I don't care
how many times
you reassure,
I will still think
there's something
wrong
with me.

Words are trivial.

A wooden gazebo
with flakes of paint stain beginning to chip
into thick, suffocating air
lay lonely and leering
at its reflection in my car’s royal blue smile.
A stop sign.

It must have been nearly zero degrees out that day,
but my pupils only focused
on the porch swing that hung from the gazebo’s ceiling.
A hook’s mighty grip and a chain’s sturdy strength
carried a gorgeously carved, masterpiece lounge
fit for a relaxing day.
The way it lay peacefully sleeping
but ready to fly
reminded me of the one we had a long time ago,
when my brothers and I would swing as though
we were on a playground,
pumping our legs until our path made a semi-circle.
It’s a wonder we never broke the thing clear off the porch –
or our bones –
in the process.
I can still hear the clunking of the chains
as the swing glided back and forth with severe speed,
but, God, was it exhilarating!
In retrospect,
everything is so simple when you’re five years old,
even the nights you spent spilling tears on your pillow
because someone called you words you didn’t understand.
Fear is easy.
Fighting back is a journey.

Through the years
life starts to peck at you with its long, sharp beak,
and its bright red feathers look like fire in the midst,
and it will break you.
And then it will break you
again,
and again,
and again,
and it keeps pressing “repeat”  as it pleases for the rest of your earthly existence,
and pretty soon you have to make the choice.
Will you surrender?
Will you fight?
Will you fasten a heavy shield over your heart?
Will you grow?
Will you win?
Will you live selfishly alone?
Will you trust?
Will you see?
Will your thoughts drown in lies?
Will you explore your own self beyond fathoms deep?
Will you become stoic to all of it?

I’d give anything to have one day back on that swing and its simplicity,
where becoming the next Michelle Kwan seemed like a logical career goal,
and the only mistaken assumption of me
was that the pink Power Ranger was my favorite.
Assuming the worst of someone
without considering or knowing
their present self
is like personally handing them the right
to become your villain,
regardless of their actual original intentions.
I refuse to be that villain.
I don’t exist to hurt you,
nor am I going to continue my attempts to please everyone
when that’s impossible.
Doing what is right for yourself isn’t always selfish.
Sometimes, it’s all you can do to keep going.

Keep me going.
I’ve forgotten how to figure myself out.

I guess I should start driving again.

If there
is a word
for
complete terror,
utter confusion,
unmistakable infuriation,
and stereotypical sadness...
please teach it to me,
because I'd like to know
how I'm feeling.

Last night
on a long drive home
at another sluggish traffic light,
screaming, “RED, RED, RED,”
my eyes lifted a few inches
to the negative space above it.
Odd how we call that negative space, isn’t it?
I wouldn’t bond sparkling glimmers of light against a midnight-colored canvas
with a word like “negative.”
Hopeful, inspiring, uplifting?
Yes.
Negative?
No.
Negative is the degree that’s been taking my breath away
the moment my skin greets the outdoor atmosphere these days.
But against this darkness that is night
I was blessed with the spectacle
of a meteor’s birth and death.
I’ve seen them before,
but never has one been so relatively slow,
encapsulating its residence in a close, fiery hue,
gliding along its path with a firework’s essence
so much that I could almost hear the crackling.
What lasted for a second
lasted for hours.
Funny how something that insignificant can stun you
so that you don’t notice the traffic light’s change in demeanor
to a quiet, green whisper.
How’d that old song go?
“Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket,
Never let it fade away.”
But what’s the point of saving your glow
for the perfect moment
if it stays so secretly hidden?
Aren’t we all just one of these stars,
a life that seems so long,
but too brief,
against the canvas of our entire universe?
Why should I save my light for a rainy day
when I can let the rainy day reignite me?
Depriving my light of oxygen would only make it dwindle,
and I’m not ready to fade into the darkness.
The struggles pour my fuel.
The hardships strike my match.
The triumphs fan my flame.

The pedal gives into the force of my foot
as my right eyebrow arches,
and the corners of my lips turn slightly upward.
I can’t help but feel something kindle in my chest.

Watch me fly.
Watch me fall.
Watch me breathe.
Watch me burn.

…And eventually,
watch me fade in freedom.

Did I miss something here?
Did I misunderstand?
Was the sound of my presence too high pitched for your ears?
Did I squeeze too hard when embracing your face?
Was the glimmer in my eye too bright for your retina?
Did my hands form blades as they ran down your back?
Was my love a slap across your perfectly structured cheek?
Did my legs turn to sand paper as they intertwined with yours?
Did they slowly gnaw away at your caged in comfort zone?
Was there poison on my lips?
Was it a slow, steady venom?
Did it drip to my chin?
Did you taste it in my kiss?
Did it sting when I accepted everything you are?

Hand me that dagger.
Let me pierce your pulsing heart.
It’d make a lot more sense.
You could easily write me off
with all of the rest.

Burn me.

Can anyone tell me why I let myself live in this?
Am I stuck in a room with no windows or doors?
I used to bang on the walls with bruises on fists
over tattooed wrists and faded scars
that led to a hole in my chest
that I filled with love for myself.
“Love for myself”:
You probably think that sounds conceited,
right?
But in all truth, it is the bitter opposite.
I didn’t need any of you to save me.
I figured it out on my own,
like I always do.
The fight in my gut emerged beyond skin,
but I was never good enough here.
I will never be good enough here.
I spend my weeks on a seesaw
between the highest praise and the lowest blows.
Every word that takes off from my lips
must turn and tumble in flight before reaching your ears.
You hear me. You don’t listen.
You twist me. You don’t illuminate.

No, I am not like a daughter to you,
and if you were my mother,
I would have disowned you long ago.
In fact, you really don’t know **** about me,
because I don’t want you to.
Too many people try to tell me how to live,
as though I haven’t come to learn what is best for myself.
I think,
as someone who used to fantasize about her own death
but has overcome that obstacle
and must continue to work to keep that fight alive in herself
every
****
minute
of her existence,
I have the right to write you off as an imbecile to my life.
You don’t own me.
You don’t know me.
You don’t even see me.

I ripped away the heart sewn tightly to my sleeve a while ago
and placed it in a treasure chest
kept in a safe haven to which few hold the key.
I hold the key.
But I don’t go there often.
You see, I never really get the chance.
I just want the chance,
just a little bit of time
to hear the quiet hum of a life reformed,
to stop and feel the breath in my chest,
to feel each lung fill to the brim,
and picture it nourishing every inch of my body
as I press the “release” button.
Can I press the “release” button?
Can I close my eyes and be…
just be, not do.
Can I whisper my desires to the wind that moves around me?
Can we tell secrets of our confusion,
our struggles,
our victories?
Can I reside to the treasure chest,
simply to fill back up?
“E” is for empty.

I was designed differently than you.
I wasn’t made for this.