and it's weird because i know you don't like me like that and i know that the boundaries are blurred and that i come on too strong but you play along anyway, and it's weird because i think you're the cutest person i know but you have moments where you hate the way you are, and it's weird because when i miss you i go fishing at the docks like we did that day but i always miss you for a stupid reason because you have your life and i have mine, and it's weird because i would choose you over real life but i know that you need to live more than you've ever needed me

Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath

Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013

it seems my entire life is defined by drinks.

mother's milk out the womb.

(and maybe those suckles were sweet - it's not like i remember - but her words, for the rest of my life, certainly weren't.)

an hour-long debate, with my best friend at twelve years old - apple or orange juice?

(orange, obviously, is the right answer. we rehash the argument sometimes to this day.)

the day i turn 19, a beer in my hands.

(i'm sat around a campfire with my closest friends, birthdays all older than me - the beer tastes disgusting, as cheap alcohol is, but i'm glad to be there.)

yesterday, i had 1 coffee and 2 mugs of lemon honey tea, 4 glasses of water.

today, no tea, but 2 cups of coffee, a glass of milk, and 3 glasses of water.

i bite at my nails when i'm nervous, swallow down the spit that comes with it, the bile that rises.

last summer, i visited pei, had a raspberry cordial - my favourite drink to date - then bought a case of 4 more to take home with me.

last summer, when i lived in new brunswick, my friends in the same building knew me as the one who would always have a drink in hand - a milk tea, or maybe a pink lemonade, maybe that obscure korean soda i liked.

when i left new brunswick, i took a photo of my 2 trash cans, of the way they were both filled to the brim with empty bottles and cans and jugs.

i still miss the apple cider they made there.

my life is defined by drinks, sips, swallows, taking five minutes to breathe by making myself a nice whipped coffee, trawling the internet for pretty coasters and glassware for an hour in lieu of doing actual work.

Eventually, i close the shopping tabs, take a sip of coffee, and resume with the rest of my life.

It took me seven years
to realise
the words in my mind
were too deep for
my mouth to dig up
I thought it was easier
to open my skin
and let the truth
pour down my arms

It took me seven years
to realise
nobody should be allowed
to touch parts
of your home
or hold pieces  
of your heart
that you don't yet understand

It took me seven years
to realise
I will wear these scars
forever
I'll carry them
through every smile
every kiss
every concerned gaze
I'll carry them
to my grave

It took me seven years
to realise
the pain carved
into the walls
of my castle
etchings of
attempting to disappear
are not a story of weakness
but a tale of
how I survived

It’s evident that the person I thought you were exists entirely in my memory, on that comfortable blue couch in your old temporary apartment - 160 Morton, I still remember the address from when you bought 50 dollars worth of subway for delivery on your dads card because the 6 frozen pizzas you had bought on the monday weren’t enough to last you a week.

The person I thought you were exists only on the second floor of the empty arts building, dancing and singing, on the picnic bench where I told you that you didn’t realize the effect you had on people, in that small campus and our trips to the nearby cities where we confided in each other and you sought my advice, i sought your comfort and the warmth of your hand gripping my shoulder when it was evident my own hands quivered and trembled.

It’s evident that the person I thought you were exists merely in my memory - but that isn’t entirely fair to you, I guess. You’ve always been better lying on the couch, head in my lap, than answering your messages, weeks old and still unread.

But still - does it hurt that much to even pretend you still care about me?

(7 separate messages. It’s been a week. Only when I confront you do you apologize, tell me that you’ve been having a bad time.)

(Explanation. Excuse. Explanation, not excuse. I thought we agreed on this.)

My memory erases the blemishes on our record, the bad moments - a relapse, anger, your hands on her thighs, lounging on the beach yet still asking me to watch your shoes.

Why can’t I be the ******* for once? It’s that emotion again, tenfold but dulled. I’m not angry, just disappointed. Maybe both. I don’t know. I never know when it comes to you.

She stood there, looked me in the eyes
asked in a quivering, cautious cadence,

"How long do half-elves live?"

And it would have been the most heartbreaking thing
If I had still had a heart
(After that girl who was more beautiful than she was living -
but it had to be done.)

But I still answered
As warm as I could
With Melora not by my side,
Not in my heart,
But, perhaps, cooking up a jambalaya
in my stump.

And in that moment
I know she would sacrifice herself
Sacrifice anything
Just to better the lives of others.

That girl is a treasure
And I hope not to forget it.