you come in like fog in the early morning
before i know it, i'm lost again
i try to rub the sleep from my eyes,
but i soon realize that the opacity isn't external.
the mystery includes the following:
your whereabouts
how you wear your hair
the fullness of your kitchen sink
and also of your heart
how often you chew the collar of your shirt
which channels you watch
what time you go to bed and
if i'm bound to run into you again
someday
--
she sits on a park bench
wishing to be back in bed,
wishing to be back home,
wishing to be strong enough
to let him go.
--
"a couple months is nothing
in the big scheme of things"
she reminds herself of this
every time she lies in bed,
both at night when she pulls
the covers more tightly around her
and in the morning when she wakes.
"a couple months is nothing
when we have forever ahead of us"
--
she broke three nails while tying her shoes.
her headphones broke during her run.
the shower wouldn't get warm enough.
she bumped her hip into the table,
the stack of mail fell to the floor.
her pantry was empty.
and on the calendar, hanging on the wall,
was a date marked: September 18
'Baby comes home from Texas'
underneath, small scratchings read:
'make sure to buy some wine'
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
i'm not sure if i can remember how to write, but i want to relearn, just for you. i want to have the freshest and happiest time of my life documented in some way, i want to write about you. i need to learn how to write something cheerful instead of all the depressed and heartbroken crap i used to slap onto the page. i want to capture your scent in words, your laugh in paragraphs. i want you to be pressed not only between my pages, but between my sheets, between my arms, my legs, even. i want your warmth to come through in my tone and your shy eyes, which have faded from a deep brown to a lighter hazel, to brighten up my words. i want to be daring for you, to go do crazy stuff and laugh the whole way through. i want you to see me as you never have before: silly, drunk, strong, motivated, outgoing, intimidating, naked. i want you to turn your head back for a double-take every time i walk by with my chin held high. you should be giddy each time i hold your hand or smile with my dimples showing. when i hug you, you should pick me up off my feet and sway me back and forth like you did the other night. i want you to be left in awe and lightheaded every time i kiss you.
what i'm trying to say is, i've been waiting for this since i was thirteen years old. i've dreamed about you for the past eight years. i want to watch you learn every inch of me, both psychologically and physically.
when it comes down to it, i just want you. and right now, i'm pretty impatient. so come back home, and be quick about it.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
3rd grade, 4th grade:
A sickening drop in my stomach,
My head is in the lowest gear.
I know that they live such different lives,
And yet we are connected by blood.
I can hear my pulse stop from the beat of their music,
I can feel my abdomen shrink into my spine as they yell at their mother,
I can see my hands shake even though we have the same blue eyes and same round cheeks.
I am terrified of their reality.
8th grade, 9th grade:
Strangers produce this physiological change in me:
Those with dark eyes, dark hair-
Those who are obviously different from me.
I am scared of realities I know aren't mine.
12th grade, 13th grade:
The reality I came to love is what frightens me the most.
The 4th grader within me is trembling in my palms,
She is crying in my ears,
Trying to cover up the sounds of your hiccups,
Trying to cover up the feeling of your tremors in my arms.
I trust you with my life,
But I don't trust you with your own.
I am frightened of a reality that I cannot protect.
14th grade, 15th grade:
Strength keeps me moving -
Both physical and mental.
I have carved out my own reality,
But lack an understanding of those I used to fear.
It's not in the beats of their music,
It's not in how you grind your teeth,
Or how you haunt me in my dreams.
I feel like my body is bruised -
I swear I can see the purple fade into green fade into pale skin.
I become absolutely afraid of what I still have the inability to do-
I cannot ever save anyone I feel for.
My fear is of not being a hero,
Not of you being the villain.
And sometimes
When I'm the villain,
I dream of heroes cutting me down.
I begin to believe in all-or-nothing, black-or-white justice
Where I am the only road block to a preferred reality.
So just cut me off, push me out, hit me down.
I don't want to make anyone ever feel the sickening drop
In body temperature
That has defined my idea of fear.
I don't want to be anybody's idea of failure.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
what i have to say is
"i'm feeling pretty sad right now"
but it can be illegal to let
negativity sprout in the crevices
of support structures and tear ducts.
what i want to tell you is
"i miss what i left behind with him"
but it is not well looked upon
to tell of misfortunes with old loves
to those who could be new.
what i wish i could say is
"the healthier i get, the more i want
to go back in time"
but those words would fall upon
full hearts, heightened expectations,
and lost connections.
i set ablaze every bridge
i came across, and there is no way
to travel back now,
and there would be not a single soul
waiting there for me.
what i do say is
"my shoulders are burning today,
my back feels broken this evening,
my eyes are dull tonight"
because physical ailments
are tangible and have permission
to exist, but, indeed,
they are the easiest pains
to cause myself.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
repetitive two- or three- word phrases
are the outer limit of my vocabulary
when all i can hear is
my pulse in my throat and
my hands and legs rattling
against the floorboards.
my back is spiraling into itself,
searching for my stomach, for my lungs,
searching for a reason for this
suffocating pain and imminent death.
my eyes can't settle on any single object,
because everything is fragile
and i'm afraid to watch anything break-
maybe it's because i watched you break,
i watched my words break your trust,
i watched my actions wreck your beliefs.
a few minutes later, when the attack passes
and i'm alone on my bedroom floor,
i detach my arms from around my knees,
shove myself up with whatever strength i can muster,
and scrub yesterday's makeup
from the bags under my eyes.
someday i'll look back on this
and i'll see that i was a warrior.
a warrior with holes in my armor.
a paladin without a proper breastplate,
lacking the internal systems
that offer refuge during something as simple
as a panic attack.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
cracking you open,
right there on the street,
would give me the satisfaction
that i've never asked for.
you offered me your wrist for me
to slit
for weeks, for months, for years,
wishing i'd hurt you just so your tears
and self-hatred
could be "justified".
don't you know?
you didn't get the memo?
none of us have the justification
that we feel gives us permission
to destroy or be destroyed.
we're all wandering the alleys at night
hoping,
wishing,
that someone will stab us in the gut,
just because we wouldn't flinch
and wouldn't give up our wallet.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
almost every **** day
i halt words that are about to spill from my throat,
i hiccup over sentences that i can't bear to speak.
three letter words can serve as a trigger
that launches a full fledged attack on my nerves,
which in turn launches me out into the street.
and every time my heel hits the pavement
all i can hear is "get out. get out. get out."
all i know is that i need to get out.
and i need to get out fast.
but almost every **** day
i spit out terms of endearment
for all of those who
i hold so dangerously high.
i almost collapse under their weight
when that short, seemingly insignificant word
almost sneaks past my lips.
the soles of my sneakers
can barely hold me aloft
when i run with such panicked purpose,
hearing nothing but
"how could i almost- how could i almost-
how could i almost say-"
and knowing that
indeed, i almost said it.
and almost every **** day
i lash out at the memories
that i've cut into jigsaw pieces,
trying to throttle the
panic-prone girl i've grown from
into screaming the word
so loud her voice cracks
and her throat bleeds.
but she knows the weight
that a three lettered word can hold.
she will preserve a seat
within the limits of her vocabulary
for what she defines as
'safety, comfort, security'
even though i define it to mean
'panic. go. get out. escape.'
and almost every **** day
i utter a word to show my loved ones
how much i want to hold them,
to protect them and take
both attack and blame head on for them,
how much i want to hurt for them.
i stare into the eyes
of my best friends
and i almost say it,
i almost call them
'kid'
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 1:12 AM UTC
convincing a child that someone is now
forever absent
from their life is a matter of
saying goodbye, wiping up tears,
and never seeing a trace of them
again.
as an eighteen year old,
i would have appreciated the child's version
of this ritual of persuasion.
instead, i got two-month intervals of
delay and lingering,
times of remaining identical
to the stale soul i had become.
i could count the intervals
exactly to the day -
two months was the longest
anyone could go before shattering
into insignificant shards.
as a twenty year old,
i have become skeptical
of the idea that someone could
leave at all.
i might not speak to them,
i might not see them,
i might not notice things around me
that used to define my vision of them,
but the absence of habits
gives absolutely no validity
to the claim that they are
forever gone from my world.
i have spent four point zero two percent
of my life with dulled senses.
for ten months
my vision was blurry,
my hearing was garbled,
my sense of smell was practically
ripped out of my body.
in this time, i forgot that:
there is a certain angle to the shoulder blades
that i find beautiful,
i feel at peace when i hear a boy sing,
a familiar scent can snap me back to
whatever year i first smelled it.
my lack of perceiving the world
almost convinced me that
someone could be forever absent.
but my senses have recently
come back to me,
along with all the memories
they originally created.
i can finally see the bridges of noses
and the straightness of forearms,
i can finally hear voices tip toe
around guitar strings,
i can finally recall how
comforting it is to know
exactly how the most important people in my life
smell.
i took this reunion of senses
as a sign to move forward,
as a sign that
i'm through with waiting.
my life has taken a turn
and i have swiftly started
on a path to being
someone no one knew before.
i have heard quite a number
of testimonials that explain
in great detail
just how different i have become.
and some nights that is the last thing
i want to hear -
that i succeeded in changing myself,
that i succeeded in giving up
what i thought i stood for,
what i thought i wanted,
what i thought was permanent.
i loved who i was.
i still love who i was.
but, i have almost been thoroughly convinced
that who i was is now
completely absent from
my current spirit.
i am learning to love my senses again,
even though they remind me of
how i lived the other
ninety-five point nine eight percent
of my life.
strangers can smell like boys i thought
were forever gone,
strangers can laugh just like boys i thought
were forever absent,
strangers can have the same stretch of shoulders
and the same strong forearms as boys i thought
would never come back.
and sometimes they take the seat next to mine
on the bus,
in class,
at a movie or at dinner.
so, as an almost twenty-one year old,
i have decided that surely,
no one can ever be forever absent
from your life.
the best you can get is
a deadening of senses so that
you no longer notice all the little things
that bring the part of your soul
that they labeled as theirs
back into being.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 5:49 PM UTC
what am i doing to myself?
that surge of panic
a heart-stuttering, mouth-opening, clenching-of-the-jaw
panic
the realization that my hands are to blame
for the strength of my bones
for the confidence in my eyes
for the smile that comes so naturally now-
how do i take this back?
how could i be such a stranger to myself
how could i let my dreams fall away
how could i pack it all into a single shoe box
how could i leave her behind,
after all she's done for me?
this line is much too thin to walk
and my bathophobia is making me stumble
one side of the fence houses
fruit, sweat, strength, genuine laughter, newness of life
and enough self-worth to inspire
the other contains
blood, tears, collapse and destruction, a lack of sleep
and enough regret to drown everyone i've ever loved
and yet, in my eyes, it is comfort
*how do i choose between health and safety?
why am i making myself destroy one life to start another?
will it even be worth it when someone else
steps out of the ashes?*
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
empty bottle resembles empty heart
and empty head,
and empty bed
--
every song is a punch to the gut
reminding her that she must
she must
be better, be stronger, be confident
and yet relapse is on the road
to the imaginary land of recovery
--
she develops an intense relationship
with her lonesome bed
blanets reach out to keep her pinned
-to pillows
-in sleep
-with tear-stained cheeks, chewed up nails,
swollen shoulder blades
her mattress is desperate for the kisses and sighs
she gives it night after night
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC