I
  i.
sometimes, being discriminated against
is
an elementary school teacher treating one of her students
like a thing to be exterminated and killed and disposed of
like the dirt under concrete she steps on everyday
~ except that dirt can be beneficial ~
because her student has a different skincolorhaircoloreyecolorappearance
than every single other student she teaches, has taught,
doesn't matter how intelligent hardworking forgiving
her student is --
and the school is letting it go
and the school is doing n o t h i n g
to stop it


  ii.
other times, being discriminated against,
is
the way their eyes pass over you.
and this is after, they tell you,
                ~ how rare, how brilliant, how exceptional ~
you are, especially considering --
especially considering how d i f f e r e n t you are.
because
you will never be considered one of them.
because you will always be considered d i f f e r e n t.
because you may be "good",
but you will never be good enough.





II
   i.
being a minority, is the word
                                            i n s i g n i f i c a n t
carved into and hammered onto you so many times
you curl into yourself
and hunch over so you look less tall than you actually are,
just so you can blend in.
just so you can avoid the stares.
so someone doesn't call you out for something you haven't done. again.


   ii.
being a minority
is never seeing yourself in those around you.
it is getting so used to being different
that those alike you, are a novelty, tucked away and hidden so far,
injustices don't matter.
one killed another
but it is history repeated all over again,
Hammurabi's Code and the rich and the powerful get fined
while the poor die.
the killer walks free, nothing but a slap on the wrist --
   the dead is the guilty party, now, the dead is the guilty.
because why would a person from the majority ever **** an innocent?





III
     i.
being a teenage girl  
is
looking old enough to look like an adult, but not truly being one yet
so choosing between jeans and shorts, and saving skirts --
skirts, dresses, for occasions when you must where them
because that way
if there are drunk men surrounding you on trains,
or enough of a collection of blood thirsty ones,
you have some protection
against wandering hands
and people who tell you your body is not your own.


   ii.
being of the female gender is also
never going places alone because
you have heard the h o r r o r stories
you have seen them
   you have experienced them
and you do not want to end up
sexually  h a r r a s e d
*                                       b e a t e n
  *                                                         r a p e d
   *                                                                ­        d e a d.


   iii.
being a woman
in a working environment,
is
  *g l a s s   c i e l i n g
                                      never shattering
never speaking too loudly or too much
for fear of being called "bossy" "loud" "obnoxious"
for fear of being fired.
being passed over for promotions because social norms disallow you
from being competetive
or having your own ideas
from having the same right to be there as the men.
from work being not profession --
but professionsecretarycleancookwifelookafterchildrenmother
all of the above.

Sometimes, you forget that you are not drowning alone,
the murky water and
the kelp and
its attempt to latch on and
drag you further beneath the surface -

    you, all alone in you misery, (but that's alright because hard as it is you know how to save yourself)


and sometimes, you get a glimpse of someone else drowning next to you.















*Today, you do your very best to catch them.

Your heart has been carved out and now all it is is* hollow all while

everything is
                          f
                             a
                                 l
                                    l
                       ­                i
                                          n
                                              g
                                                   apart around you

and all you can do is stand, and stare, and watch.
all you can do is stand shocked and frozen in position,
all you can do is feel terror and horror and empty*,
all you can do is marvel, standing in the ruins, on your sudden inability to cry.

Everything thing is spinning, round and round and blurring into nothingness -

(except it's not, feet planted firmly on the ground and

the world is not supposed to be this way)

Blackness. Punctured by white and broken into pixels -

(a European painting in dots and dashes and absence of color and

there were shapes, before, of people, distinct lines drawn)

Swaying. Back and forth, little enough to avoid notice -

(hand reaching out, palm against wall, cold and

if I faint to the floor perhaps this will break my fall)

Sound is petering out, growing softer and softer into the distance -

(everything is a dull thrum, world dissolving and dissipating around me and

suppose I will have to work out the instructions on my own)

Shaking. Shivering, really, and it is not even chilly -

(boiling hot, sweat and heat suddenly overwhelming and

will they notice me then, when the cup shatters into a million pieces from trembling hands)


Breathing is hard.

(heart is thumping, surely it will give out soon, nothing is supposed to be this fast and

breathe in. breathe out. breathe in. breathe out. breathe in. breathe out.)


The world is normal, again -

(there is color. noise. people. air, in large quantities. no swaying and shaking and spinning and

one day it will fail to come back.)

a dictionary definition:
adjective: *conforming to the standard or the common type; usual; not abnormal; regular; natural.
noun: the average or mean; the standard or type.
non-dictionary synonyms: to fit in; to not be different

                                  I just want(need)(crave)a little bit of normal
                                       just a little bit of remembrance; acceptance

I want to be them:
                       the little boy who's always at the playground after 3, everyday,
                       the lady who comes by to feed the ducks every Saturday,
                       the man who sits watching the trains pass for an hour come 9,
                       the girl who jogs past me every morning at 6:57,

the kind of normal you never actually know but still remember in passing.


I want to be this:
                       to not have people's minds made up the moment they see me,
(because the color of my skin, hair, and eyes is not all that I am)
                       to not have hide myself from people I love,
(not because I doubt their acceptance, but because I don't doubt their acceptance could get them hurt in the long run)
                       to hate English grammar because it's grammar and not because it's English grammar,
(because hating grammar is one thing, being unable to completely grasp the grammar of your second language is another, and not understanding grammar of a second language that should have been (that people mistake for) your first, is another matter entirely)

the kind of normal that lets you be considered as normal, instead of the different that is normal to me.

  
I don't need your pity, or
                      your fake attempts at friendliness, or
                      you swinging me along.
                  
                                        I just want a moment of belonging
                                                  a moment of normal
                        and then it can all go back to being the different I'm used to.

can you sing a requiem about things not lost?
about the could've, would've, almost, that you're glad that never happened?
can i say
I don't miss never knowing what's it's like to stay in one place your whole life, (because it's something I've never done),
I don't mourn what could have happened but didn't (because we can't change the past, and who's to say it would have turned out better),
I don't mistake content for happiness (because for one they are different, and for another, content means there's still something to strive for)
can i say
I appreciate the moments when dreading the worst turned to finding the middle ground
I acknowledge that perfection does not exist except in regards to imperfection
I accept the pushing and pulling and flickering and shining and living...

can i say
i hate this (i love this)
and mean the exact same thing
because the glass is half full and half empty
and neither and either or
because it's
still a glass with water no matter every which way it's looked at

It isn't right for me to latch onto you like a lifeline,
                                                       ­                        because you are, you know,

It isn't right for me to keep on hugging you well past the first ten seconds.

It isn't right that the tears are stuck in my throat,
                                                                ­         that I'm no longer afraid to cry,

It isn't right that we're in the dark, and no one else can help us now.

It isn't right that when you eventually let go, there's so much genuine concern in your voice, when you say, I'm sorry, but are you okay?

It isn't right that I shrug your concern away. That I say I'm fine, even to the only person who's cared enough to ask - it isn't right.

But just because it isn't right, doesn't mean it isn't the truth.
                                                          ­                            *Because it is, you know.

Different* people, react *different *ways.

Some of them, will stand still, and silent, and tall. They will make you think they are invincible. They will take your bruises, and accept your words, and they will retain their silence until it is all they believe. They will wrap their pain in darkness and shadows and glints of rain, until they fade away. And only then, will you notice the path destruction you left in their wake.

Others, will cower and flinch away. Weak, you will call them. Brave, someone will contradict, to wear their emotions so care-freely. You will stop, at some point. It is no fun, after all, to torture someone who never fights back. And it is obvious, too, too obvious to avoid getting caught for long. Will they fade, or shatter, or hide, or smirk? It depends. You will not always face the consequences.

The inexperienced ones, will fight back. Will match you blow for blow for cut for cut for life for life for death for death. An eye for an eye turns a whole world blind, but this has never been a fair fight. You have always had the upper hand, so you will always win. Time is a matter of opinion and resistance. You will eventually, crush their soul. But they fought back, and they fought against you, so justification is your dominate opinion and emotion, not regret, or fear, or remorse, not anything else.

There are more. Variants upon variants of everyone who didn't deserve your brand of torment. Variants of the bullet proof vests, and the children, and the soldiers.

The utterly helpless ones, will turn. You will beat them down, but somewhere, somewhen, they will become you. They will become the damnation of the freaks and outcasts and misfits, they will crave power and acceptance and use fear to gain it, they will inflict pain on others to starve out their own. If you meet them, perhaps you will understand what you did. Or perhaps you will join them, or cower in fear at your once-upon-a-victim.


Were you them, once?
                            humiliated, and scared, and bitter, and rejected?


Will I become you, someday?
                                 *torturous, and cruel, and cold, and powerful?

You think you've
got it
Oh, so hard now
(And tears are streaming down your face and darkness beats at your soul)
And then you
go and
Look around
(Because all you are is one more complainer.)
And You
know full well
others have it worse,
(And for them,
you hope
they continue, to complain, because
maybe someone will listen, and
life is ruthless but death is death,
while you may as well be a ghost)
But that doesn't change your
insomniatic habits of being unable to sleep until half past one
or
your solitude of half-self-imposed loneliness because
you won't force your burdens upon your friends
or
the fact that you
cry yourself to sleep every night because
you can only mask your tears for so long.

So you
breathe in daylight like it is air
(because darkness lessens and you  must be ligherbrighter around other people)
and
fake a smile everyone believes and
(you still fall apart at night).


you like to think that the night might be forgiving (because nothing else is)
and you
Hope your
silent complaints
*might actually make a difference,
Even if
overall
the world has
just as many
Complainers
as before.

I used to think it was just an expression;
                          a fancy way to say really, really, really, tired.

It's a little bit more than that.

It's
                                                 ­       exhaustion.
It's
                                      defeat             and             despair.
It's
                                             ­         hopelessness.


it's putting everything you have into something, and not making a dent,
it's believing in someone when they don't even try to have faith in you,
it's feeling so tired and knowing you won't be able to fall asleep,
it's seeing the inevitable and accepting defeat,
and not even trying to resist fate because it's sad but there's no point.


that
     is what it feels like, when weariness seeps deep into your bones.

There are things you're not supposed to, things you shouldn't do.
things that happen anyway.

   You shouldn't throw words like a knife,
             at the one person who cares about you,
             and twist it in so the wound
             doesn't just leave a mark butburns
             just because
             you hurt enough to need something to lash out at, and she's it.

   You shouldn't force someone to grovel,
            years on years every time he sees you,
            because he might have broken your heart but
            he's done near everything except move a mountain
            to try and mend it since yet --
            all you see is the past.

   You shouldn't have a heartbreaking conversation
            that lasts through to 2 o'clock in the morning, not when
            your daughter
            is listening, not even hidden by the shadows,
            tears streaming down her face and breathing uneven but quiet
            because neither of you notice her but it's too late to escape now.

But you do.

            (and everything is perfect until it all comes falling around you)
and then it isn't.

                     (because all you ever are is unfailingly human)
and that's never enough, is it?

It hurts to be loved so much.

Hurts enough to make you cry,
hurts enough to make you want to push them all away.

because
You are you
and
They are them
and
you do not deserve their love.

It isn't that the people you love
                                                          ­who love you too
                                          are without their imperfections. They aren't:
a little too reckless
a little too shy of compliments
a little too talkative
a little too apologetic.

It's that they're kind.
It's that they notice you when you have never been seen before,
It's that they stand up for you;
It's that they get hurt for you.

And perhaps you are selfish
because
You should
     Shove them all away so you are left in a corner, arms wrapped around yourself, alone, where no one else can get hurt.
You should
     Take their love, only to fling it back at them hard enough to make them run away.
You should, and you should, and
     they hug you so their arms are wrapped around your shoulders,
and you should flinch away, and
you almost do -

But you can smell the calming fragrance of their hair,
You can feel their arms wrapped around you, so tangible, like they're never going to leave,
     but they will, and they will, and they always have,
but you let yourself take their warmth anyway.


Someone tells you, once, that you, are a good person,
And you shouldn't, should never
believe it
because
people have told you before, and you've never let yourself believe it then, and why should you now?
                         Except, you're crying because you can't make yourself stop, and, the person you hurt -
                                by accident, always by accident -
is the one saying it, so
Maybe, you can be, a good person
someday;

But you shouldn't,
Because you are the one,
who tries and tries and tries, and fails,
and tries, and tries, and tries, and fails,
and tries and tries and tries and produces something almost mediocre.

You are the one,
who sees those flashes of disappointment flit across their face,
because you know,
   (and now, so do they,)
that you are never, will never,
                                                     be enough.

And so you almost hate them,
these people who dare to love you -
because, perhaps you love them,
but that doesn't mean,
that they should love you.

And maybe you should give this up,
but what is the point, really,
when the people who love you are the ones you'd be disappointing?

So you accept it, this thing you
don't deserve, (could never deserve,)
This thing, that makes your chest feel hollow inside, makes guilt creep in and swallow you whole until you can barely breathe

but,
there is that thread, hanging around your ears, echoing,
because against your better judgement, someone's actually gotten you to
believe it, that,
You are a good person.

And so you will
                               keep trying and trying and trying,

And maybe maybe maybe someday,

                                                       ­         I will be worthy of their love.

I see myself reflected in those red-rimmed eyes of yours,
This self-deprecating
guilt,
exhaustion,
and loneliness -
And I want to help you, staring so far away, but I am drowning too,
and the walls of glass
Are too hard to break.

I am falling but you are falling faster, and
i'd switch places with you in a heartbeat,
But I am falling too, and soon,
We will both hit the ground,
One splat after the other,
Two broken things that could never be mended.

I.
    i.
Someone hurt you, and I worried silently until my lip bled.
I never asked if you were okay, I never visited you to offer you comfort:
The next time I saw you, after you'd been absent for days, I smiled.

    ii.
You tripped and fell on shards of glass, and I listened with worried eyes.
You say there was lots of blood, and you and your family ended up in the emergency room at quarter past midnight, hence your half day at school.
Your arm is in a cast for a time, but I never sign it and I never make jokes:
I gave you the Spanish homework that you missed, and nothing else.


II.
You were confessing secrets in the dark, and I was listening.
You hid away your pain because there was no one there for you, not anymore, and told me because this was short, a two week summer camp during which you didn't think any friendships would form. When the sky was so dark only our shadows could be seen, you told me your wish for my face, how impossible to read it was, so adept at concealing emotions.
It was a fair trade: You taught me I had a mask, and I kept your secrets.

III.
    i.
You are rushed to the hospital, and I pretend everything is fine.
You are fine the day, the week, the year, after, so worrying is unnecessary:
I fly to see you over the summer, despite having had no intentions to do so before.

    ii.
Your face is gaunt, and you flinch at touch, and I hide my worry away.
You trust only two boys, now, and you stay away from human contact and the crowds in the hallways.
After the initial two weeks, no one talks of it, and I am not the exception:
I always ask, after. If I can initiate contact. And I ask  everyone,  not just you.

    iii.
You couldn't breathe through your panic and fear, and my hands shook.
You were so terrified of being beaten. So terrified of being kicked out of your home, for something you'd hardly had any control over.
I told you to call me, that you could stay at my place, no matter anything.
You said everything was fine, the next day. You claimed overreaction.
I secretly worried myself to tears, told you only that my offer still stood.

IV.
You are dying, and I am scared.
I was worried when you said the doctors had found a tumor, and I was worried when you told me you'd been unable to eat for days.
But I'd hoped for the best.

You were the first, you know.
I'd always just gone straight to expecting the  worse,  before.
But then bad things kept on happening, yet they weren't ever awful.
So, I thought, maybe, for once, I'd hope, and the pattern would continue.
I thought perhaps the tumor would be benign, and you'd be just  fine.

You're going to die, though.
And I'm worried about you, and I can't hide it:
I'm sorry for caring about you enough for it to be obvious.
I'm sorry you have to deal with my pain on top of your own.
And I wish *you would stay, could stay, because I'm going to miss you.

Everyone is insignificant to someone.
Irrelevant, likewise.

There will always be someone - scratch that, there will always be people -
who don't care, about your life,
your well-being,
your existence.

Who don't give a ****.

But there will also always be some who does, one who truly cares.
Maybe they're your family.
Perhaps they're your friends.
Or you mightn't have ever met them.

Imagine all the possibilities, dream out all the outcomes.
Maybe there's no one there now,
but nothing lasts forever.
Maybe you'll encounter someone new.
Or maybe someone you know does care, and you just haven't noticed yet.

Because if there isn't -
if there's no one out there now, and there never ever will be -
Then there's no hope either, is there?
and if we don't have hope -
that someone, somewhere, thinks we have some kind of worth -
Then what is there left to have?

There used to be a person that I knew.

I didn't know them well, mind you, but I knew them.

I could reconstruct the way they walked,
I could find someone with a similar accent, to describe how they talked,
I could tell you what they looked like,

But you don't need me to do that.

You knew them. *Well.

I, don't cry.
It's not my way, for one, and for two - I don't really have the right, at least, not in front of you.
I choose utter silence and avoidance - I speak only to avoid suspicion.
And if I shiver uncontrollably despite not being cold - it is winter.

You, do.
I do not see you cry, it is left unspoken that you do not want me to comfort you - I avoid you instead,
Your red eyes and absence from places you usually go tells me the truth.

Two days past, we make eye contact.
And then we drop our eyes, look down,
but make our way to each other regardless.

We do not talk, and our expressions betray nothing beyond smiles
- I was feeling something else, I assume you were too -
And then we walk together to our next destination.

The next day I actually say 'Hello,'
And there's this momentary surprised look on your face, before you say, 'Hey,' back.

I knew them,
You knew them better.

*I wish they hadn't died.
I wish I'd known them a bit better.
But I don't regret knowing them while they were alive.

Trust,
is when you tell someone your deepest, darkest, secret, and know that they'll take it to their grave unless you give them permission to do otherwise with it.
It can be quick, it can be a split-second decision, but it's something conscious, a small act of faith.

Friendship,
is when you tell someone your deepest, darkest, secret, and they stay standing beside you.
It's built on at least some amount of trust, and it means they back you up, and you do the same for them. It means you do your best not to stab them in the back, because you care about them, and trust they'll do the same for you.

Love,
*is when you tell someone your deepest, darkest, secret, and they look you in the eye, and believe you're still a good person.
It sneaks up on you, about the exact time you don't expect it to, and changes your life, rather you want it to, or not. It's unconditional, and infinite, and beautiful, because love is when you care about someone so much, you can't imagine your life without them, and you'd do anything to protect them, your own life be ******. It doesn't matter if your blood is the same - if you're friends, or lovers, or acquaintances. Love, is an all encompassing sort of thing: it isn't picky.

What's that word?

When something happens, and it's not even that you go numb,
just
       *empty,
the way
               nothing matters,
and the only emotion is
                                            I don't care...

I suppose it's apathy, isn't it.
There was a character once, from some movie, said:
I have a burning apathy for ...

Well, for something, I don't remember what.

But it wasn't really apathy, was it?
Not if it's burning.

Burning,
like love, and lust,
like sadness, and anger,
with feeling and emotion.

I have apathy for more than just a few things in life,
But it's not a 'burning apathy'.
No.

Just,
a simple, normal, emptiness.

The kind you're supposed to stay away from.
Because it's sort of addicting, you know, the not feeling anything part.

You - and everyone else,
You're always saying that I'm
Nice,
and Smart,
and Good.

That I do the right thing, always. That I'm effortlessly selfless, constantly. That I'm a good person.

And I always shake my head. Say, 'Thank you,' but 'No, I'm really not.'

"You're being modest," always what I get.
Never thought I was being honest, did you?

And now, now you know.

That I'm a coward; too afraid to stand by your side.

Ever wonder why I stayed in the background?
Back with the shadows, safe, hidden from view, refusing the spotlight?
Well, now you know why.

I'm not brave, like you.
I can tell what's right, and what's not,
I can feel my oxygen slowly being siphoned off, the longer I wait,
I can make the right thing happen, eventually,
But not like you.

You, with your emotions,
and recklessness,
With your utter confidence in yourself,
and instant reactions,
You're brilliant, like that.
But so, so not me.

By tomorrow, of course, I'll have something figured out.
I'll talk to all the people who I'll need to back me up.
I'll think out every possible scenario, figure out every answer.
I'll wear my mask, so no helplessness, no desperation, seeps out.
Where you failed with pure emotion, I'll use cold, hard, logic.
And I'll succeed, and tell no one what I did.

That doesn't change the fact, that I faded into the shadows,
and let you stand there alone.
I waited, of course, but not close by enough for anyone not looking,
to see.

And now you know, who I am.

Bet you expected me to stand with you - too bad I let you down, too bad, I always will.

Good thing, well, now you know.

I wonder, sometimes, how the world can have so many secrets.

Perhaps, I would be happier if I was ignorant. If you, and everyone else, did not come, whispering into my ear...
           fears, lies, the wrongs of the past, your deepest insecurities

Perhaps it is my face that makes you - all of you - trust me.

Or perhaps it is the way I blend easily in the background, the way I speak up only rarely.

I know enough secrets for a life time; plenty enough to drown in.
Some of them, granted, learned from behind a door, listening, but
most freely given.

You say you can trust me, that's nice.
'Fact, it's enough to make me smile.

I think I'll still keep the secrets to myself, though, even if I return the sentiment. And yeah, I do.

Sometimes, see, it's less of a burden not to know, than to see everything so clearly, and be so utterly helpless...

i'll still keep all the secrets, though, don't you worry - - exhausted of it though I maybe, i still know how to keep my mouth shut,  *how to help out when i can...

The earth, is so old.

Not as old as the galaxy, or the universe, it's a part of, but still so very old.

And look at us, only migrating out of one place about 100,000 years ago.
Look at us, so fragile, compared to the dirt and the sun and the stars.
As if we are glass, and tape is the only thing holding us together.
And all we're doing is sitting like ducks, waiting for everyone to break.

But we're also there on standby, waiting, just to pick up the pieces,
because we're not glass, and we
can mend, from being shattered into a million pieces.

It just hurts, most of the time.
Sometimes, too much to get back up again.

Drag me in, please.
Make me dance the night away.

Push me over the cliff,
so I'll no longer fear the fall.

Take my hand, please, make us both smile.

The world is seldom a happy place,
but I'd rather like to enjoy it with you tonight.

freely, openly.

Sans the fear of discovery,
Sans the fear of division,
Sans the fear of damnation.

Perhaps, someday.

*Just, not today.

You talk of killing yourself as one would of getting a glass of water:
normally,
casually.

You are sarcastic, and in this, too, there is sarcasm, but it's undertone is real. Honest.

So of course, you scare me.

It does not take long before you ask the question I dread:
Would you miss me if I were dead?

Because I want to know what the hell kind of question that is.

Stupid question, heartless question, yes I'd miss you if you were dead.

Stupid, because we're friends, because I know you, because I like you.

Heartless, because do you really think I care for you so little that I'd wish you away?

Nothing matters now, though.
It's been asked,
It's been answered.

So long as you do me a favor.
Just one - no more, no less.

And don't discount this, the way you always do,
saying everybody dies, not everybody dies by choice.

Stay alive, will you?
For as long as you possibly can?

Who am I to dictate, what you can and cannot do.
Who am I to force you, to live in a world you cannot stand.

But for me, for the others, for everyone who says we'll miss you, please,

*Hold out as long as you can stand.

what are you ?

what am I ?

does it matter ?

Pretty sure it doesn't --

Of course it does,

Though I'll tell ya what you want to hear -

Everyone's different, everyone matters, everyone has a purpose, obvious or not.

There.

"They love you unconditionally."

That's what you say,
That's what you tell me,
That's what I know,
That's what I thought.

How conditional is their unconditionality?

Sure, they're family.
Sure, they've raised me, watched me grow.
Sure, they know me.
Sure, they say they love me.

How far can I fall before they refuse to catch me?

They believe in certain things.
things i don't agree with.
They follow certain ways.
ways i go against.
They don't know I differ from them.

Just tell me,
How conditional is their 'unconditional' love?

Breathe.
In, out.

Trouble's here, knocking on the door.

It's been waiting for a while now,
been pushed back as far as you'd allow,
Gathering together like clouds of dust
on the mantle piece, collecting rust.

Trouble's here, best welcome it in.

The worst's been done,
You've had your fun --
Nothing left now to outrun.

Trouble's here, at my feet.

Draws me in,
Makes me trip.

Trouble's here, leaving soon.

It'll come back,
To haunt you.

Teach me how to breathe,
in and out,
over and through.

Teach me how to see,
when my eyes are closed,
and only black remains.

Teach me how to hear,
the things I do not know,
the things I wish to remain ignorant to.

Teach me how to feel,
through stares of freezing cold,
and hearts of fading warmth.

Teach me how to smell,
what is safe, what is not,
the difference of a landmine,
over a child's buried treasure.

Teach me how to taste,
the danger that approaches in the air,
the calm which arises from sloshing waves.

Teach me how to live,
how to live life to its fullest -

Teach me how to live,
for the day I have nothing to live for.

Teach me what I know,
for the days when I forget.

You told me I was worthless, so I put my friends and family first.
You told me I was stupid, so I learned all that I could.
You told me I was weak, so I learned how not to cry.
The only thing I didn't learn, was how to say goodbye.

In the scheme of things however,
Perhaps the world is fair,
if only for the fact -
It let me leave, not you.

I found the note you wrote, a decade after the fact,
You say I'm the only foreigner you know, and that's true, I suppose,
You say you'll miss me, well, only time truly knows,
You say I was the kindest one you ever knew -
I suppose, if nothing else, you taught me how to lie, there, that's true.

Once upon a time,

there lived a little girl with a red cape,
who laughed at much and cried at little,
whom every one called, "Red Riding Hood."

there lived a beautiful maiden with kindness in spades,
who lived with her vile stepmother and stepsisters,
whom every one called, "Cinderella,"
after the ashes left in her hair from cleaning the fireplace.

there lived a genie in a lamp,
who traveled across the lands from hand to hand,
whom every one called, "genie,"
because none knew it's name,
for it had been lost long ago to time.

Right now,

a man climbs Everest,
a woman wins a tournament,
a child is marked as a genius.

we have their names,
sealed in our memories.

as is only right.

When a few hundred years of time have passed,
They'll say,

Once upon a time,

there lived a man with great determination,
and no small amount of love for climbing,
whom everybody learned to call, "Everest Man."

there lived a woman who dodged every insult,
and practiced until she almost collapsed,
whom everybody called, "Yume,"
because of her inability to stop dreaming.

there lived a child,
who grew up in many different places,
whom everybody called, "prodigy,"
because that was what the child was,
and the child's name was eventually lost to time.

Right now,

we haven't anything to say,
because the future isn't over yet,
and nor will it be,
until they talk about us around the campfire,
saying,

*Once upon a time...

It crashes and turns and churns,
blue against blue,
kelp against seaweed,
trash against sand, as it nears the shore.

It reaches out
to grab, to get, to kidnap,
her,

And he,
I,
we,
flinch,
back away,

And the waves reside,
back into the chaos of the ocean.

Flip a coin, in the air.

Watch it spin,
Watch it turn,
Watch it hover, in the air.

Follow it,
Catch it,
Flip it on the back of your hand -
Wait, with baited breath.

take it all,
half a chance,
day of doom,
day of bloom.

Seconds, now, all that's left -
see the coin,
take your chance.

for better or for worse,
it's all,
you
have.

How much can you hide in a sentence?
    How much can you hide in a laugh?
        How much can you hide in a smile?

                                                         ­   How much can you hide in your hands?
                                                        **­w much can you hide in your face?

                    How much can you hide from everyone who cares about you?

*Much, much, more, than I ever knew.

It's cold, today,
and the wind smells like rain and mildew and sadness and tears.

It was warm, yesterday,
and the air tasted like sunlight and rainbows and hugs and smiles.

It's going to snow, tomorrow,
and the atmosphere will be like stars on steroids, with wishes and hopefulness.

The day after that, they'll be a storm.
and the ground will be all that's left, crushed, stranded, and alone,
like everything will end up being,
with kids crying on the streets,
and freezing all alone.

Tomorrow, though, it's going to snow.

I am an optimist,
as designated by my friends.

Everyone dies eventually, says one, no matter who they are, what they do.
But everyone is alive right now, I reply, everyone alive, is not dead yet.

I am an expert at adaptation,
according to my parents.

It looks like we'll be moving, offers my mother, with a hesitant smile.
Where to? I ask, eyes sparkling, smile seemingly real.

I am a genius,
if my grandparents are consulted.

You're taking three languages, and two math classes? she exclaims, again.
Yes, grandma, I repeat, rolling my eyes internally.

Truth be told,
I am an optimist, if someone insists on being pessimistic.
I am good at adapting, when the need arises.
I am a genius when I work hard, though only to my grandparents.
I am whatever the world perceives me to be, until I change its perception.

Yet then I still am, as the world perceives me, they simply perceive me differently.

If I fall,
I expect you to catch me.

And, in turn,
If you fall,
I expect,
You to expect,
me to catch you.

And promises can be broken,
so promise, I will not,
but fair is fair,
and trust is trust,
so let you fall,
I will not.

and if you do let me --
             fall
-- I expect to be caught.

You're lost, today. Or well, you got lost, today.

Hell, not really. You know exactly where you are,

which is really a very good thing,
because you're not really paying attention,
to the things that you should,
like, say, walking,
and not, say, bumping into things,
or slipslipping off the platform edge

But, not really.
You don't actually want to slip off the side of the Chuo line.
Because then all the trains would stop,
and it's already slow,
because someone's already jisatsu shita themselves,
before six o'clock in the morning,
and you wouldn't want to be an inconvenience...

Suicide's really not at all how you're lost.
You're scared lost.
Not death lost.
You know the difference.

You should be fine, now.
you thought your dad was going to die
Simple thing, it was.
coughing up blood, of all things
And it happened Saturday,
and your mom started crying
And today's Monday,
and you were her rock,
So you should be fine,
but come Sunday everything was fine
Everyone's still alive,
even if Monday dad's staying home,
But you're so so not fine,
and you waited to cry 'til you were alone,
Because you're still so scared
you're just scared.

Now, you're just waiting.
The train at yotsuya, doesn't come, for another 20 minutes,
and so much, for leaving the apartment at five, to get to school, on time.

Everyone at school, would say you like to read.
And they're not wrong, no, they're not,
but the words just fly bye bye off the page,
and dad's gaunt face, is all you can see,
and so much, for trying to read.

You look around instead,
And you're beginning to feel antsy,
when you see her.
the girl - she's older than you, but not by much - who looks lost.

she's not death lost
or scared lost,
just direction lost,
and maybe the universe knew you needed
someone lost to make you not lost any longer.

You're lost, because
everything in your head is all muddled up,
and all you can think about, is that night,
and it's like everything else is a haze,
but you know it shouldn't be,
so lost is the best word, that works right now.

The lost girl, who's young, Italian, and speaks English but not Japanese,
though that you'd already figured out,
Is direction lost, looking for her train,
Standing at the platform behind yours,
And wondering why it's not there.

You tell her to go up, and over,
To get on the local line,
Because there's a delay, with this train,
that you carefully don't mention that it is because of a jisatsu,
and maybe she's done nothing, but ask you for help, yet
When she thanks you, you smile without thinking about it,
and then your train, has finally arrived,
But you are fine.

You're still scared.
And you're not quite okay.
But neither are you quite as lost as you were before.
lost in any way.

If I were to sing a song, I think it would be sad.
And I think, that you would be surprised.
I think you would expect me to sing something happy.
Or funny.
Because I am the calm one, the one with the optimism, who says,
it's not the end of the world, not yet
not so long as we stand together, united
and i do not let you go, because
i won't let you fall off the edge
But the lullaby I sing is mine, not yours,
And just because you still have your hope,
Courtesy, in part, to me,
Does not mean that I have mine.
And thus, if I were to sing a lullaby, I think it would be sad.

Death fascinates you, in a way that it shouldn't, because
No one is supposed to be fascinated by death.

It's the end.
The final stage.
Goodbye.

Yet no one can figure out what happens after.
If people who die, are really, truly, gone.

So yes, death fascinates you.
                                                            ­  But *you let it.

...

Everything burns.

Everything ends.

Everything shatters, like glass.

Scatters, like ashes.

Skates, across the thinnest ice.

Soars, like a bird.

Stays, like the stars.

Everything is, exists, like us.

Everything starts.

Everything begins.

...

Before it
Burns,
And ends,
And shatters,
And scatters,
It skates --
Out, and away.

Because for something to end,
-     -     -     and everything does,
It must first begin.

Must spark, into light.
Must flare, into existence,
Must be melded, into being.

Or else it would never end.

And if it never ended, because it never began,
We would be left,
With nothing.
At all.

And so better,
To have everything end,
Than have nothing to begin with.

She turns, shuffles, in the opposite direction,
Wanting -
Needing,
To get away.

Out -
of this suffocating landscape,
Where people stare,
And compliment,
And do not go away,

When all she wants,
Is to slip,
Silently past,
unnoticed,
unremarkable,
unimportant.

Eyes meet hers across the room.

She ducks,
Underneath a waving arm,

Spins,
As someone goes past,

Spies,
The nearest exit.

The eyes blink, and she is gone.

Out -
to the darkness of night,
Where there is no-one,
And there is space,
And she can finally breathe.

She turns, strides, in the opposite direction,
Needing -
Wanting,
To get away.

She’s tired and clammy and hot, and her head pulses and aches,

But she gets up anyway, to go and answer the door,

And everything spins, and tilts, and whirls,
And it is a blurry mess of revolving objects,
Where she can’t see anything,

But she must act normal,

And so she stands straight,
Smiles,
And lets the words he speaks reverberate around her brain,

As her vision slowly settles back in,

Only to go away again,
When she steps down to take the package back in,

And her head throbs,
And she pushes her glasses back up her nose,
As she puts the package down,
In hopes that it will help,
And like she already knows it wouldn’t - it doesn’t,

But when she pivots so she faces the delivery man once more,

Her face is calm, and cool, and the same,

And only when she has bowed her thanks,
And he has bowed his,
And she has closed the door after him --

Does she sink against the wall,
Waiting for the dizziness to pass,

And hoping that upon it’s return, it will be no worse,

Than it already is.