Not to be a Nuisance.
I came because I love the sport. I don't care if I don't play.
So Please don't give me the look why am I here?
and Ignore me like I'm not there.
I know I got cut from the team. I know I don't have my Serve.
I know I seem weak.
Like I can't do my Job.
But I'm trying my Hardest.
I want to please you guys.
I want you to see that I'm here to help.
The stares and whispers are breaking me.
I'm going to have a breakdown.
Because I know you guys don't want me there.
I know why Stick around somewhere where you aren't wanted?
I want to show them I care enough. That I am strong enough.
I Just wish that's how they saw me.
Ever since day 1 he was truly determined to play,
If I met him our friendship would never decay,
I once did volleyball myself whenI was younger,
Winning a single game won't satisfy his hunger,
I would run with him on that mountain every day,
I would see to it that he never feels grey,
I would want to be his greatest friend without drama,
But that spot has been taken by Kageyama,
They teach us how even enemies can become great allies,
Everyone of their games together are quite a surprise,
The Nets Hold Our Dreams Like Tangled Bugs,
And The Courts Gleam With Our Ambition,
Beads Of Sweat Form Perfectly On Our Raised Brows,
As We Play With The Attitude A Champion Needs,
We Are Dressed In Black And Blue,
Floor Burn Covering Our No Longer Smooth Skin,
Our Lips Bleeding From The Battle For The Ball,
The Sound Of Screaming Becomes White Noise,
As We Burrow Into The Gym Floor,
Just For One More Medal,
And As We Walk Away From The Courts,
With Our Arms Bruised And Torn,
Red And Raw,
We Smile At Our Dreams Still Lying,
In The Twisted Nets
I feel bad for her because I know she's hurting.
But does she know how much pain she puts on me.
Making me think he doesn't love me.
Maybe I believe it.
That's the pathetic part.
Her pain causing the problems of my future life with Him.
This is not the love of a mother.
Who doesn't approve of her daughter.
Who she is now.
The person that she loves to be.
This is emotional abuse.
God get us out of this labyrinth.
Set the generations of past free for the future.
For only the hole in my chest is never going to fully recover with this madness.
This is not good madness.
The repetition of the flash on the screen makes my heart panic.
Alas it should be comfort that the soul encounters.
Stemming from a picture
Posted on Facebook
Over whether a volleyball is pink or bubblegum.
You girls should seriously get your eyes checked
Suggests its owner
Because the volleyball is most definitely not pink
Indeed bubblegum and white.
It is sad, he says,
That a college-aged person does not know
The basic colors of life.
He tells us I will pray for you
As if we are the ones who need to be atoned.
What is our sin?
Hes wondering why
God gave us such shallow minds
And bad color perception.
To this I take offense, especially since
Perception is not spelled
Conception, Construction and Liposuction
Into the mix.
Where is this going I asked What is the relevance
Of these things?
He has no answer…
The things I have learned from this
are very clear:
Pink does not equal bubblegum
Facebook does not equal
And owning a pink volleyball
Does not equal being effeminate
And whether male or female
All are one.
I bounce a volleyball as I walk to my dorm
just to hear that delightful sound, that satisfying, clean thud off the cement.
look up, see you in that grey hoodie that gives me bad dreams
and curse under my breath, eyes darting like a cornered fox,
there is nowhere to hide.
we almost exchange eye contact, I almost taste blood in my mouth
I hate how familiar you are.
you look down, cough;
I murmur a dusty hello-goodbye into the ground, hold my volleyball tighter
against my chest –
and hurry on, court sneakers straining on the pavement, trying too hard to forget your cracked smiles.
I remember how we used to pass for hours
no sound but the volleyball slapping against our forearms,
brushing off our fingertips,
echoing through that Choate gymnasium, that cold spring;
My head had barely reached the middle of the net,
but you were tall and brave and handsome, my Prince Charming, and
I was a freshman girl with her heart on her sleeve, who
hugged a warm volleyball to her heart and smiled,
thinking herself lucky.
Spring thawed your heart, eventually,
and you let me hold your hand;
you had long fingers, cold to the touch.
you taught me how to set, complimented my hands,
trained me to cradle the ball with my thumbs like it was made of glass,
your hands around mine.
I was braver than you were,
because everything felt fresh and exciting to me, like the
smell of crushed pine needles in the air;
you kissed me (I kissed you?) on that night
and I leaned forward, curious and eager, and wrapped my arms
around your neck.
The days melted into one another,
and we became
like chalk drawings blurring after rain,
like floor burns from sliding to save a falling ball –
but missing it, all the effort gone to waste;
the burns will still burn and still scar, for nothing.
May to June, June to July,
I hugged you and laughed, but my eyes
were cold; you said I love you
And I tried to say it back, but I couldn’t without
sticking a used to before the love –
the honey words stuck in my throat.
Our kisses were routine, stale
like the crackers I left out the night before;
I tapped my foot and
tossed the volleyball quickly behind my back with nimble fingers
and counted the seconds before it was acceptable to pull back;
I had homework and volleyball practice and quizzes to study for, you know – I tried to smile but
it felt so wrong, I stopped –
you asked what was wrong, I shook my head, there are no answers for some questions.
It’s been four years since we’ve spoken,
shared secret moments under solemn oak trees, behind library bookshelves
that promised to keep us away from prying eyes,
smiled into each other’s lips,
blinked stories into each other’s eyes.
It’s been four years since people have teased you for not
hitting the ball when we passed – you gentleman, you –
I will not say I miss you, because I refuse to lie for your sake;
but sometimes as I set a ball perfectly to a hitter
I think of you for a split second, wonder where you are and if you remember as much
as I do, which is, honestly
not very much.
she writes letters to him and then burns them all, the smell of smoke fills the room.
It’s as if she is stealing the fury of the sun, which is cooling down, melting into lava at the horizon –
it will be another cold winter, there is already frost in the grass, the air smells chilly.
I broke up with you as nicely as I could –
there was no reason I fell out of love, the same way
there is no reason people fall in love.
you have no right bitching me out on the internet the way you did.
Every time I hit a volleyball I imagine your face on my palm, and I hit harder.
I will never forgive you for the things you wrote,
and I don’t know if I ever loved you at all,
because you are despicable.
the girl of your dreams.
it’s the beginning of the end of July, everything is so hot.
the pavement is baking, the volleyballs are flat,
her arms feel weak and limp like overcooked noodles.
it’s hard to think straight. She can hardly remember
her own name before remembering that she has a boyfriend.
He calls, he says I love you and she tries to choke out that well-rehearsed lie –
what was it again? something like I love you too?
But it’s too hot, and she
can’t do it anymore –
she swallows hard and grips her volleyball tighter,
her hands sweating against the weathered sphere that has been through so much with her
as she prepares to say goodbye.