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You asked me to write you a note in cursive when you were drunk. I'm not sure if you were serious, but I'm going to anyway because cursive is a dying and beautiful art, and I'm interested in what I'm going to say. I don't know if I'll actually give this to you because I don't know what direction it will take me. But I'll humor both you and myself and give it a try...

Even just starting this makes me worried that this is something you don't want from me. The flood of emotions and thoughts drowning my brain are overwhelming and disorienting. It leaves me speechless, breathless, unable to grasp the worlds I need to paint you the picture I want you to see. Meeting you was green, dark green, like sunlight dancing on moss.  You were this endless, exciting, inviting stretch of forest that I wanted to explore. The more corners of you I discovered in those first few weeks had me wanting to grow my own roots there. But as I tried to plant my seeds I realized growing in you was like throwing seeds into the ocean - roots cannot form in something that refuses to nurture, cannot see or feel tiny, delicate tendrils in the coming tide.  And it was just like that that I found myself hopelessly drowning in you, until finally I was forced to pull out my sopping, heavy, rotting roots, desperately coughing and sputtering for air. And although I limped away, tail tucked between my legs with an aching heart I realize now that waves do not make personal attacks on daydreaming, lovesick girls because they are not listening for love songs over the roar of the tide, they are not feeling for tiny seeds, they are being the ocean, you were being exactly you and I am not the moon.

But once a heart knows fear, it changes, and me a once wild creature looking for mysterious forest paths to call my name, I want to cover my ears, cover my heart and run the other way. I wonder if I can move my frozen feet, as I contemplate when bravery becomes carelessness. Each night I can't help but dream about you, and as I feel myself ripping at the seams in this inner game of tug-o-war I realize the only reason I feel these pushes  and pulls is because there is a part of you I can't seem to let go of, I am still clinging to that slippery, soft, green, green moss in the woods of your heart.

And for this I have yet no conclusion, no explanation, no promises, no expectations.
Breaking down armor, bulldozing down walls accidentally,
Of course it’s only right it happened at 3am in my car, rain down pouring, unsuspecting.
The most vulnerable and raw glimpse of who you really are,
A taste of your core; crying, crumbling, chest ripped wide open for me to see
Your fiercely pounding heart; your blue-green eyes somehow more vibrant
Against red, puffy skin; dark eyelashes clumping haphazardly, clinging against
The storm raging inside of your soul, echoed by thunder on the highway; the quivering of your voice, your trembling hands, you surrender,
displaying emotion so deep, more powerful than any song
I’ve ever heard; a moment that took my breath away
Like nothing has before.
Groping for a lifeboat
In this turbulent tear-filled sea
I snatched the brown Aspirin bottle
Five hundred bitter
Small white pearl-sized wishes
Slide down my throat one by one

1. I wish I could forget you
19. I wish I wasn’t fat
37. I wish honeybees weren’t going extinct
113.  I wish my mom would accept that I am not her
174. I wish I never tried it
175. I wish I had some more
212. I wish I planted sunflowers last spring
227. I wish track marks weren’t so hard to hide
251. I wish my throat wasn’t so dry
288. I wish I told you the truth
289. I wish you didn’t believe me
301. I wish I had a cigarette
333. I wish I could stop crying
342. I wish my cat didn’t run away when I was 8
396. I wish I went to your funeral.
403. I wish I didn’t bite my nails
417. I wish this concrete floor was warmer
447. I wish it wasn’t my birthday
448. I wish anyone had called
498. I wish I were dead
499. I wish I were dead
500. I WISH I WERE ******* DEAD
THESE AREN'T MY ACTUAL FEELINGS
I wrote this poem based on a quote I read in a textbook for a poetry class
It is written in what I imagine their point of view would be like,
hence the title. enjoy :)
Listen, I understand that being happy isn't all that artistic.
That loneliness, anger and self hatred are trendier
than being content.
Unrequited love, jealousy and deep-seeded unquenched desire
mathematically recorded in clever metaphor and
unexpected similes simply sell better than stanzas
sifting and shifting to shape a smile.
But writing is a form of expression, I can only mirror myself.
If only I could express to you fully how amazing it feels
to finally look into that mirror to see me completely
with every flaw, every blemish,
every pimple, every crazy strand of curly frizzy hair,
every tan line, every inch of stretch-marked blotchy skin,
every pet peeve, every tear, every inch of stubbornness,
every reckless thought, every word I've desperately written,
every choice I ever made and truly love every bit of it.
I imagine it feels like moving the ocean; I'm a shining beautiful moon.
I remember when all of my answers fit inside a pill
Extended release, 30mg, tiny little white beads shake around loudly
like the panicked thoughts in my head
The amphetamines would run through my blood stream hungrily
looking for neuron receptors to prey upon,
sitting like crisp, new, heaven-scented virgins, fresh meat for the taking.
They'd disguise themselves as endogenous,
as if the body and the brain naturally made this happen,
wanted a gushing current of dopamine to start pouring out
of every synapse, wave after wave of artificial pleasure,
euphoria, focus, mania, sweeping me off of my feet
into a world run by pharmaceuticals. In my mind,
problems literally could not exist - the chemicals taking over
my midbrain would not allow it. Palms sweaty, heart pounding,
pupils dilated, I would be taken over by chemically-induced content-ness, a happiness high. And that was all I wanted.
Wrestling with addiction isn't fighting if you want it.
I was never fighting with Adderall, Ritalin, Vyvanse, or Focalin,
I was avoiding them: you cannot truly fight the ones you love.

And then I stopped wanting them.
They sat in my drawer untouched for days, weeks, months.
I found better pleasure centers that went beyond
the ventral tegmental area, the dopamine super highway present
in every human brain.  I found meditation, I found dancing,
I found friends, I found yoga, music, incense, singing
bubble baths with scuba masks, picking apples in the rain,
smelling the sweet thick scent of flowers in the spring time
the taste of fresh pineapple on a summer day,
the crackling sound of golden leaves crunching beneath my feet.
These were answers to questions in the deepest parts of my soul
that went untouched by man-made substances inside a prescription bottle.
I felt like I had finally awaken in my life, I had finally arrived
in this moment: fully, freely, confidently and full of love.

People told me I'd be an addict forever, I thought I would always
be haunted by the demon voices that lived under my bed
when I was alone and unguarded. But here I am, the real me,
the dark, thick, medicated sludge covering my true self
has been wiped away completely, like snow melting off of flowers.
The only part of me that is upset is the part that knows that
the four final papers I have will not write themselves. But none of
that seems important anymore. Mostly, I am relieved. I am free.
I feel like I conquered a terminal illness, a fully recovered brain
cancer patient that never touched chemo and kept all their hair.
Who knew all the answers I thought were in a pill
were always right in front of me, in the now,
in the constant, colorful kaleidoscope of present moments
happening to me that I was ignoring.
The answers were inside my Self all along, all I had to do
was stop thinking, look closely, listen carefully, and trust deeply.
Life is Like a Tree.
A huge spiraling tree stretching stretching STRETCHING
toward the sky with enormous tangling never-ending roots
attaching it to the universe below,
the universe not just being dirt and clay, but you and I,
everyone and everywhere, connected and wrapping around
each creature, each animal, every single THING
every single everything that makes up the world, known and unknown.
The towering branches with their extended long thin fingers touch
every star, every planet, every cosmo
because we are all connected like such;
each bit of nutrients, water, life itself flows through all of us
in this rushing, bubbling, constant current.
You can hear its murmurs and love-filled whispers
if you are quiet enough.
Hush, be still, listen right now in this moment.
You can hear its gentle humming on the breeze,
you can hear it in each kiss the shore gets from the sea.
You can hear it inside seashells, or when a bird sings.
You can hear it underwater, and on a butterfly's wings.
You can hear it in the flowers and even in the snow.
Once we recognize this, we begin to grow.
We are so much bigger than we know.
There’s only one tina rage, that’s what they say. But it’s only because one is enough chaos for a million.

It’s hard, I mean its easy. It’s easy to be crazy. All you have to do is do exactly what you want to when you want to where you want to without a single ******* thought at all.  It’s easy to just wreck havoc and release all the awful energy building inside you. Its like if you don’t release it, explosion is inevitable.  My energy will spiral into itself and gather so tightly it will have the gravitational force of a black hole, pulling all in its orbit into absolute darkness.  Any that try and fight the tugging will stretch into spaghetti, bones broken and organs useless.  The end of my world would start with my attempt at containment.

But you know what is hard? Accepting that part of your personality is “bad”.  That it is toxic and maybe even lethal.  When others sense your ego dripping with this dark, goopy essence, they run as fast as they can.  no one wants to hurt. No one wants my hurt. No one wants the crazies. No one wants me.

It makes me cry that I have to apologize for who I am, because it is an inconvenience for others.  And it hurts so much, my muscles bleed and scream as I try to hold this huge part of who I am in some deep cavern inside myself.  As it grows, I’m running out of room.  Its squishing into my kidneys, puncturing my lungs with its pointy claws, eating golf-ball size holes in my brain for its dark beady eyes that can now see what I see.  

But the rejection I face whenever this demon seeps out of my pores hurts more, so I continue to let it eat through my flesh until I rot into the very ground I continue to damage with the uncontrollable fire that burns in my soul.  Nothing hurts me more than the cold, metallic, damp, dark feeling of being alone.  I’d rather my heart fever and blister from the heat of my flames than freeze around a heartbeat.

So if having a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on, another body to warm my chest that grows ever colder means fighting who I am, so be it.  They say no one can be youer than you, but it is possible to be too youer for you?  I don’t know of many ways I can successfully seal this destruction inside of me with concrete.  It’s bled into almost all of me now, so that the two energies that wage war in my body are now turning into one, a new unit consisting of two ever-fighting yin and yang.  Now the only way to stop myself from harming the people around me is to turn all the energy off.  I need to go to the very source and power down all emotions.  Certain substances do a very good job blocking the synapses that are surging into overdrive.  But Ritalin doesn’t know how to pick and choose.  But I do.  And I choose living like a zombie over living like a martyr.  

There’s only one tina rage, and even that is too much. Too much rage for one world to hold.
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