How to Let Go

How do you let go of the people who shaped you? 
How do you let go of the things that carved you into the person you are? 
How do you let go of things without closure? 
I like things to end with a nice little bow and a card.  More times than not, it ends in a fight and a finale that says something like "we're better off without each other" or "I don't want to be your friend."  And then sometimes, there is nothing.  There is unspun ribbon and and jagged edges that run on forever and tangle around my feet and trip me up.  Sometimes, I cannot find the definite end, rather I find a moment where the world started to fade to a different color and no reason why. 
How do I let go of that? 
How do I walk away from something if I don't even know what went wrong? 
How am I expected to fix myself and change my behavior and become a better person when I am drowning in a sea of people too scared to call me out on my mistakes? 
How am I supposed to apologize to them for what I've done and ask for their forgiveness? 
I'm not brave but I am not a silent sufferer either.  When someone hurts me, I turn over my arm and show them the wound and often times, it is too much.  Often times, I am bleeding out calling out their name in accusation and they are running away, calling accusations of their own unspecified hurt over their shoulders.  I try to be gentle and forgiving but sometimes, the cuts are too deep and too close together not to call out.  But it is too much for people.  I am too much. 
And sometimes, they leave without a word and what am I supposed to do then? 
When he invites me to something special and then leaves me alone and then slips back in silently?
When they play petty games and block me out and then slip in with a trivial conversation? 
How do I let go without pushing too hard? 
Or is it okay to shove the people who broke me away when they try to walk back in like nothing happened?

Addicted to People

There are lots of things to get addicted to in this world.
I leave most of them alone, but people...you can't leave people alone forever.

And you can get addicted to them.  I do.
They get under my skin and in my heart and in my head.
I see the color of their eyes and hear the sound of their voice and see the way they smile.

People are a tragic thing to be addicted to- a dangerous thing to crave.

Because even after I cut them out, I go through withdrawal and I want them no matter how much it might hurt me.

They used to wind me up and watch me spin out so -snip- they're gone like a loose string on a cardigan.
And then I crave the late nights, I miss the laughter, I want the bad decisions.

He put his hooks in me and didn't care how much it hurt or how much the blood pooled as I tore them out.
And then I crave his voice, I miss the feelings, I want him.

They left me, on my birthday alone at the top of the ferris wheel so I slipped away silently and no one noticed.
And then I crave the society, I miss the crowd, I want the past back.

He looks like all my past bad decisions with softer corners and dull edges and all of him screams danger.
And then I crave his attention, I miss the danger, I want the regret.

I crave people the way others crave cigarettes or whiskey or oblivion.

Even the people who hurt me come back to haunt my dreams and part of me, that broken sick part, wants them back no matter what the cost.

I'm so addicted to people that when I pull away from them, it makes my hands shake and it makes me cry and it makes me sick.
It tore my life open, that addiction, and it's not the same as drugs or alcohol, but it ruined me anyway.
I'm recovering, learning how to pull away, learning how to live without, learning how to choose healthy instead of danger.

But on mornings when the fog hangs low and my dreams are thicker than syrup and my head is full of wishes and wants, the need is hard to shake. 
So I settle for imagination and for pretending things turned out different and for stories on paper where I can satiate the cravings without really hurting myself.

Contradictions

I am all feeling and he is all thought. 

I am the pastel colors that bleed together and fade at the edges.  He is the dark, straight lines that show the picture.  Together, we could make something beautiful, and the thought is terrifying and I think I want it. 

I am all heart and he is all head and together, maybe we could finally have both. 

I am the emotions that slam down the gas pedal and he is the logic that presses the break and steers the car.  Together, we could go anywhere-be anything. 

You would be hard pressed to find two people who are more different than the two of us. 

I am exploding laughter and violent sobbing and more words than you could count spilling from my lips.  He is quiet thoughtfulness and steady plans and gentle joking.  And I am afraid to be too much for him.  But his heart is bigger than anyone I know, maybe even mine, and I think sometimes there might be room for me in there too. 

I am conspiracy theories and belief in wild things and he his fact and truth and together, we could be unstoppable. 

I am the branches of a tree, swaying in the wind and growing ever outward.  He is all roots and depth and strength.  Together, we could live forever. 

And as different as we are, the similarities scare me more.  The faith we share.  Love for family, adoration of friends.  The lack of spontaneous impulse and the finality in all of our decisions. 

I have spent my life chasing whims because permanence is a scary word and when I look at him, I see forever.  He is the jovial youth and the steady life and the white picket fence and the rocking chair on the porch.  He is love and constant reassurance and I need it all and it scares me half to death. 

I've spent my whole life running, floating on the wind like a wish and somehow I ran straight into him and he's everything I ever dreamed of and the truth of it, the reality of how good he is for me, makes my hands shake and my words come out twisted. 

He is all angles and facts and straight lines and I am vines and feelings and colors and I am shaking in my boots thinking I might have found forever.

Child Of The Forest- Read at Bohemeos 1.29.19

Child of a human, raised with Fairies where everything is golden.  This world is new and bright and nothing like your old home.  Who brought you here little one?  The sunlight feels like kisses from falling stars.  Your head is light with wonder and your lungs full of merriment.  Is there anything here that you fear?  Not yet.  Dance weightless, and laugh unbridled.  Sing with the fairies and let enchantment wrap you in its arms.  Bend the sunlight to your will by offering a smile.  Be radiant and mesmerizing.  Let these moments last.

Child of the magic, how long can you keep a hold on your innocence?  How long until they steal it away?  Their world is full of beauty but ethereal faces are masks to hide the danger.  You might love them, but you are still an outsider.  The tune they play is intoxicating, but how long can you dance with them until your finite feet begin to ache?  They cannot lie, but you cannot last.  How long until the revelry turns into a hunt?  Did you know that you are their prey?  You don't belong here.  I fear you never did.

Child of the forest, did someone warn you?  They see your soft edges and your gentle hands and mild words and they long to break you.  You love the glitter of the world around you now, but how long until they turn their pretty phrases to poison and start to spit it at you?  They know you too well; know where to press to make you crack.  Do you know how delicate you are?  It will not be hard to crush a mortal or to kill a spirit like yours.  They were made for this kind of hurt.

Lonely girl, do you really love him?  That beast with glowing eyes and sharp teeth?  Nothing good comes from a smile that wicked.  They taught you not to fear them, so you embrace it.  He feels like a different kind of magic; something dangerous and dark, but you run to it.  You run to him.  You want his shade of darkness.  You want him.  Does it feel like a trap?  Can you see the distraction in his smile?  Can you feel the venom in his words?  Loving him won't make you one of them.  You're human through and through.  Too gentle.  Too weak.  Too blind to see the truth.

Broken girl, do your bones ache now?  Have you fled into the darkness to outrun the truth?  When did their words of encouragement turn to whispers of your failures?  Look at their faces. You'll see the horns.  The claws.  The fangs.  Can you see now the way they laugh when they cause you pain?  You're just a human child, playing at being more.  To them, you will never be enough-until you’re nothing.  You can hide in the trees, but the tree sprites will find you.  Can you hear the hunting call echoing now?  They’re coming for you.  Can you outrun their arrows?  Run.  Run faster.

Human girl, how hard will it be to fight your friends?  This place you called your home has turned its back on you.  Will it break your heart?  Will it break you?  You lived in their kingdom and learned all the rules-that doesn’t make you safe.  Can you turn on them now?  Alone?  For your own good?  There's a long road ahead of you, a war waiting on the other side of the trees.  Are you sure you can do it?  Their glamour is misery when the sharp edge turns against you.  You don’t have much to fight with.  Can you hear them calling, taunting you to come back and be their pet?  Will you go?  Or will you fight to exist? 

Warrior, covered in blood, what have you done?  You demolished a kingdom.  You burned down your home.  And what is left?  What do you have to show for it but bloodied hands and a broken heart?  Does their magic stir in your blood now?  Or is it dead too, like the familiar faces on the bodies at your feet?  You made knives your playthings and you wear poison like perfume.  They taught you too well how to be a weapon.  What happened to your innocence?  Did you give it to the beast before he broke you?  Did you lose it when you cut out his heart?  Dance again, the way you did as a child, wild and free.  Careful now, you might slip on the rubble or in the blood of the fallen king.

Ghost, what happened to your soul?  How much did this war cost you?  You took back your life and now you're alone.  There is nothing left out here.  Can you feel anything at all?  What have you done with the sunlight?  Where did you get the stones to build this wall around yourself?  The war is over; there is no need for all of this.  How tall will you build this tower that you’ve locked yourself in?  We cannot hear you.  It is silent inside.  How long will you isolate yourself?  Can you survive on your own?  Can you hear me?  Ghost?

World of chaos, what did you take from her?  From us?  You lured her in with fairy tales and harmonious melodies that her wild heart could not ignore.  You only taught her parlor tricks while you were casting spells and called it fair.  What did you gain from ruining her?  You made her believe that she was one of you.  Were her wide and dazzled eyes something that you envied?  You've lived here so long, and I wonder, does this place shine for you the way it did her?  Has your world lost its luster?  Did you think devastating her would bring that magic back?

Weeks have passed.  Where is she now?  Is she still up in her tower, locked away from the world?  Did she escape?

The war is over child.  Your enemies are gone.  You can come down now.

Months have passed.  Is she okay?  Alone?  Afraid?  Did she bleed out on the floor?

The forest is waiting for you.  There are new faces waiting to meet you.  You can come down now.

Years have passed.  Who is she now, if she even still exists?  A human?  A warrior?  A hollow shell?

Whoever you are, it’s alright.  You’ll find yourself.  You can come down now.

Broken one, you've been gone a long while.  Is that you we hear stirring at last?  Seasons have come and gone and the world grew wild around the battlement you built.  What changed your mind?  What made you start clawing for a way out?  We can hear you crying up there, from down here on the ground but it’s up to you now.  It was always up to you.  Do you miss the forest and the clean air?  The wild things are waiting.  Come home changeling, come find yourself.  But first you have to find a way out your self-made cage.

Survivor, when did you grow up?  Who is this woman before us now?  The walls of your fortress are dripping red with blood but there was no one left to fight.  Did you have to fight against yourself to make it all the way down?  What is left of you?  Time has healed the wounds of war and this place has grown new.  Does the forest seem different now?  Can you still feel the magic?  Stand still and smell the youth of the earth and hear the wilderness calling for a savage queen.  Do you have what it takes to be her?  Flowers woven into your hair and a dagger up your sleeve.  Sun on your cheeks and shadows at your wrists.  Stolen magic in your veins and fire in your eyes, have you found yourself yet? 

Half witch, half goddess, hold your head high.  You fought for your place in this untamed, fantastic world.  With spells painting your lips and charmed gems that whisper secrets hanging in your ears, go find your throne made of vines and thorns and pretty things and sit a while.  They stole away your childhood, but children are foolish.  You are more than that now.  More than human.  More than they ever expected.  More than you ever dreamed. 

You are wild.  Dangerous.  Free.  Both a luminous child, born of kindness and a magnificent blade forged in white-hot fire.  Draped in the softest colors with words sharper than steel, you can make this world ache to hate you for how much they crave your love.  Let the memories of battle brush across your skin like a breeze and remind you of how you fought to get here.  Give the pain to the ghosts that would haunt you and give the creatures what they’ve asked for.

Child of the forest, did you know you would become their Queen?

Oaklynn and the Forest

Her laughter was sucked out of her as her hazel eyes opened on the other side of the gap in the rock.  Everything was gone.  All the color and the sound and the hope the hidden forest had given her was gone.  In it's place, an ash grey skeleton remained, still smoking from the fire that had undoubtedly consumed the trees.  Her new blue converse turned grey as she took careful steps through the ash.  Who had done this?  Who had known about her secret?  And who would've wanted to destroy it?  Tears spilled as the boy pulled himself through the rock and came to stand in silent shock beside her.  He'd never get to see the beauty that used to live here.  Never get to experience the magic of the hidden forest.  Her knees gave out and she fell to the ground, one hand over her mouth and one hand clutching at her heart.  She prayed he would stay silent, and he did, instead sinking down beside her in quiet sadness.  He hadn't seen it before, but he could tell things were not how they should be.  A sudden panic lit in her chest as she scanned the bony remains of the trees.  Where was Buttercup, the sweet and snugly white rabbit?  Where was Willow, the gangly baby deer who jumped in circles around her as they played?  Where were the blue birds and the squirrels and wild little Bandit, the red fox?

"Bandit?"  She whispered, praying for a miracle.  "Willow?  Buttercup!"  Her cries got louder, echoing off the walls of the towering rocks ringing in the forest.

"Oaklynn-" The boy said her name gently, as if in apology as she got to her feet.

"Bandit!"  She screamed, but the forest was silent.  The only escape her little animals would have had was the gap in the rock where she shimmied in.  But they were hundreds of feet up in the mountain.  Her little darlings would be lost by now.  The thought struck a chord of anguish in her and she pushed past the boy to get back to the mountainside.

"Bandit!  Willow!  Buttercup!"  She screamed their names over and over, a chorus of pleas for them to come to her safe and sound.  Behind her, the boy added her own name to the chorus.

"Oaklynn!"

Their voices felt too small on the side of the mountain and when Bandit did not run up to nip at her and Willow did not come running and Buttercup did not curl up on her feet, she felt broken.  Voice raw and eye red, she slid to the ground in defeat.  Her little family was gone.  Just like the one her home felt so empty without.  Just like the place she had run from.  There was no home for her anymore, anywhere.  The boy called for her again and her name rang through the air like a memory.

"Oaklynn!" 

She could not bring herself to answer.  She could hardly bring herself to breathe.  She was ash inside, just like her forest.  Lost, just like her animals.  Gone, just like everyone else and nothing mattered anymore.

I Was Not Reckless

I was not a reckless kid.  I was straight A's and Yes ma'am's and Please and Thank you's.  I was soft smiles and gentle hands and manners, always manners.  I was polite and overachieving and good.  I missed out on the rebellion and sour attitude and angst.  
And then I got my first taste of pain.  
And then again and again and again until I was blacked out and bleeding.  
I made it to 16 and then I made the wrong choice about who to give my heart to.  Then I kept giving it to the wrong people.  The wrong guys and the wrong friends and it got broken more times than I can count.  
I had to pull myself out of a pit of tar after that.  I had gotten in so deep, I was up to my neck in bad choices and toxic people and worse feelings.  I'm out of that now, for the most part.  I'm washed and dried and clean and trying to pick the last bits of tar out of my hair and off my skin.  I'm trying to get back to that kid who didn't want to be in the wrong place and I'm not failing.  
But I think the poison I was drinking for a while started an addiction and I'm still dealing with the withdrawals. 
 It grabs me for a second and points me toward the one with dark eyes and begs me to find out if he really tastes like whiskey and cigarettes before I shake it off and go on my way.  It trips me up and I land locking eyes with a sad mirror version of myself and wanting to stick my head under water with him, just for a second before I push myself back to my feet.  It shoves me sideways and I slow down looking at old photographs and trying to come up with a way to put band-aids over the bullet holes they left in me before I drop the picture and walk away.  
I am getting better, but the tar is still there in my lungs sometimes, clouding my judgment and calling to me with a sweet voice.  It begs me to take just a tiny step back, to relive one thing and then, it promises, I can be done.  It asks for just one second of my time, just one kiss on the wrong lips, one word to the wrong person, one more chance for the vultures.  I am getting better, but the temptation is hard to resist.  I try to walk away and I drag my feet, slow, slow, slow.  
And I can never quite get the sickness out of my lungs or the want out of my heart or the curiosity out of my head. 

Writing Prompt: The Last Person You Held Hands With

The last person I held hands with made my head spin.  It was late at night and it was sweet and meant nothing more than friendship but that didn't matter.  There was a movie playing, and we were surrounded by other friends and for a second, it felt like just the two of us.  Our intertwined fingers kept us connected over the twelve inches of space between us, but I felt like I was being tethered to the world.  In that moment, it felt like peace.  My heart was racing but I felt safe and loved and whole.
There were at least five people in that room and I was only touching one of them, but I felt like we were all holding on to one another.  I don't know if any of them feel detached from reality like I do sometimes.  He does, I think.  I think that's why we held on to each other.  Sometimes, I think both of us feel like we're seconds from floating away into space if we don't find something to keep us attached to ourselves and maybe we search for that feeling of security in each other.  I know I search for it in most of the people I meet.
I don't find that feeling in many people, and I rarely if ever reach out and touch them.  Maybe I should.  Maybe I should be braver and look harder and hold hands with more people, but I don't.  The last time I held hands with someone, it wasn't romantic the way most people might think.  But it did keep me grounded.  It made me feel safe.
Most days I just want to feel whole like I did in that moment and most days, I have no one safe to hold onto me.

Roof Tops

Two houses with dormers sit so close, their roofs nearly touch.  They hold age old enemies.  Their hate is legend among their peers and they divide the school in two.  The parking lot, the gym, that's his.  The cafeteria and auditorium are hers.  The hallways are tense shared space and their history class is barely controlled war zone.
One night, after a particularly bad day, he looks out his window to see her sitting on her roof in the rain, crying.  His lights are out so she assumes he was is bed.  She had to get away for a few minutes.  The silence coming from her brother's room is too much.  She tries to stand up and slips, but her enemy opens his window and crawls out to steady her.  They settle down, each on their respective roof, legs crossed, knees touching across the tiny space between them.  In the middle of the night, in the rain, he holds her hand while she falls apart and listens as she whispers about how her family is disintegrating.  Her brother is dead.  Her parents are fighting.  She is adrift at sea with no direction and no will to keep sailing.  He tells her about how he lost his mother and his father got mean.  How this house is full of bottles and smells like pain and feels like something worse.  He wipes her tears and he holds her until the bone-deep cold recedes just a bit.  They part with a weight between them, something new and bold that neither of them quite wants to admit: an understanding of the other.
And when they pass each other in the halls, she rolls her eyes, but not as hard.  And his insults get a little weaker every day.  It's a month later when he crawls across to her window to knock.  Her lights have been out for a week.  She hasn't been at school in a week.  Something is wrong, he knows it in his bones.  So he slips out of his window and across his little stretch of roof.  He hesitates before he pulls himself across the gap between their homes.  Things will be different if he does this.  There's no going back.  But the moon is high and he can hear music blasting in her room and hear her parents yelling at her to shut it off so he moves.  The knock startles her from the haze of pain she's been in.  His face is open, clearly full of worry and her heart aches more than she knew was possible.  She crawls out from under a mountain of blankets and hidden by the sound of her music, crosses the room to unlock the window.  He doesn't hesitate.  As soon as the window is open, he is inside the room, holding her, smoothing her hair, letting out the exhale he's been holding for a week praying that she was okay.  Her parents come and go at the door, yelling at her, yelling at each other until the rest of the house is silent and the music has made a home for them. 
She tells him in gasps, that his birthday passed, and then hers the next day, and it is too much for her.  The idea of existing without him, celebrating without him, being without him.  She locked the door a week ago and never wanted to come out.  She hurt, she told him, in a way that was indescribable he held her tighter because he knew exactly the kind of hurt she meant.  When her tears were dry and the exhaustion was taking her over, he helped her down the hall to the bathroom and rummaged until he found a towel.  Her parents were gone, in separate cars to separate places, their hearts in separate worlds and matching states of hurt.  She promised not to lock that door forever as he went back and waited in her room.  He turned down the music until it was bearable but did not turn it off.  He knew she was using the volume the drown out the pain as he once had.  As he still did.  And when she came back, she looked both fresh and more exhausted than before, sunken and small in an oversize shirt that hid her shorts.  It was her brothers.  It belongs to a ghost now she tells him; though he isn't sure if that means her brother or her.  But he knows too well how it could mean both.  He tucks her into bed and listens to her stories and lets her cry and laughs the few rare times she laughs.  Late into the night, almost morning, they fall asleep, him on the floor beside her bed with their hands stretched out as if they tried to keep hold of each other in their sleep. 
The sun wakes him up, and he presses a gentle kiss to her temple before crawling back across the roof to his own bedroom.  When the sun rises, he sees her turn the bedroom light on and he lets out a sigh of relief.  They eat lunch together, on their own respective roofs, legs stretching across the gap and resting against one another.  It is quiet and easy and it feels like something stronger than shared misery that starts stitching their hearts together. 
It is different in the hallways now, when she smiles at him and he offers to carry her things.  They had always been the heads of two opposing factions, and the rest of the student body doesn't know what to do when their leaders sit down at the same lunch table or stay late in the parking lot.  No one can uncover what stopped their fighting or what makes him look at her in awe when she is looking away.  No one knows what makes her smile when she hears his name or what makes them walk the halls hand in hand. 
The roof becomes their sacred space, where no matter what, they can just be.  He holds her there when her father leaves.  She traces his scars earned in battle with his father.  Together, they share the load of a broken life, far too young to have the wisdom they both carry in their eyes. 
They sit on their own respective roofs for a few more years.  And then they take turns sitting on the bed or the floor in the other's dorm room.  And then he sits on the balcony of her first apartment, and she sits next to him at the celebratory dinner when he gets his first promotion.  They sit together at a table surrounded by their friends who still didn't understand the change, even after he bought a ring and she a dress and they vowed to sit on rooftops together forever. 
They sit together on the balcony that belongs to both of them after they sign the lease papers because the roof they wanted was too much. 
It takes years, but finally, they buy a little house with dormers of it's own and they put the nursery on the top floor, not realizing that the next door neighbor's house had a dormer of it's own.  Roof lines barely separate.

A Perfect Place

Light filters through the window, splintering into rainbow colored ribbons of light.  They warm my cheek and I close my eyes.  If I try hard enough, I can imagine myself somewhere new. Grass beneath me, sun above me, nothing around for miles except for trees and wildflowers.  Your fingers barely grazing mine as we lay side by side.  It's perfect-this make believe world I start to dream up.  The noise of the city is miles away.  The sound of birds chirping and our slow, steady breath is all we can hear.  It's something I crave; that freedom.  That newness.  That peace.
And every once in a while, your face changes into someone new and the grass fades to a mountain and the sky turns grey and the wind cold.  We sit together, me and this new version of you, looking down on the world below us.  Still free.  Still at peace.  Still happy.
And then you change again.  The mountain is sand and the air is hot and the silence is full of laughter and crashing waves.
This perfect life I dream of changes every so often but the feeling doesn't.
There is always me, next to you.
There is hope.
There is peace.
There is freedom.
There is breath in my lungs and fire in my eyes and joy overflowing in my veins, warming my skin.
Every time I dream of my perfect place, I am happy.

The Weight of Armor

I push and I fight. I argue and I roll my eyes.
I quip and snap and all I really want is for someone to see through those defenses and hold me. 
Someone who isn't afraid or put off by the armor this world put on me. 
Someone who sees the tears behind the smile and catches them before they can fall.
I never meant to be this way. 
I never wanted walls and armor and humor sharp as swords. 
I never wanted to fight. 
But push a girl down so many times, and what do you expect her to do? 
I survived. 
And now the war is over but I'm trapped in these walls and this armor is too heavy and it feels like the strength that saved my life once is now pulling me down.