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 Oct 2018 rica
Stupidest Things
 Oct 2018 rica
I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster."  The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.
Grief is such a strange emotion/process.

*Oh my! Thank you all so much for your support! I wrote this back in June when I needed to get it out of my head and had no idea it was chosen as a daily until I just logged back on and thought there was a glitch with my notifications number. I was slightly mortified that a piece of my mourning got exposure but after reading your comments I'm glad that I documented something many of you identified with. I've since journeyed a bit farther in my grief- slowly overcoming my initial instinct of trying to instantaneously analyze every feeling to determine whether I'm "allowed" to have it. I went to a group bereavement meeting offered by the hospital that treated the loved one in this poem and the nurse running the session made a good point- no one can fully understand another person's relationship with an individual who's passed on. Interpersonal relationships are unique and so is grieving. Being gentle with yourself (especially in times of struggle) is woefully underrated. And with that, I send love, gratitude, and positive vibes to this wonderful community
 Sep 2018 rica
 Sep 2018 rica
I don’t feel close
to poetry.

It feels elusive.
Once it spoke to me.
But now it’s mute.

It sits back
and doesn’t look
at me.

If I call out
it doesn’t hear.

Lately poetry is
like that demon
I used to want
to reappear.
 Aug 2018 rica
We cannot write silence.
The beats.
The pause.
The breath.
The way it aches
and persists

and begs that,

if only for a moment,

our consciousness is only a whisper.
our bodies,
our lips,
the air that passes through falling chests
and stillness.

A melody of emotion.
Sleeping in the quiet of a heartbeat skipped
a word lost to the wind.

The wickedness of reticence
Encapsulated in air and time.

The moment stretched too long.
Hesitation perpetuated in the grip of fingernails
pressed into palms.

We cannot write silence,
but we can try.

to find a way to immortalize emotion
to create space
in the ceaseless drone of words that speak and spin.

I cannot write silence. But I can write
tears and years
and the burn of long-stretched lies.

I can write goodbyes and hellos
And dozen ways to say
I love to hate you
I hate to love you
and sometimes
I cannot tell the difference.
The space I have upheld for myself.

I love to hate you

I hate to love you too.

I cannot write silence.
But I know it.
and I have held it in my hand.
Inspired by the Vanity Fair article of André Aciman's reaction to his book *Call Me By Your Name* being made into a movie. Specifically the quote, "I couldn't write silence."
 Oct 2017 rica
 Oct 2017 rica
i've been flirting with death for too long
and my heart aches for him to take my hand
for his marks already linger at my wrist
so the least he could do is hold them

 Sep 2017 rica
galaxy of myths
Floating aimlessly
but the tides pulled me in and
I struggle to breathe.

I thought I was doing good but I'm being pulled in again. But it's okay. I'll keep trying to stay afloat
 Sep 2017 rica
galaxy of myths
How do people bloom from being friends to lovers? How do they start off as strangers, get to know each other and then work their way into each other's hearts? I couldn't picture myself doing so. Being friends is all I can do. Nothing more than that. I feel like continuing further is like stepping into an unknown territory. Kind of like in video games. You know when you're not a gamer but you try to play a game for the first time? Getting to know your character, read the storyline but not knowing what happens next? Getting excited at exploring the new place and gaining points but after some time, you start to wander aimlessly. Not knowing what to do next. How do I break from this? What do people do to go to the next level? After the constant feeling of not knowing, you sort of give up and never pick up the controller anymore. That's what it feels like. To me, love, or rather, romantic relationship, is like trying to play a game you never played before.

 Sep 2017 rica
galaxy of myths
Sad days are here again.
Sad days are here to play.
Sad days, you came back.
Back so soon?

It's the little things; they make me sad. I often brush them away. I'll sweep it into a tiny corner, at the back of my mind, until one day. Without me realizing it, becomes a tall mountain of sadness.

A small, painless kick sends the mountain into an explosion; crashing down like an avalanche. Leaving me a crying mess, hiding behind closed doors like a forgotten ragged doll; sad and feeling empty.

"I'm sorry I woke up late. I was too comfortable being under the blanket of crocheted sadness. I wanted to keep my eyes shut; devoid of the real world. I wanted to keep dreaming of things I couldn't have. I'm sorry I got up so late. Truth is, I didn't want to wake up. *Because getting up would bring me even more pain and misery

 Sep 2017 rica
galaxy of myths
How funny. Strangers would make me feel insecure
for the things I don't have.
But people I know make me hate myself
for the things I already have.
And to me,
that's the saddest thing.

 Sep 2017 rica
galaxy of myths
Is it wrong for me
to think of us as more than
friends? I'm so confused.

Haiku on my current state of confusion
 Sep 2017 rica
galaxy of myths
Hands are painted blue;
Just like how I've been feeling
ever since you left.

A haiku I thought of. For the ones who got left behind by their loved ones
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