tearing

 

Yeah? What would you done if you had known? Would you have reached out and helped in any real way? Calmed me down. Talked. Held. Connected. Nothing can help. Nothing can fix. Somethings just are. Maybe some people are just permanently broken. Maybe all. Maybe some people just handle it better than others. It feels like a tearing, and a downpour, and a void. A cosmic ring toss, a gravity pull, an intangible shithouse. What’s it do to cry over what cannot be mended? A broken bone can heal. Can a broken heart…? Truly? I want the truth now. Not a Hallmark card, or an Instagram caption, or a reply-all work email. Give it to me straight. God, give me something to trust. Something with weight, with meaning, an anchor, security, an embrace, a friend, a lover, a mother, a law, a god, a knowing. Anything. Something as secure as the how the sun runs laps around our planet. Intrinsic. Scientific. Something that Is. I have never felt more alone – I have said that every time. But how can people reach out when I don’t let them know I need to be reached out to? Maybe it doesn’t matter as much as I think. Maybe I live my life half-deaf, half-immune, half-numb. Why do I feel like I’m only a half…? Is that possible? Do I have the vocabulary to express what I’m truly feeling..? Or do I feel this way because my half, my mother, is gone. Has been for 11 years and 10 months. Was she my half? Because I very vividly remember resenting her for many years. And then she had to go and die. No two ways about it. Just the one, the imminent one. It's wild how much grief a person can carry around for over a decade. Who would I be without it? Maybe better. Maybe also worse. There is much I miss. Much I don’t, but I don’t tend to dwell on that stuff. Much easier to digest missing out on the good, than missing the bad. Tonight I envisioned something I hadn’t before. I thought about pretending to call my mom up (she was alive and living in Massachusetts with her friends) and venting to her about love and heartbreak. Just telling her I was feeling down. What would she say? Do I know? Did I know her well enough, even when I hated her? Perhaps that is when you know someone best. Love and hate are a surprisingly, alarmingly fine line. It makes me feel better, at least. Knowing that I could hate her and love her at the same time. Maybe I will never be fully healed. Maybe that’s okay. And you know.. Maybe it’s not pretending that’s the problem. Maybe the problem is that I’m so worried about it being a problem. Life is always a game of pointing fingers at yourself. It’s quite nauseating. Maybe one day my brain will quiet down, and I won’t feel so tense, and I won’t feel so torn. It’s the tearing, you know. How it feels like tearing.

Resilient

 re·sil·ient / adj. 1. The cactus that stands tall in the barren desert: vibrant, vulnerable, thriving, alive. It is where it is supposed to be. The danger of the everyday / Met in stride. 2. The short, squash cactus that stands guard under my bedroom window. Waiting to surprise the unlucky intruder / The foolish burglar who won’t see it coming. My mother’s hands are stained with mulch / Sweat dripping from her brow. The burglar never comes / He can’t escape her mind. 3. The grown daughter that stands / Looking over her shoulder / Clutching her car keys tightly. Surviving the danger of the everyday / And the every other day / Resilient like her mother

heavy

im lonely in ways i can't express
pain and fear are dripping out of my chest and onto everything
i miss you most in the unassuming moments
clothes you used to wear, i saw a woman with your same shirt and went beserk
i almost cried
over a blue tee with an American flag from the Gap
it wasn't quite as faded as yours.
anytime I see Champion I remember how i talked shit about your fit. anything to drive the knife- and i was unspeakably wrong. and rude. and mean.
you deserved kindness and patience and i left you a note written in malice. i can never take that back. and im sorry. over and over again, i'm sorry.
for the first year i would wake up thinking it was all a nightmare and call out for you. then it hit me. this is now reality and i'm sorry.
you were the glue and you're gone and now that it's fallen apart, i wish i could have let myself feel that much sooner. i don't think any of it would have happened had i not acted so selfish and cruel and unforgiving.
these days i'm trying so hard to be better but it's fucking tough and i thought if i became the best version of myself, i'd find my way. but i'm not sure who that is anymore or where to go. i wish you here to guide me. i wish i could call you and ask for your advice. i wish i had appreciated our moments together more. i hate that i have to live in my memories to feel close to you. life feels like such a joke and sometimes i care so much and sometimes i don't care at all. i only know that when i die, i'll see you. because anything else isn't an option. anything else is pointless.

my birthday is august 16th

Every year sand drips from the hourglass.
Every year people meet the loves of their lives.
Every year people get their hearts ripped from their chests.

When I was 16 I asked for a party. We debated the logistics and the funds, and after yielding to a compromise, you crossed your arms and jaunted your face.
"And when IS your birthday?"

That year I fell in love with a boy whose listlessness reflected my own.
I spent 17 years waiting to be loved and I'll spend 17 more.

guilt

You’re too scared and ashamed to speak the truth. The words get as far as a sidestep in your mind before you drink them away. You think you’ll break me with the same tongue with which you spoke false deliverance. Your silence was never a comfort; why would it be now?
The true disservice is the lack of faith. In me. In yourself. In the inscrutable plans of the universe.
You said the sky would rain knives before anything turned out right, but the only cuts I got were from you. Yet here I am; hands outstretched and heart shielded. I am your friend. Not a victim of your humanity, nor a toy boxed away. Let me go. Face yourself. Clean your fucking room.

When the inspiration strikes..

I want to redefine my worries with refined writing.

I want I want I want.

My stare is set on stars but I falter at the end of stairs.

"I'm sad and alone, I'm sad and alone, I'm sadly alone,"

>Anger at my primitive consciousness.

>Anger at my premature conclusions.

>Anger at my problematic consensus for psychological catastrophe.

These words don't mean shit but I do.

So where the fuck are you?

one.

my entire life has been compromised of feelings i can't commit to.
my father was my first love.
my lungs are filled with
                                    smoke.

i am the moss that grows in shadow.
people seek me simply to guide them home.
the only thing i want is to have something to say.


my lungs are filled with smoke.

i cannot breathe but i can see.

i see you dance

i see you play

i envy your rhythm

i envy your ease

i wish it were me.