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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
People only ever want to ask me about
the poetry -
those verses about
busted up noses in outer space;
about the pros working
way down passed
the corner of Broad and Main;
about fistfights and hard, hard drinking.
But I built a flowerbed this weekend...
Twenty two tastefully irregular stone blocks
in a crescent moon shape,
filled with the blackest of soils.
The sweat of toil.
The digging.
The planting.
Exotic grasses. Asian maybe?
Purple and yellow flowers.
Zinnias or some **** thing.
All covered in a thick blanket of brown mulch.
It's a fine thing to have dirt on your hands
instead of blood.
No one ever asks me about flowerbeds.
more than just a fork in a road
more like a spreading of clouds

at a distance, they feel as if their lazily drifting from destination to destination
a sudden jolt though, and your with them
soaring high and finding that
they too are going hundreds of miles an hour

their peace, at a distance, was only because you weren't experiencing it as vividly or as up close

i feel this way now
at a distance
because not only am i now in the middle of the clouds, i have journeyed so long with them, i have become one

what i once said "some day" to, i now say "today"
what i once said would never happen, is happening
the surreal feeling of having become one with what was once distant and now distant from what was once me

i cant say i miss most of it
but i do miss my innocence
the freedom is welcomed

but what is what anymore

what is being a cloud, i cannot say
words never to help to clarify
they only confuse more

what is what
asking for information specifying something.
"what is your name?"
the thing or things that (used in specifying something).
"what we need is a commitment"
asking for information specifying something.
"what time is it?"
(referring to the whole of an amount) whatever.
"he had been robbed of what little money he had"
to what extent?
"what does it matter?"
used to indicate an estimate or approximation.
"see you, what, about four?"

and yet still, i know nothing...
Often we will hear of the inconceivable happening thousands of miles away
And we think to ourselves "how terrible"
Grieving for a day or two, maybe more if it's closer to our hearts
But the daily drill is still of income and payments and staying afloat
We're all numb
And there is a war out there that isn't civil
There is no boarders just a small slum Or a big city transit
All with ghosts now in their ruins
We live in fear or in blind ignorance
Because it comes up so much in the main media that there is no more room for us to care
We want to care
We sympathize
We forget in a month
Moving on to the next bullet to travel through a minority's chest
And we mock a groups once valiant efforts turned sour by the anger in their minds
One by one another greedy one takes advantage of the pain to use for their campaign
A generation that grew up believing they could be the very best now only believing that they are worth nothing
A time period that will forever be a joke in a few years time
But our struggle is not mein kampf but it is OUR TIME TO BE ALIVE
we are just living
We are
Just living in another time
That will be remembered through figureheads and not the experiences felt
So here is for the tears
Not the water falling from our cheeks but the divide in the culture
I choke and I panic
Because you can't love me
I claw at the windows of my soul hoping to break one
This stagnant air is suffocating
My prayers are that you aren't the tornado I fear you to be
******* up the remaining parts of me
Spin me around and spit me out
This is what attention is about
No validation
Only violation
Imploding expectations of the girl advertised
She is not the same as the prisoner inside
You can't love me, self
You never will
Thoughts. Late night. Impulsive write.
It's prickly and has one yellow bloom

It's not much, I know

It's painful and protruding

Like the worst memories that slice through the good

But soft and warm with a welcoming glow

Rigid and stiff but beautiful and exotic

Proof that there is joy found in the desert
For my dearest lover, my greatest friend,
my most treasured confidant, my companion 'till the end.

Happy (early) Anniversary.
Please close your eyes, close your eyes
I can't bare to be looked at in the light

If you can't see beyond the silhouette of a personality then you can't judge the soul
Who could I be that you would love me
Who could I be that  I  would love me
All I can control is the pose and the poise being lent to my silhouette

Whisper songs in a broken tune
From him to me, from me to you
From us to them the cycle goes
None if it is mutual, or so I'm told

Colors don't matter when you're in the dark
Lipstick stains are scattered, leaving waxy marks
You laugh and I wince praying you can't see
Don't notice the anxiety sweating off of me

As long as the lights are dim I can play this foolish game
But turn them on and I shall melt and fall again
Idk. This is literally all over the place. Started it a few days ago and trying to finish it I ended up taking it in an entirely different direction. Whoops. Feedback on this one please.
**edited 1/4/17
No one really has answers—
Just stories.
I've been inhaling the scent
on the clothes you left here
like I'm trying to get high
because I'm already drunk enough
on you.
I'm not supposed to be in love.
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