annabel-lee-95
"It was many and many a year ago, / In a kingdom by the sea, / That a maiden there lived whom you may know / By the name of Annabel Lee." / - Edgar Allen Poe / / Finding inspiration and beauty in the world we live in, and writing it down. Everything published by me is copyrighted and protected by law.
I am a terrible dancer.
But for you I would dance,
I would twirl and spin and slide,
to whatever music you gave me
my clumsy clomping feet would suddenly
for a moment be graceful,
just for you.
I am a terrible singer.
But for one glance of your smile
I would climb each stumbling, soaring note
I would belt out my love for you
singing along to the radio in our car
tremulously letting song fill me,
just for you.
I am a terrible writer.
But I compose this poem out of
nothing but love for you
-- because I have nothing else --
and I'd rearrange the alphabet
a thousand times over
til it forms the words I want,
just so, on the page,
just for you.
I am a terrible artist.
But I would cut my heart and bleed
my love for you to paint with;
my body to be a sculpted statue
a monument of ******* and hips and desire
only for you.
I am a terrible lover.
But all I can say is that I try, with all my might
for you to know my love, feel my love
and not just when we are entangled in each other but
even when we walk side by side down the street,
when my fingers brush yours unexpectedly,
in the way you rub your eyes when you are tired
and the way you stare at me for so long I get uncomfortable,
saying, "I just like to look at you."
I see you and my love is
always for you, always with you,
a glow of me in all you do because
I am standing on this cliff edge and
it's too late, it's too late
I've given you all of me, and even if it
destroys me
there's no coming back
Everything I do, I do for you.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
i'm sitting in this car and for some reason i can feel my heartbeat
throbbing in my back,
i think of the last time i thought about you, and how
i wanted to die because i can't be with you; how
melodramatic and filled with these unavoidable clichés
i am
i love
you, tenderly
totally
tragically.
my window rolled down, and the weather is dry
as my eyes in this night
but it should be monsooning because
inside, my heart is a river and i'm just trying
to stay afloat.
i'll never look at my hands the same way again,
not after i saw the way they looked interlocked with yours
and my fingers are tainted by your lips, the way
you kissed them so gently and told me
they were beautiful.
i see things that remind me of you
- stripes, for example - and
i have to stop for a moment
because i'm shuddering under a crashing wave
of you, you, you,
smilelipsteethtongueeyeshairvoicehandssoftroughmeyou
my mind doesn't hold memories; it holds moments of
perfection, and
you are my perfect moment.
"I try."
"You don't have to."
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 3:48 PM UTC
I just want to talk to you.
Yeah, I want to kiss you and
hold you and make you laugh
and smile
but the fact that
I think about you when
you're probably not thinking about me
is what is causing this huge aching painful emptiness
inside of my chest, a spot that used to be filled
with the warmth you caused whenever you said my name.
I just want to spend time with you, in your presence
knowing that all your smiles and jokes and stories are
directed to me, just to me, because I know I'm your
one and only.
And I've said this before,
apologizing for how utterly stupid I sound
and hating the way this silly cliche sounds
clumsily falling out of my mouth but
how can you not see
the way that you completely
drive me crazy?
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
[Disclaimer: this is quite long, but bear with me]
Depression is a shape-shifting, ever-present monster. It is a monster that many battle; some slay the beast, others are swallowed whole, sacrificing life and limb to its gaping jaws, but most are stuck in an eternal stalemate, neither winning nor losing.
It takes a different form for everyone. Mine was a deep black bottomless lake that I was trapped in, the dark waves lapping at my neck, threatening to submerge me. It was a dense grey fog, obscuring all of my senses and causing me to heave and choke, unable to catch my breath. It was a python as thick as a tree, squeezing the life out of me, tightening with every move I made. It was a cancer in every one of my cells; a dull ache that couldn't be numbed. It was every one of my worst fears realized, ready to pounce as soon as I woke every morning. It was a constant IV drip paralysing every muscle that I couldn't rip out of my arm.
But despite all the imagery, it was not poetic. It was not lyrical. It wasn't a heroic effort to maintain a grip on reality and sanity; it wasn't a single tear falling onto a love letter. It wasn't how it’s been artfully depicted in movies and songs. There was no plot twist, no knight on a white horse, no epiphany followed by an orchestral swell and rolling credits. It wasn't poetic – it was ***** and lonely and terrifying.
It was dealing with the crippling knowledge that I was absolutely worthless, that if I was to fall off the edge of the earth, it really would not matter; that though people would be sad for a little while if I died, I would eventually be forgotten because in light of Eternity, my existence was truly meaningless. It was night after night of restless, soul consuming insomnia paradoxically paired with bone-deep exhaustion. It was struggling to get out of bed the next morning because the monster was sitting on my chest, weighing me down and grinning evilly in my face. It was giving up – on friends, family, school-work, because I was wearing these blinders that forced me to only see myself and my unworthiness. It was second-guessing my every move, terrified that I would do or say the wrong thing, and people wouldn't like me any more. It was withdrawing into the prison in the depths of my mind, trying to peek out the bleary windows of my eyes but only seeing the monster, pacing and drooling and growling at me.
I contemplated suicide countless times but only attempted it once. It wasn't from a sense of self-loathing or unworthiness, it was because I couldn't bear the ache inside of me, I couldn't bear looking in the mirror every morning, I couldn't bear going out and having to spend time with happy people. I couldn't bear feeling like I didn't matter, that I was only a feeble shadow floating throughout my day. Sometimes I would feel sick, physically sick with the anxiety of having to interact with people, and knowing that I would have to pretend to be okay. And it was hiding, choking, suffocating, pressing down the gaping raw hole inside of me – because, for me, the worst thing about depression is not being depressed – it’s the fear that someone will find out. I was suffering, but there was no way any one could know, I could not would not would never ever let anyone know that I was drowning in a black lake and there was no one to save me. It was no one's burden to bear but my own. My suicidal thoughts weren't about the morbidity of death, they were about the freedom and release from my self-inflicted suffering. Because depression is self-inflicted, whether we like to admit it or not. It is a battle of our soul against our mind.
There were people who would occasionally notice I was "feeling down", or "under the weather" and would ask me if I was okay. And I would always say Yes, though inside my prison I would be screaming and rattling the bars of my cage, yelling No, Help Me, Please. And once in a while I would be given a little note, a syringe of words, Scripture to inject in my veins and chase away the numbness. Still others would tell me “it’s all in your head”, and that was when I wanted to scream YES IT IS BUT YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND. People would try to fix me, but I didn't need fixing. (This isn't something you can fix; I was not broken)
I needed someone to lie with me in bed and hold me until I could breathe. I needed someone to hold my hand and never ever let go of me. I needed someone to sit silently with me in the dark, just so I could know I wasn't alone. I needed someone to trust me to be able to fight this monster.
I fight, day in and day out, against the black waters ******* me down. I accept that depression is something that isn't going away right now, and might not ever go away. But I've also come to realize that though this monster may be bigger and stronger and even smarter than me, I am not helpless.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 2:59 AM UTC
Something tells me it's a little stupid that a Lady Gaga song
reminds me of you,
but it does, and I can't help the fact that a frivolous pop song still has
such bittersweet memories.
Memories of all my almosts.
How I almost made a huge mistake, when you asked me to go with you down to the water's edge,
to go see the fishermen's lamps on the lake, golden orbs scattered
across the black water,
and how I decided to decline your offer, but of course I still wonder
the inevitable what if
You were the first boy to tell me I was beautiful,
and oh, how I almost believed you.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC
I wonder what you see when you look at me
I am a stranger, but
there are things you think you know.
And you think you are right.
Every time, your apology
turns into a justification
for the cruel words you threw at me.
Somehow I feel like I understand you
but then I wonder - why?
I could just label you *****
plain and simple
but I know too much of your own
sorrows
to justify myself.
It just adds to the never-ending
ebbing, pulling,
deep down
pool of grief
we all love to swim in.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
they sing Ave, Ave, Ave
and stamp
breaking the holiness
with a spark of devilry
the orange trees dance with them
swaying in the sensual breeze
scenting everything with a youthful zest
their skirts are dusted with the heady incense
smoky and lovely
this hot day everything clings
they swing their hair back
their faces thrilling with joy
facing the sinking sun
they praise the madonna
Ave, Ave Ave Maria
Mother of Our Lord.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
Honesty is so freeing
but so terrifying
Like bungee jumping,
with the pure sweet adrenaline
pumping through your bones
telling you you'll be okay,
you'll be okay,
You're okay.
That's why
I'm still wavering
on the edge of the cliff
feeling the tight straps around my legs,
knowing I will be caught
when I fall
but still seeing the
thousand foot drop beneath me.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 7:55 AM UTC
i went back to the place we first met so many years ago
and stood on the bright-black staircase
surrounded by crumbling red brick
and thought of you.
i thought of how when i met you, you didn't have a single tattoo yet;
we were both twelve.
i thought of the time you told me you loved me, stammering in the dark by the old van
when you kissed my shoulder and i laughed
when you tried to put your arm around me in a stiff, respectful, chivalrous sort of way
don't worry - i didn't think you were awkward at all.
you always said you'd get a tattoo of my name
which i thought was so stupid, but was secretly so flattered
and now i'm just so curious
but too afraid to ask.
did you forget me?
i've never forgotten you.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
I hate that I never said goodbye.
I was only eleven,
and I was a liar,
and I was tired of
hospital beds and crying people and mysterious smells and sounds
and flowers and hymn-singing and
useless tacky balloons that only wasted space,
wilting and deflating after only a few days,
and crumpling to the linoleum into a
shiny crinkled fifteen-dollar piece of trash.
(I thought it was beautiful,
but it was such a waste because
of course you never noticed.)
The February outside was damp and indecisive,
spring one day and winter back the next,
but I would have much rather been out on the freezing cold lawn
than in that tension-filled room of white.
Finally, I could stand it,
once you were home (still in that mechanical bed,
but at least you were in a room with a beautiful stained glass window
and forest green carpet dusted with dog hair)
on that last night
- though of course we could not know it was the last
while we stood in that golden room
and sang you to sleep.
It was terrible-awful to see my father cry
in his father's old navy suit
to be sitting, numb and nonchalant in the first pew
right in the front of the church
right where your slate grey coffin lay
draped in the glorious red white and blue.
And to know that
I had lied when I walked out that door
into the star-sparkled night
because even while I loved you
and love you still
I didn't say goodbye that night.
- February 18th, 2007 -
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC