madeline-may-1 - Hello Poetry

I. Identity? For so long, I've felt like I had none. I am a piece of college-ruled paper ripped, torn, taped to a back alley wall with names and dates and places all written in a rainbow of Sharpies by people with faces I cannot remember; my handwriting with the cursive "f"s nowhere to be seen, words I'd written so long ago buried beneath the influence of everyone else. Who are you, when you're no one except everyone? II. I'm sick. I am years of not getting out of bed. I am missed school days, late-passes, a truant. I am doctor's notes. I am a pile of handwritten prescriptions. I am one white two orange one pink and two multi-vitamins. Misdiagnoses, tests, exams. My feet melt into the blue and grey carpeting, my arms turn brown like the worn-down stain of the armrests, the receptionist knew me by name until "next week's appointment" slipped off the calendar. I am episodes of crying in crowds or crying alone. I'm haunted by mistakes remembered only by me. I am up or I'm down without knowing what's between. My brain leaves my body and I can't feel my hands so the bottle of Advil moves up one more shelf. I am told to lie on my medical forms so I won't be held at arms length, or treated like someone who's different or strange; but that's just how I'm treated at home. III. I am nothing more than the result of years of torture. Two bra sizes too small. Four dress sizes too big. I am nothing more than a waistline, which would be fine if I had one. I am not pretty enough. I am not beautiful enough. I am not good enough. And I will not be joining you for dinner. IV. I push people away but long for them to come closer. I run, keep my distance but, when you're not looking, lean in a bit closer. I text boys 300 miles away but pretend he's right there beside me. I'm gullible, I'm weak. I fall for anything, I fall for everything. I forgive too quickly and I love too much, I set myself up for the fall. V. I'm a disappointment. I'm wrong. I'm wrong. I'm wrong. I forget my chores. I forget responsibilities. I forget rules, I forget deadlines, I forget lines in the play. I forget numbers and facts and formulas. And when the grades come back I remember what a parents' giving up looks like. VI. I'm difficult. I'm needy. I can't drive, can't make my own appointments. Can't sign my own papers, can't run my own errands, can't buy my own dinner, can't call my own shots. I'm difficult. I hear myself say that I don't have a choice But the sigh in reply says, I'm difficult. VII. I love the wrong gender. I swing the wrong way. "I always imagined my daughter walking down the aisle with a man who reminded her of her father," he says. "I'm just disappointed," he says. So I bring home a boy and Mom says, "Thank you - I promise, it's easier this way." Some girls tell their families when they find their first love, but mine will stay hidden in the box with the K filled with letters and gifts and "thinking of you"'s collecting dust between the wall and my bed. VIII. I am numbers, and numbers, and numbers. Weights, heights, exes, mistakes - too high. Grades, standardized tests, word counts and successes - too low. IX. I'm deluded. Always telling myself that if Mom really loved me she'd put me before the glass of wine. Convincing myself that it's my fault and that I'm selfish, petty, judgmental. I'm hurt. I'm hopeful. Waking up to the overhead light in my room at 10 when Dad comes home from work - asking me how my day went and closing the door before I can reply. I'm silent. I'm lonely. Clinging to the siblings of friends and partners desperately wanting a family. Constantly jumping from partner to partner desperately needing a hug. I'm alone. X. With all my shortcomings with all I do wrong it's hard for me to find when I do something right. But of all the things I'll never know, I know how to feel, I know how to care. I'll show you passion like you've never seen passion before. I've seen gods in mortals and mortals in gods, I've felt fire inside me when it's icy around me, I've painted the Sistine Chapel with the notes of F. Doppler, I've sculpted the moon and the stars and the sun with my heart, I've loved with the urgency of the wind of a hurricane and I've forgiven like the sand did the Atlantic high tide. XI. I forget so much, but there's so much more to remember. I'll remember your dreams, your hopes, your ambitions, I'll remember your tears on the sleeve of my shirt. I'll remember the days of the sweet uncertainties, bus rides and text messages and scarves and "good morning"s. I'll remember the day my heart fell for yours (ticking, ticking, like the bomb in the birdcage). I'll remember the album with the songs named after planets, and I'll remember when you couldn't meet my eyes to the lyrics. I'll remember the confessions from the football field bleachers, even next year, when there's an empty chair in the orchestra. I'll forget all our fights, even the ones you never will, and I might lose some of our laughs, but I'll never forget passion at 4 in the morning, or slow-dancing like middle schoolers at high-school dances, or your body against mine to old SNL re-runs. I'll always remember the times you let me in and I'll be here in silence for the times you still can't. I'll remember our promises of dreams and forever - plantations in Greece, Italy, Spain. Love letters and presents hidden around our camp cabins, four years of love, friendship, promises dissolved in a haze of disdain. I may not remember the quadratic formula, I may not remember Newton's third law, but I'll never forget how you make my heart hammer, even when you forget me. XII. I am forgettable, only wishing to be remembered by someone, someday, sad, looking for joy in things big and small. A hypocrite, begging for proximity then crawling far, far away. I am miserable, but passionate. I am identical, but a glaring mistake. I am what-if's, maybe's, and might-have-been's. I am quoting Jethro Tull songs in my confessions. I am words in my head that will never escape my lips, I am words on my lips that should never have escaped my head. I am things I'll never say and stories I'll never write, I am singing in the shower, dancing in the halls, I am running across busy streets in April and sleeping in screened-in porches in June. XIII. And every time I wake up alone, I'll stand in the yard, look up to the sky and remind myself that the sun, too, is alone but can still warm the earth with its love.

0

Jan 15, 2015

Jan 15, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC

madeline-may-1

song of myself

I. Identity? For so long, I've felt like I had none. I am a piece of college-ruled paper ripped, torn, taped to a back alley wall with names and dates and places all written in a rainbow of Sharpies by people with faces I cannot remember; my handwriting with the cursive "f"s nowhere to be seen, words I'd written so long ago buried beneath the influence of everyone else. Who are you, when you're no one except everyone? II. I'm sick. I am years of not getting out of bed. I am missed school days, late-passes, a truant. I am doctor's notes. I am a pile of handwritten prescriptions. I am one white two orange one pink and two multi-vitamins. Misdiagnoses, tests, exams. My feet melt into the blue and grey carpeting, my arms turn brown like the worn-down stain of the armrests, the receptionist knew me by name until "next week's appointment" slipped off the calendar. I am episodes of crying in crowds or crying alone. I'm haunted by mistakes remembered only by me. I am up or I'm down without knowing what's between. My brain leaves my body and I can't feel my hands so the bottle of Advil moves up one more shelf. I am told to lie on my medical forms so I won't be held at arms length, or treated like someone who's different or strange; but that's just how I'm treated at home. III. I am nothing more than the result of years of torture. Two bra sizes too small. Four dress sizes too big. I am nothing more than a waistline, which would be fine if I had one. I am not pretty enough. I am not beautiful enough. I am not good enough. And I will not be joining you for dinner. IV. I push people away but long for them to come closer. I run, keep my distance but, when you're not looking, lean in a bit closer. I text boys 300 miles away but pretend he's right there beside me. I'm gullible, I'm weak. I fall for anything, I fall for everything. I forgive too quickly and I love too much, I set myself up for the fall. V. I'm a disappointment. I'm wrong. I'm wrong. I'm wrong. I forget my chores. I forget responsibilities. I forget rules, I forget deadlines, I forget lines in the play. I forget numbers and facts and formulas. And when the grades come back I remember what a parents' giving up looks like. VI. I'm difficult. I'm needy. I can't drive, can't make my own appointments. Can't sign my own papers, can't run my own errands, can't buy my own dinner, can't call my own shots. I'm difficult. I hear myself say that I don't have a choice But the sigh in reply says, I'm difficult. VII. I love the wrong gender. I swing the wrong way. "I always imagined my daughter walking down the aisle with a man who reminded her of her father," he says. "I'm just disappointed," he says. So I bring home a boy and Mom says, "Thank you - I promise, it's easier this way." Some girls tell their families when they find their first love, but mine will stay hidden in the box with the K filled with letters and gifts and "thinking of you"'s collecting dust between the wall and my bed. VIII. I am numbers, and numbers, and numbers. Weights, heights, exes, mistakes - too high. Grades, standardized tests, word counts and successes - too low. IX. I'm deluded. Always telling myself that if Mom really loved me she'd put me before the glass of wine. Convincing myself that it's my fault and that I'm selfish, petty, judgmental. I'm hurt. I'm hopeful. Waking up to the overhead light in my room at 10 when Dad comes home from work - asking me how my day went and closing the door before I can reply. I'm silent. I'm lonely. Clinging to the siblings of friends and partners desperately wanting a family. Constantly jumping from partner to partner desperately needing a hug. I'm alone. X. With all my shortcomings with all I do wrong it's hard for me to find when I do something right. But of all the things I'll never know, I know how to feel, I know how to care. I'll show you passion like you've never seen passion before. I've seen gods in mortals and mortals in gods, I've felt fire inside me when it's icy around me, I've painted the Sistine Chapel with the notes of F. Doppler, I've sculpted the moon and the stars and the sun with my heart, I've loved with the urgency of the wind of a hurricane and I've forgiven like the sand did the Atlantic high tide. XI. I forget so much, but there's so much more to remember. I'll remember your dreams, your hopes, your ambitions, I'll remember your tears on the sleeve of my shirt. I'll remember the days of the sweet uncertainties, bus rides and text messages and scarves and "good morning"s. I'll remember the day my heart fell for yours (ticking, ticking, like the bomb in the birdcage). I'll remember the album with the songs named after planets, and I'll remember when you couldn't meet my eyes to the lyrics. I'll remember the confessions from the football field bleachers, even next year, when there's an empty chair in the orchestra. I'll forget all our fights, even the ones you never will, and I might lose some of our laughs, but I'll never forget passion at 4 in the morning, or slow-dancing like middle schoolers at high-school dances, or your body against mine to old SNL re-runs. I'll always remember the times you let me in and I'll be here in silence for the times you still can't. I'll remember our promises of dreams and forever - plantations in Greece, Italy, Spain. Love letters and presents hidden around our camp cabins, four years of love, friendship, promises dissolved in a haze of disdain. I may not remember the quadratic formula, I may not remember Newton's third law, but I'll never forget how you make my heart hammer, even when you forget me. XII. I am forgettable, only wishing to be remembered by someone, someday, sad, looking for joy in things big and small. A hypocrite, begging for proximity then crawling far, far away. I am miserable, but passionate. I am identical, but a glaring mistake. I am what-if's, maybe's, and might-have-been's. I am quoting Jethro Tull songs in my confessions. I am words in my head that will never escape my lips, I am words on my lips that should never have escaped my head. I am things I'll never say and stories I'll never write, I am singing in the shower, dancing in the halls, I am running across busy streets in April and sleeping in screened-in porches in June. XIII. And every time I wake up alone, I'll stand in the yard, look up to the sky and remind myself that the sun, too, is alone but can still warm the earth with its love.

193

there is water in my lungs, darling I'm choking, suffocating my face is beginning to match the sky and I'm not sure I can feel my fingers but I think I feel more at my farthest extremities than I've ever really felt for us for the last two hundred and seventy-six days I've wondered how I would breathe if you ever left my side but never for a minute did I consider that I might be the one to leave you

0

Oct 4, 2014

Oct 4, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC

madeline-may-1

two hundred and seventy seven

there is water in my lungs, darling I'm choking, suffocating my face is beginning to match the sky and I'm not sure I can feel my fingers but I think I feel more at my farthest extremities than I've ever really felt for us for the last two hundred and seventy-six days I've wondered how I would breathe if you ever left my side but never for a minute did I consider that I might be the one to leave you

11

I hate the way I refer to him and "you" and you as "him" I hate the way the passage of a year means nothing to my aching heart and I hate the way the thought of her lips that are too thin and her eyes that are too dark and her hair that is too long is what he's chosen for three hundred and sixty seven days because I hate the way she told you you didn't love me the day you called me to tell me they told you what love was and I hate the way that I will always fall back into you and the jail cell that traps me between your ribs but I love the taste of the glue from this envelope that lingers on my lips I love the way you wrap your arms around my waist I love the way you look at me as you **** me until I can't breathe I love the way the blue of the skies I see when I wake up in the morning and the seas that lull me to sleep at night pales in comparison to the blue of your eyes and I love the way I miss you when I stop at stop lights and you aren't there to unclench my hands from the wheel and I love the way we look at these stars together from this distance but ******* christ I hate the way the specks of light in this god forsaken sky are so far away - just like you from me tonight I just hope they find a way to tell you that I love you with their whispering voices in the dawn cause baby now it's just you and me

0

Jul 13, 2014

Jul 13, 2014 at 2:49 AM UTC

madeline-may-1

jailbird

I hate the way I refer to him and "you" and you as "him" I hate the way the passage of a year means nothing to my aching heart and I hate the way the thought of her lips that are too thin and her eyes that are too dark and her hair that is too long is what he's chosen for three hundred and sixty seven days because I hate the way she told you you didn't love me the day you called me to tell me they told you what love was and I hate the way that I will always fall back into you and the jail cell that traps me between your ribs but I love the taste of the glue from this envelope that lingers on my lips I love the way you wrap your arms around my waist I love the way you look at me as you **** me until I can't breathe I love the way the blue of the skies I see when I wake up in the morning and the seas that lull me to sleep at night pales in comparison to the blue of your eyes and I love the way I miss you when I stop at stop lights and you aren't there to unclench my hands from the wheel and I love the way we look at these stars together from this distance but ******* christ I hate the way the specks of light in this god forsaken sky are so far away - just like you from me tonight I just hope they find a way to tell you that I love you with their whispering voices in the dawn cause baby now it's just you and me

7

I'd rather be the shattered mess of glass strewn across the floor of every hallway in your house than be the frame that once held this mirror together because now that I'm free from the grasp of this "pride" you so cherished you can't leave the lonely cave in your black hole of a heart without the remnants of me splitting your flesh to the bone.

0

Mar 27, 2014

Mar 27, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC

madeline-may-1

glass

I'd rather be the shattered mess of glass strewn across the floor of every hallway in your house than be the frame that once held this mirror together because now that I'm free from the grasp of this "pride" you so cherished you can't leave the lonely cave in your black hole of a heart without the remnants of me splitting your flesh to the bone.

14

I'll never apologize for my love to you but I'll tell you I'm sorry it took so long please don't tell me how long you cried I know that I'm weak, but I know you're not strong you can't expect my fragile frame to save you from your mighty deep though, it's possible I followed you there when you picked her to keep

0

Mar 19, 2014

Mar 19, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC

madeline-may-1

you told me not to apologize II

I'll never apologize for my love to you but I'll tell you I'm sorry it took so long please don't tell me how long you cried I know that I'm weak, but I know you're not strong you can't expect my fragile frame to save you from your mighty deep though, it's possible I followed you there when you picked her to keep

8

I promised myself That if you were to drown That I'd go down with you That I would spare my dying breath For one last second with you But now If he were to drown I would fight to my last breath To share it with him To breathe together To heal together To live together To love together

0

Mar 11, 2014

Mar 11, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC

madeline-may-1

drown [i know it's right now because]

I promised myself That if you were to drown That I'd go down with you That I would spare my dying breath For one last second with you But now If he were to drown I would fight to my last breath To share it with him To breathe together To heal together To live together To love together

13

You were my summer love Kisses in the bus loop And sweaty palms in July You were hope, you were safe, you were home You were burdened by my transgressions You were love, you were love, you were love And when you slipped through the cracks Of my cruel, violent hands You were lost

0

Mar 11, 2014

Mar 11, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC

madeline-may-1

daniel

You were my summer love Kisses in the bus loop And sweaty palms in July You were hope, you were safe, you were home You were burdened by my transgressions You were love, you were love, you were love And when you slipped through the cracks Of my cruel, violent hands You were lost

13

it was stale bubblegum it was a bouquet of paper flowers it was my favorite latte in a styrofoam coffee cup and all it did was make my teeth ache

0

Nov 20, 2013

Nov 20, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC

madeline-may-1

styrofoam coffee cup

it was stale bubblegum it was a bouquet of paper flowers it was my favorite latte in a styrofoam coffee cup and all it did was make my teeth ache

4

it's three months later and the tune of our love still echoes through the labyrinth of my prozac-poisoned cerebrum it's the sound of rainy evenings in whitewashed suburban neighborhoods overwhelming me as it ricochets off the cold stone it's the ghost of your hand holding mine so tight and it feels like home as I stand here alone even as the symphony changes key to red hair and bright blue eyes the cadence of you still rings in my mind

0

Nov 9, 2013

Nov 9, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC

madeline-may-1

cadence

it's three months later and the tune of our love still echoes through the labyrinth of my prozac-poisoned cerebrum it's the sound of rainy evenings in whitewashed suburban neighborhoods overwhelming me as it ricochets off the cold stone it's the ghost of your hand holding mine so tight and it feels like home as I stand here alone even as the symphony changes key to red hair and bright blue eyes the cadence of you still rings in my mind

16

but i wish time spoke in more of a vernacular and less of a riddle

0

Sep 14, 2013

Sep 14, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC

madeline-may-1

time

but i wish time spoke in more of a vernacular and less of a riddle

2