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L Jun 23
-
This is the only poem I am allowed to write about you.

I went to a strange store today. Immediately, it smelled like my childhood. It smelled like the stores my mother went to downtown. The snacks in transparent little bags, the keychains, the painkillers, the unmarked items. But this place was different in that it was so big. In the toy section, amongst the many visibly cheaper toys, they had a handful of toys from big brands, just sitting there collecting dust. I found a certain big brand stuffed lion and thought, "This is unreasonably priced but I can't walk out of here without him." So I got that for myself. I'm excited for when he's washed so I can hold him all day, he's very soft.

There was a small hair section. Hair ties, hair brushes, hair things; hair clips. One of them caught my eye. In a white, slightly bent square piece of cardboard- mostly unmarked save for a tiny, tiny logo that said "Melody"- was a hair clip in the shape of a flower. I thought it was so pretty. I instantly thought of you, I'm not sure why. It was beige, and soft to the touch. I noticed there were other colors. I picked up a red one and looked at the beige one. Obviously the red one, right? And with a little bit of hesitation I put back the beige flower, the first one I'd seen. I always do that. I feel so sad picking a different one, slowly setting down the first one I'd picked up and held in my hand. It feels like abandoning someone you love.

For when I see her, I thought. For if I ever see her.
-
L Jun 21
"What do you mean, when you say 'angel'?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean why do you call me that. What does that word mean to you?"

"You know what it means."

"Sometimes I think I do."

"It means dark thing. Because there's a violence to it. Because it's hard to see. Like looking at the body in the distance- the thing standing between the trees, with only the faint glow of the moon illuminating its face."

"You think angels are dark?"

"I think angels are mysterious. You know they're there, but that's it. You think you know what they are, what they look like, but you're incapable of grasping their image."

"So, what does that look like?"

"It looks like everything. And nothing. Total darkness, blinding light."

"Sounds.. overwhelmingly incomprehensible."

"That's why it looks like different things to different people. A woman, a man, the recurring nightmare from your childhood. Some people think it looks wrong. But to an angel, there is no wrong way to have a body."

"Now why does that sound familiar?"

"I think an angel looks like a sword. Like the terrifying indifference of nature, and the undying, righteous rage of a person with a good heart. All and none, never wrong in their being."

"And this is what you call me?"

"Yes. This is what I call you.
My darling mystery. My dark thing.
My angel."
L Jun 20
The flowers grow. Your garden is there. I beg you to grow like I always have. This time it's a little bit different. A halo of black around your face, I think I'm losing consciousness. I remind you my body can't do it anymore. I'm crying, I think we're done. You hand me the plastic bottle, to water me before the flowers. You step outside, you tell me the night is cool. The wind whispers, the petals dance. There's a watermelon, you tell me. It's growing.
Your garden is there. And the flowers, under the moon, they grow.
L Jun 7
-
It is the courage to touch your pain that will transmute it:
The lamb must face the wolf
to become it.
-
L Jun 7
JG (2)

There's so much more to say about the things you did to me.
I know it's not black and white.
I know you were hurt by me,
but never in the way you hurt me.
I gave you a scratch while in an autistic meltdown living with you caused, and you told me I wasn't a person. That's an important distinction.

I just woke up from a nightmare. It was so vivid.
I often have very vivid dreams, and I've had terrible nightmares before. Of course I have. You get nightmares when you live in unlivable conditions. But that's over now. I haven't had a nightmare for over a year.

You know what? My last nightmare- the last one I really remember- was about someone else.

She's beautiful. Just absolutely gorgeous- she loves to hear it, too. She's kind- because after having experienced her own darkness, she knows to be. But she's also afraid. I don't think she knows I can see it.
She hides away when she's unsure about things, but only because she wants to get it right- I think she's a perfectionist that way- and she's very secretive. Especially when it comes to her fears.
She's made mistakes, and when she does she tends to run away from them, but in the end, she wants to be better. Ultimately, she wants to grow. I believe that.

That's why I'll forgive her when she comes.

I feel a softness for her that I also feel for you. Each person is infinitely precious; what we go through matters and our experiences make us rich, like wines that become more valuable with time-- except.. putting it that way isn't quite right.
I think that existence equals value. I'd love the grape as much as I'd love the wine. I believe the value you hold now was there when you were born. I think people just become brighter with time, no matter what we experience. But we have always been precious, and worth being protected.

You're so precious. There's only one of you.
I feel love for you, of course I do. I'm probably wrong about a few things, not getting the full story of it. I certainly don't totally know how you felt during all that. Since you've just..never told me.

But I don't care.
I don't mean that in a cruel, defensive way. I just don't want to engage with it. I'm not interested.
I'm not necessarily even upset about any of this.

I don't feel resentment. I don't feel like it's even me you betrayed.
I've processed so much of my trauma; the me who suffered and the present me feel like different people now. And I'm angry you hurt someone.
You put them through something they didn't have to experience. You made their dissociation permanent by forcing them into this environment when they had already told you they weren't ready.

They'd lie awake at night having these episodes of despair, and you were annoyed.
"I just want to sleep" you said, with a person crying, spiraling in despair, unable to cope with any of it, next to you in bed.
That's a whole person, as infinitely precious as you and everyone else on the planet and you treated them- you guessed it- not like a person, but like a problem. An annoyance.

I'm not going to forgive you for that.

Not only that, but you come offering nostalgia of all things, to pull me back into you. Nostalgia. What's that got to do with the **** you put me through?

There's so much more. The time you hid the matches just to try to make things a little harder for me and Dani. The jealousy. But then you'd ****** some girl days after we'd separated. Touching me, thinking you were seducing me somehow, when I came into your place for less than a minute- while Dani and my mother were outside waiting. Do you know how ****** up and uncomfortable that was?
The disrespect. I should've decked you. I should have dislocated your jaw. Should have opened the scar above your lip.

It's not about whether you intended to or not.
"I didn't know any better" is a truth that very rarely changes anything.
You didn't know any better and it hurt me. That's why we learn. That's why we grow. That's why we must refuse to stay still.
But you loved being still. And you refused to grow, and you proudly kept yourself ignorant.

What else can I even say.

Oh, my nightmare.

I dreamt a friend of yours had me institutionalized, and because you were angry at me for something small that I did, you let it happen.
Which is just exactly what you would've done in real life.

It was terrifying. I woke up so scared. I thought it was real.

I'm tired and hungry.
I'm gonna go pet my cats.
L May 28
Journal entry
May 7, xxxx

She knows I love her, my creature. Of course she does.
There are still secrets between us; there might always be. We haven't decided.
You see, some lovers- they reach a point- where they dance that silent dance, and wordlessly through looks and smiles, will decide that some secrets will always be secrets. Others say everything, and find strength in doing so. We're not there yet. And so, some things remain unspoken.

A secret I keep from her now is- I know what she is, yes, but I can't help but think of her as the opposite sometimes. A thing not with dove wings and a halo, like the paintings, but a creature with thick, rubbery wings. Heavy horns sitting on her head. There is something uniquely dark about her.

There is so much I still don't know. There is a heaven, is what she's told me. It isn't as beautiful as you think, she says. When I ask her if there is a God, she looks away. And I know there is something in my question that brings her pain. She has never answered the question.

She still walks to her lake. (Yes- it's hers now.) She visits it often.
She does it at night, when I'm asleep. But I wake easily in her presence. I've caught her walking towards the wood. I know it's the lake she goes to. It must be. I've never followed her.

She thinks she hides it well. But I can tell there is a rage. You visit your lake in secret, and what would you have to hide, if not the fact that over there you must be inflicting yourself with some violent ritual. Something I should not see. You must have some kind of terrible thing inside of you. Divine grief, or envy, something that must be gnawing at your heart. I can see it in your eyes.

Why won't she tell me? I worry sometimes that I'll never be allowed to help her. I suffer with these thoughts, and she doesn't say a thing.

There are silences like arrows, aimed at you, meant to **** you. Meant to maim the heart. But not hers.
Her silence is the kind that hurts to look at, because you know it isn't a choice. The more I **** the more her throat seems to tighten. It's as if she wants to tell you everything, but physically can't. As if telling you was an arrow. As if telling you her truths and her fears would

  **** her


I want to know why she goes to the lake, I do. I want to know what happened before. What is God to you, what has he done? Tell me please, even if I am not enough, even if I am just the rabbit you tell your sorrows to. I may be from another world, I may be the animal unable to ever understand your pain, but my ears are long and my eyes are big and I will listen and watch you intently. I love you.

Sometimes I think I'm too small. How could a thing like you choose a thing like me? The thought used to **** me. I'm learning not to spiral. Even if you won't help me. I have to stay strong. I have to show patience.
Yes, if she wants to keep her secrets, then keep her secrets she must. I worry about her, but what can I do. I can only be patient. I can only do what I can. I can only love her until she decides to bloom before me.

My angel who howls by the moonlit lake.
I will wait for you.
L May 28
God did not mean to give me a mouth.
He meant to give me hands, eyes, a heart
but not a mouth.
When I speak something in me bleeds. When I-
I speak, and my eyes fog over like glass.  
I can't see you standing there, I'm so sorry. Show me again, where did you put the bread?  

I feel like a thing that needs to be forgiven.

I feel so fragile sometimes.
I am trying to understand the
weight of the evil inflicted upon me.
It is heavy. I never understood that 'till now.

I wasn't meant to carry this weight, but I do.
I wasn't meant to speak the way I
so often will, but I do.

What can I say anymore?
I can't write without bleeding. I can't speak without knowing it is a wound. How can I communicate without tearing something open? I'm afraid of shutting up and looking for my language. If I decide to leave behind every word that hurts me, would I have any words left? Will it **** the little bit of connection with people I have left?

Listen.
I hope you forgive me for the little sadness I'll inspire in you.
I am afraid, but don't pity me. I am blossoming and becoming something else.
This, apotheosis, this becoming closer and closer to my own light.
It is a process that requires allowing death.
What must die must die. Allow grief.

I'll leave you with this:
If you slept next to me, it would be
much like sleeping with a letter under your pillow.
Every night, every night...

*"Here I write to you a list of cruelties I am capable of.
May you never forget:
I have made the flower so that it may blossom, and I have made the lamb so that it may eat it.
Blessed be the one willing to become.
Here, the flower. Here, the lamb."

- God
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