No matter how I knew that it wasn't meant to be; that I was so much better off without you, I never got you out of my heart.
I still felt a hole in my chest.
It was a monstrous being that sucked the life out of me and left me bore open and heavily weighed down by emptiness.
I used to think one person could never love another forever, but you my sweet selfish Destroyer, you are proving me wrong.
Months later, 1000 empty days later, too much dignity lost later, and you still creep in everyday.
All I ever asked was for your love, but even the small bits you gifted me were never enough.
Let me be the one you will always regret losing.
Let me be the one you hate yourself for not being ready for.
Let me be anything of meaning.
Otherwise, I am just a sad girl who will never let go of something that was never holding on in the first place.
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
Thursday, June 11, 2015
She finds herself looking up at the clouds often. She lays outside and stares straight out, blocking out the buildings around her and losing herself in the endless sea of blue and white. She sits on her couch and looks outward through the glass windows, high enough up that she can’t see the life below. The clouds seem to expand towards her, as if offering to swallow her up. There is a peaceful notion in being swallowed up and lost at sea in the sky. Movement catches her eye. She sees that it is a small bird. It looks like a speck of dust; its wings are fluttering almost as hard and fast as her heartbeat. It is doing circles and going back and forth. There does not seem to be any rhyme or reason to its movements. She remembers that when she saw birds doing this in the past, it annoyed her. They seemed so helpless and lost just flying in circles in the sky. Now, with new eyes, her chest lifts in inspiration as she peers at the small bird with envy. Her eyes hang onto its every dive with excitement, her heart picking up and waiting for the next swoop in giddy anticipation. She wonders what it must be like up there: to be so free. She wonders what it must be like to be so sure of yourself, to swoop and dive in an abyss of blue knowing all that is keeping you up is the power of your own self. She wishes she could be lost and free and powerful up in the sky with the birds too.
Her shaking fingers turn on a soft melody where the voice of an angel rips at the stitches she so carefully sewed. The melody curls through the empty apartment, finding every crevice and forcing itself in. The coffee grinds make a grating sound as she scoops a big pile and pours it. Sizzling and steaming, the pot begins to fill. Her lips: soft and slightly open. A breath struggles in sympathetically, if you weren’t paying close enough attention you wouldn’t realize she was struggling. Her shaking fingers find a lighter. She shakenly puts a cigarette between her lifeless lips. With a flick of her thumb, an angry flame bursts up and touches the tip of the cigarette. The end comes to life with orange embers. A snakelike smoke cloud slithers slowly out of her lips and up into the rafters. Outside it has already begun to rain.
She takes a deep breath, not too deep, afraid that the stitches will tear. She can feel the hole in her chest growing. It is all too familiar; a malicious monster that she knew for too long. She sucks in another drag and her throat burns. She tries to pretend it doesn’t hurt, it seems as if this has become her biggest skill. She likes the smell that is now occupying the lonely apartment. Coffee and cigarettes. She tries not to let it bring the memories it so eagerly wants her to remember. Instead, she turns to the window and stares up at the clouds. The rain falls slowly down the glass and she stares out into the clouds hoping to find a bird there; free.
Friday, April 24, 2015
The smell. That’s what I remember most. It was fresh earth, wet from the rain. The grass was blindingly neon green, the way it always is after a big storm. The ground was soft and I was getting water splashed in my face as I tore by the branches in my path. Now that I look back on it, that is all I can remember; not the blood curdling screams behind me or the small springs turned red with blood and bodies.
My heart was in my throat and I thought that if I tried to open my mouth to scream it would just fall out. But I didn’t scream. I couldn’t if I wanted to survive. As I ran, the sound of my movement and the jolt of each foot hitting the ground was what I held onto. All of a sudden a big blur stepped out from behind a tree and we collided. As I landed on top of him I felt the skin on my forehead tear as my head slammed into something hard. There was immediately blood everywhere. It was pouring down into my eyes and giving the world a red tint. It was as if it was taunting me, reminding me that this is a place of murder. I tried to scramble away from what I ran into, but I knew. I knew this was death. I locked eyes with him. His eyes were large and light brown, so much lighter than his dark skin. He looked just as horrified as I was. We stood there, our knees slightly bent and our arms up ready to attack. The seconds ticked by and it was excruciating. A scream erupted behind us, so close, and our heads snapped around. We looked back at each other and in a split second, he was gone. He was running. Another scream. I ran again. I tried to stop the bleeding so I wouldn’t leave a trail, but at this point I didn’t have a choice. I began to choke on the air and I realized it was the spirits of those burning slowly behind me; their skin melting off of them and seeping into the ground.
I don’t know how I survived. Some people say there is a greater being that lives in the sky and protects us. Some say certain objects bring you good fortune. I didn’t know what to believe but mystical beings sounded too good to be true to have existed in the woods that day. I don’t know how I survived and I don’t know why. I think about those light brown eyes every single day and I wonder if it was his scream that I heard as I held myself in the woods that night, trembling and alive and alone.
He leans down earnestly and puts his head close to the one resting on the pillow. The young girl is fast asleep; her lips puckered and her fine hair sticking to her face with sweat. Her nightgown is tangled around her gangly legs and her covers are half strewn across her body. He can see her perfectly despite the darkness. His hand cups her small fragile face and he smoothes her hair back. A small smile plays on his lips, but the dolls and coloring books look on sadly from the perimeters once again. He leans down with his lips close to her ear and small whispers escape his mouth and disperse into thin air. His words, such words, are gone before they are able to be heard. He kisses her forehead and looks down on her porcelain face. Outside the wind blows and the chimes on the outside porch erupt into a faint musical beat. A second clicks by on the clock on the oven. The moon moves a fraction of an inch towards its exit and he is gone. The little girl awakes in the morning, her covers perfectly tucked around her and the whispers in her ears. “Daddy loves you,” he whispered and the words echo in her mind. She looks at the clock and thinks about what day it is, then counts out on her fingers how many days until he gets to come home again. As she wakes and begins to dress for the day, the words that once seemed gone echo throughout her. She hears it as she dresses, as she eats her breakfast, as she waves goodbye to her mom. Daddy loves you.
Monday, April 20, 2015
People may think they know your type,
By the way you dress, or talk or walk,
By the way you hold that cigarette,
Or the music that you listen to,
They classify you by your looks,
But I have had the pleasure of getting to know you.
I have seen you sleep, one hand always searching for me to assure our togetherness,
I have seen you listen to music and heard your excitement in your voice as you told me about all the things you love,
I have watched you wake up and make your coffee and I know exactly how you get dressed,
I have seen you be friendly to strangers and I have seen you love,
Do the people who think they know you know that you love to read?
Do they know that you have dreams?
Do they know how hard you study for that one test?
Do they know where you come from or what life you have lived?
I have witnessed you, I have been the chest you lay your head on and the body you hold on tightly to after a long day,
They are wrong to assume,
You are a perfectly imperfect angel.
Friday, April 17, 2015
I have found a man that when he hugs me his entire body shakes. It is as if he is squeezing so hard that he is taking away all the pain either of us has ever endured. It is as if he is hugging me for so long that he is afraid I will disappear at any moment. In those arms we shake simultaneously and hold on for our lives as each second passes, never wanting to let go. It is as if we are stitching up wounds and saying what words cannot. I tuck my head against his chest and hide my face in his neck, my own personal shell to curl up in. In those arms nothing can be wrong.
I remember that it hurt. As my body slammed against the ground I felt my flesh tear open. Brown dirt flew up around me, into my eyes and nose. My head jolted back and forth and I felt the pin ball game of my brain versus skull begin. My hands began to burn immediately and my chest froze in panic from the impact. It all happened very suddenly. At first I was still, then I was falling and then I was still again. My mind’s only priority was oxygen and my throat made a terrifying noise as I tried to suck in air. My ears rang and my brain screamed. My eyes bulged out of their sockets as I lay on my stomach, attempting to get a hold of myself. After a minute of laying there in agony the world became quiet again. I began to notice that the leaves were changing color and falling already. The sun was breaking through the tree tops and reflecting neon green and yellow across the forest. I could hear the birds atop, singing their songs and oblivious to my body beneath them. Then I heard the crunches. A twig crack; a rustle of leaves as a branch was pushed forward. I looked up just in time to see him break through the forest and into the small clearing I lay in. His jade green eyes found mine immediately and he froze, his left scarred hand still raised and holding back branches from his tanned and dirt ridden face. I had almost fully recovered from the fall, but all of the pain of it came back suddenly as I gazed at him. My heart beat fast and it seemed that oxygen was hard to come across once again. I didn’t look away though, no. I stared and he stared back. Oh, yes. I remember that it hurt.
You can judge me. You can tell me I deserve better. You can tell me its temporary or a good learning experience. Yes; you can do all of this, but never forget that you are not seeing what I am seeing. You don’t experience what I experience. Your protection of me blinds you from seeing beauty in a tarnished mirror. Your judgment of me blinds you from seeing excellence because you only care for perfection. Perfection does not exist, the most we can do as humans is strive for it. How perfect is it that I see the potential for it though in something so imperfect? Does that truly make me immature or unwise? Or does that make me better than you? I've seen milestones reached, moon dust clouds erupting with every giant step. My love story with him may not be something to watch on the big screens or for little girls to dream about. But it is real and it is mine and my happily ever after is existing in the present. He is one person that may not always know the right thing to say or do, someone that may get mad and walk away and will even make me cry sometimes. But he always comes back, he always forgives me for my mistakes and he always holds me at night. Together, we grow and learn and enjoy and we don’t need anyone’s approval. I don’t strive for the fairy-tale love that we are taught from a young age because although perfection may not exist, loving someone with all their imperfections makes it all the more magical.
Friday, March 13, 2015
I believe you can only fall in love once. The word fall describes perfectly the feeling that you experience that first time. It’s wild, free and you never once stop to think. It is not until you have been hurt by that first love to know what falling in love feels like and know that losing that first love is not something you want to experience ever again. However, when you do find that second love it is a much slower, much less freeing feeling. It is a mixture of hopelessness and fear paired with unmeasured joy and happiness. In a way, it is much more beautiful to find yourself in love the second time around or third time around. To allow yourself to love someone through all of the uncertainty is placing a great deal of hope and trust in someone. And that, in retrospect, is beautiful.
I fell in love once. It was with the neighbor boy and we were sixteen. He was my best friend. Every night before his mom got sick we would sneak out to the tree house in the backyard, sit, and plan great adventures that we would embark on together. Eventually as we grew, the promises we made changed, the way he looked at me changed, and I never realized what was happening until that first kiss. It was as if my heart had fallen out of the tree house and left me stranded in suspension with him. I was not scared, I was liberated.
Cas was the goofy type with a heart so full of compassion I could never live up to. He was the kind of boy that made the world light and brought a smile to every face he passed in the day. He always had those corny jokes to spit out and his hugs were so warm and comforting it was as if you could live and die peacefully in his arms. In short, he was the polar opposite of the second man I ever loved. Dark, distraught, full of anger and fear and barely could be said to be human. Yet the way I loved him was so powerful that even though the world was telling me to run away, I could not have done the more opposite thing fast enough...
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
The smell of the rain on the hot blacktop. I could be Julie Andrews singing “My Favorite Things.” When I smell that smell, I am transferred back in time to sitting in my Mema’s house in the summer. The windows would be cracked open and the blinds drawn. Outside the rain would slam onto the ground, creating a low deep blur of noise. The room would be dark and the smell of the rain would waft through the semi-open window with the breeze. The world had a tint of darkness, but the smell of the fresh rain, of rejuvenation, transformed the gray. Occasionally you would hear a car pass, slowing down at the stop sign. Its wet tires would only briefly be there, before it was gone again. The house would be completely silent. Occasionally a rumble of thunder would shake the house ever so slightly and young me would be excited. Is it that memory that makes the warm weather rain one of my favorites? While everybody else complains of its mugginess or of their hair frizzing, I make a cup of coffee and I sit on the porch. Just like when I lived in the mountains. The storms were always so much worse the higher up you were. We were high. The sky would get a malicious color and the clouds would spin and twirl as if trying to warn us. The tree’s leaves always fascinated me when they blew. One side was vibrant green and the other a dull mint color. The lightening would strike in beautiful streaks right in front of us. The power would be out and we would light candles and retire to the porch where we would sit on the rocking chairs and just watch. It was terrifying. I could feel the earth shake under my feet, but I never looked away. There were always rainbows afterwards and my sister and I would climb the trees, the bark squishy and wet, just to try to see the end where the pot of gold surely sat waiting.