Two years ago, life was hard.
While I hid out in my bedroom with books,
but no laptop, no Netflix, no iPhone, nothing but me,
I blamed homework for my lack of social interaction.
My roommates stopped asking me to go out with them,
and I sunk deeper into myself. I thought I was content.
In an English paper, I wrote that I knew how to be alone
without being lonely, and that might have been true. But
it would be more accurate to say that I learned to be
alone without admitting I was lonely.
Where the guy across town didn't work out,
I crushed on the guy across the hall.
That lasted about three days, because then
my roommate made out with him in his bedroom,
and he sang her to sleep at night with his guitar.
I listened outside the door once, and pretended
that someone would care about me like that. And
it was nice to pretend for a little while, but he was
her rebound and they broke up three weeks later.
When classes ended, I would have lost my scholarship
but for a few anxious emails. I spent hours agonizing
over my future and when it was salvaged, I held on
to the value I placed in my own independence.
It didn't take long before I returned to the blissful state
of ignoring the reality of my future, because back then
graduation was distant, and even when it did happen,
I thought I wouldn't miss it when I left. I thought that
this was another thing I couldn't wait to put behind me.
Last year, life was harder.
Though I found ways to escape, so did the girl
across the parking lot. I talked to her for hours,
borrowed her books, and we didn't talk again
until one of us remembered we didn't live that far away.
I lived with the same roommates. I got what I expected,
except I didn't expect it to be so hard. I tried to make up
for the last year, but I was late. I haven't seen them since.
There was a guy I thought I liked. He was clever,
made me laugh when he said 'pneumonia.' I didn't care
about the difference in our age. Maybe he wouldn't have
either, if he'd given me a chance. I couldn't blame him
when he didn't. I'd gotten used to disappointment.
And I held back, because I didn't trust my own judgment
any longer and I couldn't trust them if I couldn't trust me.
Then I let go of my childhood faith. It was hard,
but not as hard as I thought it would be. The worst part
was telling my parents. They didn't understand the way
I hoped they would. But I thought it would be okay
because I thought I was doing what I thought was right.
Even though I wasn't really sure what 'right' meant,
or whether truth existed, I thought I could find it out.
Life is still hard.
Now the words etched in my heart echo the red ink
on my hands as it fades into cracked, bleeding skin,
the colors indistinguishable from each other. Still
I work myself to sleep, laugh myself to tears, and
refuse to make my life a production of trial and error.
Near the end of what I thought would last forever,
nothing is scarier than an end. And I'm getting through it.
When people ask me how I function, I say I don't know,
but I just don't want to explain that the people in my life
are how I stay alive. That words don't do them justice.
Never thought it would turn out like this, but I wouldn't
have it any other way. Waking up forty-five minutes early
to sit and talk before class. Staying up an hour late just
for that long-awaited phone call. Calling in to work so you
can spend a day together. These things are everything.
And I made time for the people I care about,
and I learned to be more okay with not knowing,
and I realized how much I have to live for,
and that makes every difference.
I didn't think I could be this close to fine, but I am.
I am.
Wednesday
Friday
Second Time Around
I step inside my dark apartment,
make sure to lock the door behind me.
The streetlamp outside casts my shadow on the wall,
green light from the microwave tells me the time.
My boots echo on the fake hardwood floor,
feet still freezing through two layers of socks.
I hear the heat running but I don't feel it,
instead notice how cold it is now I'm home alone.
Look out through two layers of glass,
see nothing beyond the streetlamp past the parking lot.
Alone here where it's empty,
where there are no fairy lights or Christmas trees
to make my life feel magical,
lock the bedroom door even though I'm here alone,
or maybe because I am.
Might just sleep with the lamp on tonight.
I can feel the redness in my eyes,
the burn of wanting to close them
but it hurts too much to do so.
The dried tears on my face
are not the product of today's grief,
but a reminder of what it was like
to feel infinite.
I remember minutes ago,
when I didn't want to let go of that feeling
We held on to each other in a dark truck.
and I could hear his heartbeat
even through two layers of clothing.
And then the moment passed
and I came inside and
maybe someday I won't be scared.
I sit on the floor of my bedroom,
boots still on my feet,
and everything is so, so cold.
Maybe someday things will be different.
make sure to lock the door behind me.
The streetlamp outside casts my shadow on the wall,
green light from the microwave tells me the time.
My boots echo on the fake hardwood floor,
feet still freezing through two layers of socks.
I hear the heat running but I don't feel it,
instead notice how cold it is now I'm home alone.
Look out through two layers of glass,
see nothing beyond the streetlamp past the parking lot.
Alone here where it's empty,
where there are no fairy lights or Christmas trees
to make my life feel magical,
lock the bedroom door even though I'm here alone,
or maybe because I am.
Might just sleep with the lamp on tonight.
I can feel the redness in my eyes,
the burn of wanting to close them
but it hurts too much to do so.
The dried tears on my face
are not the product of today's grief,
but a reminder of what it was like
to feel infinite.
I remember minutes ago,
when I didn't want to let go of that feeling
We held on to each other in a dark truck.
and I could hear his heartbeat
even through two layers of clothing.
And then the moment passed
and I came inside and
maybe someday I won't be scared.
I sit on the floor of my bedroom,
boots still on my feet,
and everything is so, so cold.
Maybe someday things will be different.
Monday
Making Promises
I didn't get drunk last night,
but I might have been a little tipsy.
Not too much to forget what happened,
because I remember what I did and said.
I talked to foreign men and avoided one person
who makes me more uncomfortable than anyone should.
I watched people smoke weed on the back porch
while I sat on a cold couch laughing with a short guy
drinking a pumpkin-flavored beer.
It was my second, but he said he's had too many to count.
I walked up a hill with some people I knew,
and more that I didn't, to get good food at half past eleven.
I didn't buy anything because I've
already indulged enough this week.
An Iranian man hid his beer in the bushes while we ate
on the roof. The bisexual man who sat in the next seat
ran away when another girl wasn't interested in him.
I had fun, but when we went to move her car,
I fully supported driving indefinitely. And we did.
We just drove and talked and everything I told her
had nothing to do with the alcohol.
At midnight I spent time with the gays,
and my father wasn't happy when he found out.
I spent a week with wet eyes, but ever since then
I've just been mad. She understood that.
At one she went to jail; she told me how
she never thought they'd get caught
out in the middle of a field in the middle of the night.
But they were, and she paid the price.
It almost ruined her life, but now she feels like
there was a reason for everything that happened.
By two I had left the church. I was fed up with the
hypocrisy, the double standards,
the twisted sexuality and unhealthy self-image.
She's heard it all and she still goes,
even though she calls herself a sinner. Though
she doesn't always live it, she believes it's right,
and it makes her happy. And that's what matters.
By three we're better friends than I could have imagined
when we began this five hours ago.
She didn't have anything to drink,
but she didn't need it to decide to trust me.
We told each other our stories and
heard those of everyone else:
the political activists and the potheads,
the already drunk people and the ones just getting started.
The people in the corners and at the center of attention.
I fell somewhere in between.
Not stone-cold sober
but not too drunk either.
I may have been a little tipsy,
but I remember every detail.
but I might have been a little tipsy.
Not too much to forget what happened,
because I remember what I did and said.
I talked to foreign men and avoided one person
who makes me more uncomfortable than anyone should.
I watched people smoke weed on the back porch
while I sat on a cold couch laughing with a short guy
drinking a pumpkin-flavored beer.
It was my second, but he said he's had too many to count.
I walked up a hill with some people I knew,
and more that I didn't, to get good food at half past eleven.
I didn't buy anything because I've
already indulged enough this week.
An Iranian man hid his beer in the bushes while we ate
on the roof. The bisexual man who sat in the next seat
ran away when another girl wasn't interested in him.
I had fun, but when we went to move her car,
I fully supported driving indefinitely. And we did.
We just drove and talked and everything I told her
had nothing to do with the alcohol.
At midnight I spent time with the gays,
and my father wasn't happy when he found out.
I spent a week with wet eyes, but ever since then
I've just been mad. She understood that.
At one she went to jail; she told me how
she never thought they'd get caught
out in the middle of a field in the middle of the night.
But they were, and she paid the price.
It almost ruined her life, but now she feels like
there was a reason for everything that happened.
By two I had left the church. I was fed up with the
hypocrisy, the double standards,
the twisted sexuality and unhealthy self-image.
She's heard it all and she still goes,
even though she calls herself a sinner. Though
she doesn't always live it, she believes it's right,
and it makes her happy. And that's what matters.
By three we're better friends than I could have imagined
when we began this five hours ago.
She didn't have anything to drink,
but she didn't need it to decide to trust me.
We told each other our stories and
heard those of everyone else:
the political activists and the potheads,
the already drunk people and the ones just getting started.
The people in the corners and at the center of attention.
I fell somewhere in between.
Not stone-cold sober
but not too drunk either.
I may have been a little tipsy,
but I remember every detail.
Sunday
Touch Me Fall
You don't know what to do with days like this,
when you haven't left your house
and then it's dark outside again.
When you speak barely a string of sentences
to another person for hours,
and you stay inside.
Some days there is solace in the being alone;
today is not one of those days.
Running the same playlist on repeat helps,
or at least that's what you tell yourself.
You don't know what you're feeling or why,
and you're afraid to consider it too much.
You don't mean to cry but you do,
and you can't separate the tears of sorrow
from those of anger, and you realize
that you are so much more than that:
gratitude, pain, confusion, healing,
love, rage, fear, fury, uncertainty
all find their place within your cracks.
It may not be as bad as you think,
but that doesn't stop you from crying over it.
when you haven't left your house
and then it's dark outside again.
When you speak barely a string of sentences
to another person for hours,
and you stay inside.
Some days there is solace in the being alone;
today is not one of those days.
Running the same playlist on repeat helps,
or at least that's what you tell yourself.
You don't know what you're feeling or why,
and you're afraid to consider it too much.
You don't mean to cry but you do,
and you can't separate the tears of sorrow
from those of anger, and you realize
that you are so much more than that:
gratitude, pain, confusion, healing,
love, rage, fear, fury, uncertainty
all find their place within your cracks.
It may not be as bad as you think,
but that doesn't stop you from crying over it.
Wednesday
They Won't Have Me
I remember back then.
A phone in pieces on the floor,
silently begging to be acknowledged
but I stubbornly ignore its painful presence.
It's harder than I want it to be. It seems simple at first,
but simple things turn out to be less simple than we thought
Sometimes when I move the wrong way, pain shoots up my spine.
I've had plenty of that pain in my past, but it didn't hurt as much as this;
now the pain is more than I can bear alone, but luckily I don't have to be alone.
When my world fell his chest was the only solid thing to hold onto,
and it was enough for me. Not in spite of it, but because of it.
I walk down halls that smell like elementary school
and I am transported back to days years ago
When college was a probable possibility
and I didn't know what a crush was.
When gay still just meant happy,
and fathers were always right.
and fathers were always right.
Friday
Run
I watched it for fifteen minutes,
black beetle on the edge of a desk,
shell edged in red,
antenna trembling,
trying to take stock of its surroundings
and failing,
flailing,
never getting anywhere.
I didn't give it a chance to run
before I crushed it under my shoe.
I held nothing against it but existence,
and even I got a chance at that.
I spend my days living a routine—
an endless spiral
both familiar and foreign in its consistency.
I can neither fly away
nor find my way to solid ground,
so this is where I have stayed.
I have to get out,
run while I can,
or I'll be crushed before I've gone anywhere.
black beetle on the edge of a desk,
shell edged in red,
antenna trembling,
trying to take stock of its surroundings
and failing,
flailing,
never getting anywhere.
I didn't give it a chance to run
before I crushed it under my shoe.
I held nothing against it but existence,
and even I got a chance at that.
I spend my days living a routine—
an endless spiral
both familiar and foreign in its consistency.
I can neither fly away
nor find my way to solid ground,
so this is where I have stayed.
I have to get out,
run while I can,
or I'll be crushed before I've gone anywhere.
Thursday
Burn All The Letters
Precision of language
is an impossibility.
Junior high me liked attention.
She exaggerated the emotions of her life
in ways that were unrealistic and untrue
and she got her attention.
Present day me still likes attention.
But I also value the preservation of authenticity,
the precision of language,
saying what I mean.
Today that precision failed.
I failed it
and I failed me.
is an impossibility.
Junior high me liked attention.
She exaggerated the emotions of her life
in ways that were unrealistic and untrue
and she got her attention.
Present day me still likes attention.
But I also value the preservation of authenticity,
the precision of language,
saying what I mean.
Today that precision failed.
I failed it
and I failed me.
Wednesday
Three Hits
One.
October,
confession,
rejection.
Honesty overcomes discomfort.
The telling is arduous, the questions
unanswerable, and I leave
crying.
Two.
November,
confession,
acceptance.
Handwritten pain and vulnerability.
I expected to hurt but instead felt free.
For me, acceptance is the defining factor
in love.
Three.
December,
confession,
emotion.
My sins have left me unclaimed.
It's hard enough losing myself
without everyone else losing me too,
but they do,
and I cope.
October,
confession,
rejection.
Honesty overcomes discomfort.
The telling is arduous, the questions
unanswerable, and I leave
crying.
Two.
November,
confession,
acceptance.
Handwritten pain and vulnerability.
I expected to hurt but instead felt free.
For me, acceptance is the defining factor
in love.
Three.
December,
confession,
emotion.
My sins have left me unclaimed.
It's hard enough losing myself
without everyone else losing me too,
but they do,
and I cope.
Tuesday
Power Of Two
Long drive to some countryside
with no destination in mind,
talk about feeling confined
and how life is so rarely kind.
U-turns on deserted roads--
we don't have to know where they go.
Time passes but they don't know;
his story is much like my own.
Important to few but us,
important because we learned trust.
Honesty, nothing discussed
but truth we didn't need to adjust.
A world where people estrange--
I want to believe they can change.
Difference no longer deranged
but love and acceptance exchanged.
Our stories are not any mystery,
our lives are a far cry from misery.
I doubt I'll look back on this bitterly;
despite what will happen eventually,
he's forever fixed in my history.
with no destination in mind,
talk about feeling confined
and how life is so rarely kind.
U-turns on deserted roads--
we don't have to know where they go.
Time passes but they don't know;
his story is much like my own.
Important to few but us,
important because we learned trust.
Honesty, nothing discussed
but truth we didn't need to adjust.
A world where people estrange--
I want to believe they can change.
Difference no longer deranged
but love and acceptance exchanged.
Our stories are not any mystery,
our lives are a far cry from misery.
I doubt I'll look back on this bitterly;
despite what will happen eventually,
he's forever fixed in my history.
Monday
Prince Of Darkness
Am I going to end up alone?
There are worse things than that,
I suppose. But I still want to know:
where will I end up?
On a deserted highway
in a broken-down car with
no spare tire, no cell service,
and no one to trust?
In an alley behind a dumpster,
bruised, broken, bleeding
because my skirt was too short
and my shoulders were bare?
Behind a broken chair,
cowering in fear because
years ago I made a choice
and it was the wrong one?
Near the scene of unlikely crime
that no one could have anticipated,
shot through some vital organ
for believing in something?
Under the mangled carcass of a burning building,
an unrecognizable remnant of human,
a faceless name who tried to do good
and will never know if she succeeded?
At the end of a tunnel of light,
turned away from a pearly gate
to face a freezing eternity
in the black of loneliness?
Or maybe these thoughts are irrelevant
because they are improbable, and because
death is not as frightening
as the thought of living lonely.
There are worse things than that,
I suppose. But I still want to know:
where will I end up?
On a deserted highway
in a broken-down car with
no spare tire, no cell service,
and no one to trust?
In an alley behind a dumpster,
bruised, broken, bleeding
because my skirt was too short
and my shoulders were bare?
Behind a broken chair,
cowering in fear because
years ago I made a choice
and it was the wrong one?
Near the scene of unlikely crime
that no one could have anticipated,
shot through some vital organ
for believing in something?
Under the mangled carcass of a burning building,
an unrecognizable remnant of human,
a faceless name who tried to do good
and will never know if she succeeded?
At the end of a tunnel of light,
turned away from a pearly gate
to face a freezing eternity
in the black of loneliness?
Or maybe these thoughts are irrelevant
because they are improbable, and because
death is not as frightening
as the thought of living lonely.
Sunday
Our Deliverance
Colder weather,
summer fading into winter
without autumn ever seeing the sun,
and I go back to the place I used to call
home.
Anticipation fills me as I grow nearer,
and I feel like I can hardly wait.
I let myself in at midnight and crawl into
the bed that's always kept for me,
stealing a pillow from my sister--
she has more than enough.
In the morning my siblings are excited to see me,
but an hour later I'm anxious to leave again.
I've outstayed my welcome and am just waiting
for someone to let me know that.
I miss it as soon as I'm gone,
and I want to talk about it but I don't
until the next day, when I try to talk through
the pain I don't want to be feeling.
My family never fails to hurt me,
whether they mean to or not. My friends
are what keep me from hurting myself.
summer fading into winter
without autumn ever seeing the sun,
and I go back to the place I used to call
home.
Anticipation fills me as I grow nearer,
and I feel like I can hardly wait.
I let myself in at midnight and crawl into
the bed that's always kept for me,
stealing a pillow from my sister--
she has more than enough.
In the morning my siblings are excited to see me,
but an hour later I'm anxious to leave again.
I've outstayed my welcome and am just waiting
for someone to let me know that.
I miss it as soon as I'm gone,
and I want to talk about it but I don't
until the next day, when I try to talk through
the pain I don't want to be feeling.
My family never fails to hurt me,
whether they mean to or not. My friends
are what keep me from hurting myself.
Saturday
Digging For Your Dream
It's not personal,
but the things you want aren't important to me.
Your life is not what I dreamed it would be.
You should have been a lawyer;
maybe then your other life decisions would be more acceptable.
Then again, probably not.
I thought I wanted you to be less like me,
but I changed my mind.
The more like me you are,
the less like yourself you can choose to be,
and then your life can turn out like mine.
I just want what's best for you.
I've been where you are,
I know what's going to happen,
and if you don't take my advice,
then someday you'll look back and realize I was right.
I don't want that to happen.
Well, maybe a little,
but I would never admit that.
It's nothing personal, just remember that
I have more life experience than you.
The obvious conclusion being that
I know how you should live your life.
You know I don't want to make you mad,
right?
I just want you to be happy.
For the unofficial record,
your personal life is determined by my assumptions.
I asked you a question three weeks ago.
Your answer means you don't have friends.
As I've told you before, religious worship is the
only way for your social life to be fulfilling,
but you don't have a religion.
So no, you're not spiritual enough to have friends.
But don't take it personally.
I'm just telling you what I've observed,
without any real thought for the
weak trust I'm destroying
or the insecure feelings I'm tearing down.
But, but, but.
It's nothing personal but oh yes it is.
Excuses, excuses, excuses.
They keep coming but they're not mine.
Meaningless pseudo-apology
meets omnipotent selfishness,
and maybe this is how it's supposed to be,
but I hope not.
Maybe I hope for too much.
but the things you want aren't important to me.
Your life is not what I dreamed it would be.
You should have been a lawyer;
maybe then your other life decisions would be more acceptable.
Then again, probably not.
I thought I wanted you to be less like me,
but I changed my mind.
The more like me you are,
the less like yourself you can choose to be,
and then your life can turn out like mine.
I just want what's best for you.
I've been where you are,
I know what's going to happen,
and if you don't take my advice,
then someday you'll look back and realize I was right.
I don't want that to happen.
Well, maybe a little,
but I would never admit that.
It's nothing personal, just remember that
I have more life experience than you.
The obvious conclusion being that
I know how you should live your life.
You know I don't want to make you mad,
right?
I just want you to be happy.
For the unofficial record,
your personal life is determined by my assumptions.
I asked you a question three weeks ago.
Your answer means you don't have friends.
As I've told you before, religious worship is the
only way for your social life to be fulfilling,
but you don't have a religion.
So no, you're not spiritual enough to have friends.
But don't take it personally.
I'm just telling you what I've observed,
without any real thought for the
weak trust I'm destroying
or the insecure feelings I'm tearing down.
But, but, but.
It's nothing personal but oh yes it is.
Excuses, excuses, excuses.
They keep coming but they're not mine.
Meaningless pseudo-apology
meets omnipotent selfishness,
and maybe this is how it's supposed to be,
but I hope not.
Maybe I hope for too much.
Monday
Pushing The Needle Too Far
Is it hard for you to see me surviving and thriving when I've
let go of, rejected, turned my back on everything you gave me,
wanted for me, forced upon me?
Do you grit your teeth when I'm
happy, content, at peace,
in spite of you and your twisted assumptions about my life?
How often do you wish for
unhappiness, discontent, restlessness
to get to me, to change the way I live?
Can you let go of your
hurt feelings, stubborn pride, preconceived notions
long enough to listen and understand?
No.
You continue to clarify, falsify, justify your words
while you mortify, petrify, crucify my dignity
on a cross of righteous concern.
I'm left to fortify, purify, ramify my actions
to pacify you.
You can't judge me for what I haven't said or done.
You've pushed me too far.
I used to be an honest person
because I didn't want to cause you pain. Now
my integrity has been compromised
because the meaningful things I tell you
become ammunition for future attacks.
I would rather be damned for lying
than damn you for doing the same to me.
Because at least you don't believe my lies.
Just because my life doesn't look
the way you envisioned it.
Consider this:
maybe what you want for me
isn't what I want for me.
And you have no right to pain me into acquiescence.
Your hopes spell the death of everything I love,
all to satisfy your
consistent, insistent, persistent need to be right.
All I want now is to prove you wrong.
let go of, rejected, turned my back on everything you gave me,
wanted for me, forced upon me?
Do you grit your teeth when I'm
happy, content, at peace,
in spite of you and your twisted assumptions about my life?
How often do you wish for
unhappiness, discontent, restlessness
to get to me, to change the way I live?
Can you let go of your
hurt feelings, stubborn pride, preconceived notions
long enough to listen and understand?
No.
You continue to clarify, falsify, justify your words
while you mortify, petrify, crucify my dignity
on a cross of righteous concern.
I'm left to fortify, purify, ramify my actions
to pacify you.
You can't judge me for what I haven't said or done.
You've pushed me too far.
I used to be an honest person
because I didn't want to cause you pain. Now
my integrity has been compromised
because the meaningful things I tell you
become ammunition for future attacks.
I would rather be damned for lying
than damn you for doing the same to me.
Because at least you don't believe my lies.
Just because my life doesn't look
the way you envisioned it.
Consider this:
maybe what you want for me
isn't what I want for me.
And you have no right to pain me into acquiescence.
Your hopes spell the death of everything I love,
all to satisfy your
consistent, insistent, persistent need to be right.
All I want now is to prove you wrong.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)