They told me that writing
Triggers catharsis
That words would help me
Make peace with everything
I was
And wasn’t

I tried so hard
To write what I felt
But the irony became that
No words suffice to articulate
My sadness;

This weight speaks
A different
Language
No one can understand

Grief is born in the monotony.
It reminds you of its presence every time you
Look at a light switch or
the fridge door
or the grout between
the cold tiles
because these things
were the first to
witness your storm
your hurricane
The tears
That burned the inner
Areas
Of your thighs
Before leaving small
Pools on the
Condo floor
No.
That doorknob will
Never be just a
Doorknob
Again.
You see,
It was the last thing I
Touched
Before I stumbled
Into my
Room and pried
Myself from the floor that
Held me.
It was then I realized
8 years was just 8 years,
And those beautiful
Moments were ones you wouldn’t
Miss.
It was all I could do
To soak my grief
In the threads of
The sheets
To weave a tapestry
Of my sorrow on
My twin bed.
Not one that I owned
Just one that I borrowed
And for so long
After
I apologized
For staining the frame with
My anguish
For burying my memories
In its springs
And my doubts
In its hinges
That’s where I left
Everything
On the 1sr of August.
All those
aches that gnawed
at my bones
and thrashed skin
and stripped my eyes
Dry
till they pulsed bloodshot
Orbs in my head
Pivoting, pivoting
Till they
Closed
Exhausted and weary
From struggle
oh honey bird,
At times like these
Remember,
The monotony has
Made you.
You are a polished
Stone
Smoothed by
Turbulence.

Mama told me
Beauty laps at my skin
And youth is wasted
By my ingratitude

But I was too tired to see it
I was 23
Now I'm 25
And I've died a thousand times
Over
By this point.

That night
I blew the candles
Like I was supposed to
Greeted the guests
Shared cake with them
Under a sky so
Swollen with stars
So burgeoning with promise

Then I walked them to their cars
Gave hugs and thanks
Like I was taught.

But mama never taught me
That niceties are only
Skin-deep
That happiness
Is as cosmetic as my cover girl concealer
And I can apply it to
My skin to
Cover the blemishes of
My pain
Carved between my
Freckles
Scars that
Hang under my eyes like
Eternal exhaustion.

Yes,
I was alright that night.
Alright, being relative
Which just
Meant that I was suffering
A little less.

A term that meant
That a Pabst and some
Hard lemonade and
My birthday champagne
Would ease.

It meant that my inhibitions
Would soften my
Anguish
And my sharp edges
Would rounded
Into lovely
Curves
Soft enough for a man
To touch.

And I did.
I let that man touch me
On my happy day.

For so long I have
Trivialized my own
Pain, pretending it
Didn’t exist
Burying it into
My darkest recesses
Hiding it in my mattress
And under my pillows.

You see,
I have built walls
Even too high for me
To climb.
So I sat there
On my birthday
With the candles
And the lights
All turning, turning
Red cups luring
Us into a suspended
Stupor.
All bellies bloated with
Good company.

Ah, how nice it was.

That night
I watched
My life through
The window
Outside
Like I could see
Happiness
Painted on my
Face
While inquietude
Sat in my
Chest
Strangling my
Progress
The sadness
Plaguing the
Recesses of my
Mind

I grieved:
“I’ve made it so
Far,
So please
Don’t go back now.”

I inhaled
Deeply
And allowed myself
To be drowned by my own
Breath,
And I blew.
And I said
Happy birthday to me.

I have been the
Writer of
This melancholic narrative
Authored from an
Illness
I am not proud to
Bear

But it is a testament
To the threads of my resilience
Forged out of
Steel
That I have sewn my limbs
back
To my body with
All those days
I
Fell apart

I am ready to
Welcome the angst
Of starting over
I am ready to invite the
Silence
Back in
Like that perfect moment
Between the
Lightening and thunder
A moment so impenetrable
and void of
Sound

I’m ready for that absence
And I am ready to stop shaming
Myself for my sadness

Boys
Ask me
Why I can’t cook
And keep a house
And I tell them
My mother
Spent my childhood
Teaching me
What it meant
To be a bigger
Man than
Even they
Learned to be

The night he told me
He was 25
And had to get married
To someone other
Than me
We were sitting
In a Home Depot
Parking lot
At 9 pm
And the street lamps
Burned
Above us
In their
Usual neon haze
And the moon
Silhouetted
Our faces on
The car windows
And the breeze
Turned leaves
Over and over
In its soft palms
And I thought
How cruel
Of the world
To continue
On so ceaselessly
As my love
Dissolved
Into memory

–pondering the dissolution of my interracial love, Sarah Gray Isenberg

June 2016

I wore my past
Like a pallid memoir

Anguish carved
Into the corners of my
Eyes

And the creases
Of my forehead
Are etched
in a Reckless cursive

And their words
Read as a letter
To the ingénue
Lover I used to
Be