insanity, by its own nature, is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results (once said albert einstein)

but oh, how i love
the
anticipation
my darling

the ten things I know to be true are this;
that life is trivial
this is the beginning but also the conclusion, not a list but at the same time
notarized
as much as we care, no one else does.
we are our own worst critic, the faceless person in the crowd who boos when we dare to speak and
the stranger on the street that laughs when our scuffed, thrifted shoes scrape the curb of the sidewalk and
we fall.


if this was a list – which it is not, two and three would be the knowledge of something up there
and the knowledge of something in here
the fact of a universe we have only just scraped the surface of, the knowledge of a universe long beyond the reach of our inexperienced two palms
juxtaposed
with the heart beating in our chests now
we,
us,
breathing,
the unnerving same as our neighbor’s, as our family’s, as our enemy and the old lady at the end of the street who’s vigil at the window for a husband never to come home and the chipped teacups overflowing with a sadness on her mantle I will never understand speaks volumes to


fourth.
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maybe next on this list-not-a-list is the future
whether we choose to believe it
or turn away
we are the future of tomorrow
our voices, while seemingly small and insignificant, will one day rule the world
what we choose to do with it matters
in the right here and the right now


sixth is the fact that heartbreak is the synonym of love.
that just like the night and day
the desert sand and the ocean waves
we cannot have one without the other
everything does not happen for a reason
we do not hurt
to learn
we hurt to hurt
this is life
we are unapologetically alive to no one’s ire but our own
our hurt does not translate into lessons for us to learn
but rather things we teach to ourselves
and others


seventh is that strawberry in lollipops is the worst kind of artificial next to blue raspberry
blue raspberry is not a flavor, america
wake up


saying maybe before stating another thing is a lie, isn’t it?
I can’t “perhaps” or “maybe” know something
or maybe I can conceivably I know my future,
perchance I am at ease with the fact that my future stretches wide and far in front of me, like the ocean, more than my eye can see or my body can sail
I may reach the end of the world
flat or rounded it may be
and fall off the edge
without knowing it
my sails will rip and my bow will snap
and I’ll be lost to the tide I once believed would carry me to the shining future
a child version of myself so desperately longed for
I am blind no matter if the sun is in my eyes or not


I know to be true that my parents will never, ever accept me for who I am


tenth is that I cannot control their opinion of me
nor do I care
I am here, my motions controlled by my own actions as I pull my own strings
marionette
no one else
but me.

it has been almost seven months, and i am moving on

maybe that’s what i’m calling it. maybe that’s not what it really is; but then again, how do you move on from the person you once called love and ached to hold their hand as tightly as you held their heart?

maybe it’s not moving on. but it’s healing

i have someone ( s ) new now. i text them good morning every time i wake, and they don’t grow irritated when i forget. for the first time in a long time, i dream about them instead

healing, i suppose, is not as hard as i thought

we haven’t talked since that day in the changing room when my phone dinged and i broke down. we haven’t talked since those minutes, those seconds, when my world crashed and burned and broke and froze over all at once

i didn’t hit send when my grandmother died

but g o d , did i want to

they are good to me, these new someone ( s ) . they are everything i ever wanted but convinced myself i wasn’t good enough for, and sometimes i miss you. but it is less and less every day as i fall further and further for these two someones who love me for who I am, right where i am

maybe i am not good enough for them, but i will strive to be

they are there on the mornings when getting out of bed is hard. they are there when my health catches up with me and im short of breath. they’re there day in and day out, in all ways a someone can be, and i love them

the way i once loved you

but it’s different. they will not leave – they are here to stay, and i love them

i want to shout it from the rooftops - that i am content, i am in love with two people, that i feel like i can breathe again

not b e c a u s e of them

but w i t h them

maybe one day we can talk again. maybe, my chest won’t ache with every reminder of where you once were. maybe we can both be happy, apart, because my heart is no longer yours

it belongs to the girl with the short hair, bangs, laughter like sunshine. it belongs to the girl with the cropped hair, kind words, silly quirks that make me giggle until my stomach aches and i’m in fear of my mother hearing because it’s midnight and I’m supposed to be asleep

i love them with everything i have, wholeheartedly, and hope you the same

wherever you may be

because i am gone, and so are you, but we are not both so far gone that happiness is unattainable. my hands lace with the hands of the girls i love, and i hope you the same

i am healing, i am moving on, and i wish you the same

after all, we are not an ending

we are a beginning

for the first time in years, i didn’t sing in the shower. the lights were off, and i didn’t even hum, and there wasn’t a message from you when i stepped out. my hair frizzed with the heat and i didn't stick my tongue out and take a picture, laughing as i sent it to you and when my mother knocked on the door it echoed in my chest.

even now, two days later, i’m still waking up on the side of my bed we laughed was yours and there’s a box in the corner of my room that i can’t even look at. i rip the polaroids off the wall in a fit, tear them to pieces with my fingertips until i’m crying and i’m no longer angry, just alone, and you ask me not to contact you. my fingers are stained with ink as i write this letter, surrounded by the things i spread out and uncatalogued, as if they weren't for you.

today i toured a college campus and thought about how i promised i would be at your graduation, right there beside you as you chased your dream, and i see you behind the bookshelves of a place i’ll never be. maybe it wasn't long ago but i once told you i would be there after you got home, wipe the smudges of paint from your chin and pull the paintbrushes from your ponytail as i kissed you.

i joked last night about not having to worry about finding an apartment with three bedrooms to my friends and i cried that night because one of them wouldn’t be ours.

it was always you and me against the world.

                                 when did it become just me?

some days, i remember you how i want to. i remember the lilt of your mouth when speaking fast, the bones of your shoulder pressed against mine. i remember the solidarity of the hairs against your neck and that overwhelming constellation in my heart when you smiled.

some days, i remember you how you were. i remember your silent disappointment set in the curve of your spine, the empty coffee cup i paid for screaming at me when you got up and left. i remember your fingers around my neck, no purpling bruises like how it felt but pain just as real and present as if you were the one who put it there and not just a message on a screen.

storm clouds roll in my stomach, heavy clouds and dark horizons and i no longer love thunder.

touch of fingertips,
warm, restrained lips,
and i slip.

in the morning, my eyes will be tired and droop like my shoulders from the blue-ish escape of my screen. in the morning, my elbows will ache from my propped chin as i listened to the light soar of your lips and the quick flight of your fingers.

in the night, i will do the exact same, and although my fingers will shake on the curve of the mug's handle, i will do it all again.

my hair is rolling down my shoulders in heavy droplets from the condensation of my own thoughts, and i am thinking of you.

my eyes droop against the knowledge of what i've done, what we've done and sometimes, i weep into a crisp clean pillowcase that if i close my eyes, can imagine smells like you.

my pillow never did smell of you, my windows never had the pleasure of gazing upon your face but my detergent does not smell like you. my clothes do not smell like your laughter, my skin of your words, the doorknob of your insecurities and the ceiling of mine.

the fan overhead that creaks with long strokes of a tired sigh, of a job half done and abandoned, becomes the very thing i once loved. with each turn it's a catalyst and i stare, long and hard, into a night that swallows me like the venom we spat at each other and the rattle of the doorframe of my heart as you left.

i fix the window, the glass shards cutting my shaking hands into pieces unable to mend my own heart and i stand by the door, by the window, by my phone that sits quietly on the table you once sat it.

maybe it's wishful thinking but i wonder if, however many miles away you are, whatever life you're living, the painting of me still hangs from your ribs like yours does in mine.

because there's only one mona lisa, and it's not you.