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illueminate Dec 2019
there is no real way of knowing, but i'm here
and i'm ready, and i feel that could be enough
there is a sort of grace in this, in me being here
holding my heart in the palm of the same hands
that used to crumble and tear at any piece of this,
of being ready

but i'm here
i'm here

we are pluto, together, i've realized
we existed before and we still do
but now it's in a different way
a way that has changed

i am pluto, alone, i've realized
i existed before and i still do
but now it's in a different way
a way that has changed

understand this: there are pieces of me
that reflect and deflect, progress and regress,
respectively, in this constant state of /something else/

something like growth

there is grace in this-
in holding onto something much bigger than who are are
in being ready to feel

to feel

to know

there is no real way of knowing,
but i'm here
and i'm ready
and i feel that could be enough
i mean it
illueminate Nov 2017
I blame the weather, because it's easy.

I watched the leaves turn four different colors
before I found it in myself to withdraw from the situation.

The situation, metaphorically, was the changing of the seasons.
But it wasn't really the seasons. And it wasn't really the changing.

I blame the weather, because it's easy.

You told me that you didn't want to see me anymore.
I watched the metaphorical clouds gather before they opened
and the metaphorical rain fell.

But there weren't really clouds.
And it wasn't really raining.

Actually, the day was so beautiful,
because it was early summer and the universe owed that to us
after the harsh winter we had.

I blame the weather, because it's easy.

We spent snow days building metaphorical snowmen between us.
But they weren't really snowmen. They were walls. I found myself encompassed.

I couldn't help but harbor myself in the emptiest pieces of you.

And for that, I blame the weather.
illueminate Sep 2017
Friday was one of few and far between. And I want to talk about it. I want to talk about how I began my day at a wake and ended it at a wedding. I want to talk about the sense of ending and the sense of beginning, respectively.

There were flowers at both. Flowers beside the casket and flowers down the aisle. I walked in quietly, head to toe in black apparel, hands shaking so much that I needed to curl my fingers into a fist in order to tame it if only momentarily. I walked in quietly. And there were tears at both – specifically mothers. The tears… they fell the same way but stood for something on two entirely contrasting ends.

I’m thinking about the wake and the wedding and how they’re maybe not so few and far between. They are both, traditionally, a sort of social gathering. It’s all about family, and friends, and the people who know that you’re meant to be celebrated. It’s just that they talk about wakes as if we’re celebrating life but what is it about an empty body that calls for a celebration? Why should we celebrating removing and sewing and taking away everything that makes a body?

When the smiling mother walked down the aisle, bouquet in tow, I saw the guests mirroring her expression. I lowered my head because I didn’t want to appear as any less happy than those around me. But the truth is, I couldn’t bring myself to think about anything but his mother. His mother who, earlier that same day was on her knees in front of casket that held the body of her boy. Her boy who she will never get to watch get married, her boy who was no longer there.

I wonder at what point, if at all yet, did she think about that. About how instead of watching his hand receive a ring, she’s watching other hands lower him into the ground.

The thing about wakes and weddings is that they are occasions that are sort of the same. We hug, we reminisce, we listen to words about the person we’re there for.

But when it’s all over… the bride, and the groom, they wake up the following morning.

They wake up.
my heavy heart with no light
illueminate Aug 2017
i'm trying to understand if there is something in between life and death that lingers or if there's nothing at all, leaving hands to reach for bodies that no longer occupy our space. i'm trying to understand space and time. i'm trying to understand how you were here until you weren't. i'm trying to understand life. how many steps are there between coming and going? between starting and ending? are we embodied by a shell that prevents us from counting the steps as we go? we're left seeking this number only after we're forced to realize that there are even steps at all.

we have two hands that hold onto the things that matter. like each other. and life. we break our bones and rip our skin and live to tell the story, but we close our eyes and one day never wake up from it.

how many steps are there between bedrooms and emergency rooms?

there is no easy way to say "i love you" or "i'm sorry" or "goodbye" but i love you, and i'm sorry, and goodbye.

you were more than just body encompassed by a shell. and that is what i will remember you for. there is more, and she is there, too, counting the steps.
illueminate Nov 2016
this is how it starts: hands meet hands until there is no telling where one ends and the other begins. there is a softness to what surrounds, a softness to touch and breath, a softness until there isn't.

hands meet hands until there is a grip so tight it leaves a mark. the problem is this: i fall in love with you every time you say my name. the problem is this: you say my name when you're leaving. summer brought me to you and autumn will tear us apart.

your absence is in the palm of my hands. i hold you close even when you aren't here because all i know how to do is harbor myself in everything that you are. the leaves fall hard when you aren't here. the pavement cracks when they hit it and the ground swallows all of summer's dead ends: like the leaves and the warm air and us. you ask me to understand and i tell you that the reason we still exist is because it's together. you ask me to understand and i block out the noise. you ask me to understand and i can't.

i watched you reach the end of the walkway and hoped you'd look back. remember that i did love you. i remember the summer. remember that i did love you. i remember the long days and longer nights and bodies entangled and this is how it ends: autumn comes, your hands are yours, and mine no longer exist.
why does love hurt most in the cold?
illueminate Sep 2016
Sometimes I wonder what came first:
falling in love or falling in art?
I wanted to write words about you before we even met
and now all I do is spill you from my fingertips.

Is the space between heartbreak and art
as far apart as the distance between you and the sky
or are they concurrent?

I don't love you anymore exists parallel to this poem
and I am the incipient to the line between.
write. rid. write. rid. write. rid.
illueminate Sep 2016
I want to remember this inconsolable aura that lingers in fear that when I someday find something else, it will come back and I will have to relearn it all over – the hold, the grip, the suffocation. I'll remember the colors: the dull grays and dark blues. When my pale pink is pushed aside by a shade of midnight, I will know to blend them together, to allow the colors to gather and, ultimately, fade (as most things do).

I will remember the clawing, the grasping, the let this be over, let this be over. My limbs ache when the clouds open. When the rain is hitting the pavement, relentless and aware, I am clutching onto something whole. It's a gentle reminder to myself and to those who need to hear it: there are things that are not broken.

Flowers grow from my veins, wrapping around my arms until I am a garden of something uncertain. Sometimes my skin melts away. I am left with nothing but a skeleton. It's only then that I am identical to something else. My heart broke out loud this time, aware, selfishly. A rose rests beside it. Waiting until the universe pulls us together again, inevitably. Waiting. I am an ambience of dull grays and dark blues but the rose is red, a real and true red, and there are things that are whole and sometimes I am identical to something else but mostly I am a garden of flowers who do not need to be certain of anything.
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