Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Chrissy Cosgrove Mar 2015
When I was 8 years old, my second favorite place in the whole world was the Campbell Public Library. I liked to go in by myself because I was treated like a grown-up even though I wasn’t. I would walk into the fiction section, walking up and down each of the aisles and stopping to look at anything that caught my eye. If I couldn’t find a particular book I wanted, I would use the library computer to look it up and if I couldn’t reach something that looked interesting I would get a chair to stand on top of. I would carry a towering stack of books by authors like Judy Blume and Meg Cabot to the checkout counter, feeling very adult as I used my very own library card and successfully held a polite conversation with the librarian and told her yes, I would like a receipt please because I liked how the due date for my books was written on it. I found my mom parked in her Mercedes Benz convertible that cost far less than she wanted people to think and we would drive back to our house with her desperately trying to fill the five minutes with the sort of conversation that is normal for a mother and her daughter, except unlike most normal mothers and daughters, her understanding of me as a human being went as far as my name, age, and that I was full of wasted potential even as a third grader. She liked to say, “The apple don’t fall too far from the tree,” but I could tell she was disappointed. Every time we were about to pull into the driveway, I would unbuckle my seatbelt in eagerness to escape into the half-dozen books on my lap and every time without fail my mother would ask me where the fire was. It was a stupid expression and I resented it a little more every time I heard her say it. My first favorite place in the whole world awaited me in my bedroom, a snug corner on top of my dresser where I always kept some blankets and pillows for the hours I would spend up there post-library visit. It was a tight space, perhaps a little bit precarious, but it was quiet and it was safe and whenever my mom would come in to check on me (every few hours or so), she wouldn’t know where I was. You would think that after spending the majority of my time on this specific spot on top of my dresser, she would one day figure out that if she doesn’t immediately see me that I would be there like I am every other time she entered my room. But like most things, she ignored what she observed and I could not find it in me to be amused at her ditzy incompetence. Directly across from my dresser was a window with a view of an aspen tree, frequently inhabited by birds who would sit on the birdfeeder that I made a point to fill every few days and squirrels who would scurry up and down the trunk, occasionally pausing to look curiously at me. I liked sitting on top of my dresser and watching them because if you stared for long enough, one of the squirrels would do something really funny like stand on its hind legs to eat from the bird feeder. When something like this would happen, I would call for my mom so she could watch with me but she looked at what I was looking at wrong and didn’t understand. Sometimes if I watched for too long, I would start thinking about things that weren’t birds or squirrels or aspen trees or Judy Blume books. Sometimes if I watched for too long, I would get really sad because it was a Saturday that I should be spending with my dad, whose understanding of me as a human being went much farther than my name, age, and the false idea that I was full of wasted potential even as a third grader. If my dad walked into my room, the first place he would look would be on top of my dresser. He wouldn’t ask me what I was reading or if I was hungry or if I would come out and be social; he would watch the birds and the squirrels with me and he would understand.
Chrissy Cosgrove Mar 2015
these things are true:

       my existence is a winding path consisting of
       first and second degree mistakes, accomplishments, sorrow, fulfillment
       and unexpected events that i have the power to determine to be        
       devastating or miraculous

        everything i experience is temporary

        the feeling of emptiness that physically consumes me
        is included in that category, and at some point i will stop bearing it

however, i never want to hear anyone’s heartbeat against my palm ever again

i never want to appreciate the life of another person because their demise is inevitable,
and if anyone tries to set off fireworks on the fourth of july i will move to sweden

i can’t ever have anyone depend on me to stay through everything,
and i never want to hear another taylor swift song because she’s a terrible musician

i never want anyone else to understand what i’m trying to say
even when i’ve left my sentence unfinished,
and i will impale the next person who tries to hold my hand

i am filled with your absence, overflowing with emptiness
so i will wait until i don’t want to understand anymore
i will wait for everything to become interesting again, for everything to hurt less
Chrissy Cosgrove Feb 2015
'forget about the things that weigh you down'
he said
'and fly away'
he spoke as if he was not a prisoner
as if he were not shackled to depression
stuck on hopelessness
addicted to false relief
committed to failure

blind to his brilliance
his potential
his worth
held back by a false hope
the idea that freedom can only be found in death

impulsivity
alcohol
and misery
proved to be a fatal combination
and one gunshot took away everything

gone is the intelligence
the talent and wisdom
the ease of his company
gone is the understanding smile
the homemade turkey burgers
and the smell of listerine and cigarettes
nothing to look forward to
but silent Jets games
weekends with mom
and a hole in the rest of my life
always something missing
always something that’s not quite right

gone is the comfort
the safety
everything i thought i could always rely on
and everything that could have been
what did you mean by flying away?
Chrissy Cosgrove Feb 2015
i could have done something different
i could have done something better
i could have helped you
i could have saved you
i could have taken your pain
worn it on my shoulders
and took your burdens for you
i could have wiped your tears away
poured the ***** down the drain
locked up the shotgun
and sang you to sleep
only in the morning you would still be there

i could have done something different
i could have done something better
i could have been there for you
i could have fixed what made you hurt
and made you forget about it
i could have held your hand
let you cry to me
soothed your aching heart with comforting words
and taken you away from everything
that changed you
maybe if i did
you would still be here

the same mistakes of idleness
and the same outcome
the same sharp sorrow and tortuous guilt
the same irreplaceable loss that i couldn’t stop

the same **** words that float in my head
enough times that i convince myself they’re true
i could have done something different
i could have done something better
and because i didn’t
i’m the only one left to tell myself that
Chrissy Cosgrove Feb 2015
i hated packing that maroon duffel bag
because i knew it meant
that the next three days would be different
and i wanted everything to stay the same
he would open the front door
and smile
even though he wasn’t happy
and invite me in
even though i wasn’t welcome

i didn’t understand why he lied to me
without even speaking
Chrissy Cosgrove Feb 2015
a letter without a return address
because i don’t want to hear what you have to say

i’m not interested in an apology
a declaration of love
or any other revolting platitude that means nothing
there is no explanation
that could put right
everything that went wrong
i will be bitter
and i will never let it go

a letter without a return address
because i know you don’t care enough to say anything back

i will pour my heart out on paper
however repulsed i might be by the mess
i will hold nothing back
because it doesn’t matter what you think anymore

a letter without a return address
because i do not want you to think that i am waiting

i do not want you to know that i spend every day
stuck in the same spot
replaying the same moments in my head
and feeling worse each time
i do not want you to know that i would give anything
to go back and change everything
before it ever went wrong
i do not want you to know that i am waiting
even though there will be no reply

i am sending a letter without a return address
please try to find me anyway
Chrissy Cosgrove Feb 2015
i’ve been lying here
for weeks now

my fingernails stopped growing
after reaching quite an amazing length
they’ve turned yellow and brittle
and would surely break if i tried to use them

my hair brushes just below my waist now
but it’s a dull shade of grey
and each day, a bit more falls off
any gust of wind whisks more away

my bones are frail
cracking and breaking and turning to dust
serving no purpose
and proving to be useless after all

my skin is beginning to waste away
which isn’t really a shame
seeing as it’s become a sickly pale color
and everything underneath it is broken

where did you go?
weren’t you lying here with me?

i have allowed maggots
to burrow inside my vacant eye sockets
and rats to pick at my flesh
vultures have ravaged my insides
and it really doesn’t bother me

will you be frightened by the way i look
or scared away by the smell?

the foliage that has grown around me
obscures what little there is left of me
but you remember where i was when you left
and you will know where to look

i hear footsteps sometimes
but it’s never you

i’ve been lying here
for quite some time now
maybe it’s been more than weeks
i’ve lost track of the sun rising and setting

where did you go?
weren’t you lying here with me?
Next page