You cry in the corners of the world, because the spotlight will blind your eyes if you were to step out
You cry in the darkness of your mind, because outside you know nothing else but to hold a smile
You cry in front of the lord, because he is the only one you'll let see your pain
What has this world done to you? What have you done to be destroyed?
How can you still be standing by the time the sun sets, by the time of dusk?
You cry among the stars, and you’ll only cry during storms
So then your tears would be hidden among those of the god

Manon (Mary) and I, sat in the Tuileries gardens, by the Louvre Museum. Her 7 month old daughter, Devyn, on a blanket in the grass, was earnestly practicing a roll from her tummy to her back - of course, we coo’d and applauded each success.

We’d been girls together, years ago, in 5th and 6th grade - we were ‘like thieves at a fair’ back then - playing ‘la marelle’ (hopscotch) and pétanque until the boys, in early exercise of their ‘penised privilege’ ran us off the court, scattering us like birds.

She wrote me off a few years ago. But to be fair, I was missing. Growing up, my family moved around like we were on the run. I’d come back to Paris some summers and we’d check-in, but summer schedules are ephemeral and years turned into distance and a seemingly permanent silence.

Her last voice message, from 2017, is still on my phone, her voice bright, cheerful and expectant. I listen to it every once in a while, holding my phone to my ear, like a private seashell.

I was moved to China, where I’m told - thank you, Grandmère - I picked up a brash, incisive, Cantonese, ‘overly-direct’ manor, while Manon,went on to Institut Villa Pierrefeu, a finishing school in Switzerland.

Her hands move like ballerinas, her voice is as clear and refined as
Baccarat crystal, her look - bixie-cut chestnut brown hair, a white, Fontaine Zuave shirt over black, ME+EM Italian Linen Wide-Leg Trousers with Keds canvas sneakers, is Parisian simple and elegant and her posture is effortlessly perfect - she makes me feel like a scrub in my black Beatles t-shirt and jeans.

I passed Manon on an escalator, two days ago in Le Bon Marché.
I was going up, she was going down, with this little Devyn doll on her hip. The little firecracker I’d only seen on Instagram was dynamite in person. Her little expressions are bright-eyed and somehow familiar, their laughs - mother and daughter - are the same, rolling, lilting trills I know by heart.

My watch showed 69°f as we sprawled picnicking on a tree-lined embankment of the slithering green Seine. Rain clouds were gathering to the south - the river acts like a compass -which can be handy. Looking back on friendships is fun, but now we’re looking forward - which feels like home.
.
.
Songs for this:
New Toy by Lene Lovich
My Old School by Steely Dan
Angel by Sarah McLachlan

A gift to make my day
Grace me with your presence
Then take it all away

Well, if that's all you can do
Then you can keep it
Because I've dealt with so much worse
Than just your ******* silent treatment

you’re the only one you can fully rely on,
only you can make a change.
people come, people go,
you will have yourself forever.
don’t stress over others,
friends or lovers too much.
if someone leaves,
grieve them as much as you please,
but don’t let it take over your life.
their presence will not save you.

Sparkling brown eyes watching me like no one before. The sun kissing his dark, soft curls. A child of love and warmth staring into my soul.
For a brief moment I let go, as much as I dared. Let myself live in the healing moments, hoping for more.
Just enjoying what was never mine…

First comes the walk
walks are required now
prescribed to ward off
effects of life

getting from here to there
taken for granted
vertical movement
now a task

Next was found
the Underground
home of brews
home of seats

some soft, cushy
others wooden
yet warm, inviting
Come, taste our brew

chairs, sofas
filled with chatting people
mostly women
looking into faces

illuminated screens
across coffee, latte, or tea
communicating
smiles, grimaces

What is shared
humor, news
fears, fraughts, fragments
dimensions of now, the past

people rise to
pick up special steaming
drinks fresh from
the Underground

He never orders a latte
standard drinks
brew of the day
fill his cup

someday
An inkling may stir him

to order
a white chocolate mocha

our first photo was taken
sometime in nineteen ninety-three.
two toddlers in nappies,
neighbours, before we had a word
for what we’d grow to be.

inseparable.

weekend mornings started
at six a.m. beneath blankets.
eyes heavy, pyjamas warm
with your brothers half-asleep,
watching cartoons in the dark –
argai, the lion prince
and some other world
that promised we’d never grow up.

half a life was spent
with football, martial arts,
scavenging, and video games.
but a universe opened between us
when you moved away –
only a few streets down,
where the brink of manhood
said, no girls allowed –
unless.

so i went on
carrying your absence.

years later, our parents
arranged a movie afternoon.
it was a hundred minutes of silence
and small flickers of a conversation
that mirrored who we used to be.
i thought, maybe.
i thought, still.

but the closure i sought
was a door shut in my face.
as if fifteen years
of childhood were a secret shame.

it still hurts
to dream you colder
than you already were,
and carry a reminder
that you don’t have a say
in when and how things end.

Warning- This poem is about suicide and may be triggering to some.

I hope you'll miss me when I'm gone.
I don't know if you will,
or if you even care about me at all,
but if you do,
I hope you'll miss me when I'm gone.

I hope you'll come to my funeral.
Maybe you'll bring me flowers,
or cry while I lay lifeless in my casket.
I hope you'll miss me when I'm gone.

If I survive I hope you'll visit me in the hospital.
Even though you've really hurt me,
it would be nice to see your face again,
so I know that you care.
I hope you'll miss me when I'm gone.

writing these are dumb.

stupid even.

no one my age writes!
i feel so out of place.
alone,
drowning in my feelings almost.

i cant breathe.
being the odd one out
is already enough.
not this dumb nerdy trait too.

"she writes whenever she feels"

"uh oh! be careful she might write about you"

so what?
i can't exist now?

fine.

ill stop.
on the account of my anxiety
getting worse --
my attendance too.
my friends leave me slowly.

i grow distant from the world
when i get anxious
and my writing helps me with that.

yeah, let's stop writing
and let that happen.

When I was in sixth grade my crowd of friends was bigger than I could count,
When I moved up to seventh,
I could fill a city with them.
Now that I’m going into tenth,
It seems I have very little left.
Now’s the time to choose who I run with for the next decade,
And stick with it.