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.
Tuesday, January 22, 2019
Monday, January 21, 2019
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.
Thursday, January 17, 2019
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
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.
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.
Friday, January 11, 2019
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.
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.
Friday, November 16, 2018
Just Like Me
You say you want someone just like me.
But not me.
Someone whose face is thinner.
Someone whose laugh is more gentle
Someone whose limbs are graceful and lean.
You say you want someone with a heart like mine.
But not mine.
Someone whose heart is more open.
Someone whose heart is less jaded.
Someone whose heart is not so fragile and broken.
You say you want someone with a soul like mine.
But not me.
Someone who sees the light in the world.
Someone who has a plan all figured out.
Someone who can trust and love completely.
You say you want someone just like me.
But not me.
Someone who makes you feel the same things.
But someone different.
Don't lie to you self, or to me, anymore.
You don't want anyone like me.
But not me.
Someone whose face is thinner.
Someone whose laugh is more gentle
Someone whose limbs are graceful and lean.
You say you want someone with a heart like mine.
But not mine.
Someone whose heart is more open.
Someone whose heart is less jaded.
Someone whose heart is not so fragile and broken.
You say you want someone with a soul like mine.
But not me.
Someone who sees the light in the world.
Someone who has a plan all figured out.
Someone who can trust and love completely.
You say you want someone just like me.
But not me.
Someone who makes you feel the same things.
But someone different.
Don't lie to you self, or to me, anymore.
You don't want anyone like me.
Wednesday, November 14, 2018
Excelsior
People are always a little bit surprised when they find out how deep my obsession with the Marvel Cinematic Universe runs.
When I was a senior in high school, they made us watch The Avengers is the auditorium on a test day and I was so angry because I never imagined I would enjoy it. I left school that day telling my parents we needed to rent the movie so we could all watch it together. It started a fascination in me that still grows to this day. I stay up to watch midnight premiers (looking at you Infinity Wars) and I buy Mjolnir earrings and dog tag necklaces with Cap’s shield engraved on the back. I have a shirt that says “I would date you but you’re not Sebastian Stan.” I’m in deep y’all.
With the passing of Stan Lee, I’ve been thinking about what draws me in so much and I came up with a few things.
1. Storytelling/Writing
Guys, the storytelling in the MCU is insane and complex and so incredibly beautiful that I can’t even explain it. Tiny details that you miss the first two (or twelve) times you watch one movie become the sole plot of a movie a few years later. (I’m just saying, we got the Infinity Gauntlet in Age of Ultron y’all) And the writing is genius. They’ve got you laughing through your tears. The tiniest lines that you miss at first are the gems of the whole show. “Please be a secret door, please be a secret door. Yay!” Hawkeye’s dry sarcasm about the fact that he literally fights aliens with a bow and arrow. You can literally say one word to a Marvel fan and get us going for an hour talking in snippets of script that make sense to us. Pointbreak. Strongest Avenger. Shawarma. Budapest. As a writer, I appreciate the character arcs and the storytelling all on its own. I think they give us such complex characters who break their stereotypes, sometimes boldly and sometimes in more subtle ways, but they grow so much and we get to see all of that.
2. The Characters
I think every character teaches me something new and I relate to them all at different moments in my life. I love Cap’s undying loyalty to his country and to his friends, especially Bucky (#victimnotavillain). Thor learns a massive lesson of humility and becomes truly worth of Mjolnir and becomes such a great and caring leader. Tony has such a yearning to be a protector and he tries so hard to hide it beneath his genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist façade but he cares so much. Nat is so strong despite feeling like a monster. Clint is literally just trying to live his life but he stands up for his friend when they need him. The way Loki's smile falls in the elevator when Thor tells him he can finally be rid of him. I could go on and tell you how Wanda fights for a better world through her pain, or how Vision tries so hard to have the human experience, but the MCU is so big these days it would take me an hour. And if you stop me in a coffee shop and ask me about it, I’ll probably spend an hour telling you how much I love them all. Even Mark Ruffalo as the Hulk (though not at the same level I love everyone else at).
3. The Action
The same way I like watching football, and football movies, and war movies, I genuinely just love a good fight scene. Bucky on the motorcycle in Civil War…iconic. The “she’s not alone” scene of Infinity wars. Nat using Cap and his shield as a spring board in Avengers. Cap and his shield in all fights. Thor and Mjolnir. Tony stepping seamlessly out of the suit. Spidey learning to adjust to his suit and deactivate instant kill. I just love the adrenaline and the choreography of fight scenes. It’s like dance, it’s an art and a sport all at once.
Excelsior means ever upwards and that’s where the MCU has always been headed. Stan Lee leaves a legacy bigger than a cameo, he leaves us three phases of greatness, each building on and surpassing the ones before it.
Excelsior.
When I was a senior in high school, they made us watch The Avengers is the auditorium on a test day and I was so angry because I never imagined I would enjoy it. I left school that day telling my parents we needed to rent the movie so we could all watch it together. It started a fascination in me that still grows to this day. I stay up to watch midnight premiers (looking at you Infinity Wars) and I buy Mjolnir earrings and dog tag necklaces with Cap’s shield engraved on the back. I have a shirt that says “I would date you but you’re not Sebastian Stan.” I’m in deep y’all.
With the passing of Stan Lee, I’ve been thinking about what draws me in so much and I came up with a few things.
1. Storytelling/Writing
Guys, the storytelling in the MCU is insane and complex and so incredibly beautiful that I can’t even explain it. Tiny details that you miss the first two (or twelve) times you watch one movie become the sole plot of a movie a few years later. (I’m just saying, we got the Infinity Gauntlet in Age of Ultron y’all) And the writing is genius. They’ve got you laughing through your tears. The tiniest lines that you miss at first are the gems of the whole show. “Please be a secret door, please be a secret door. Yay!” Hawkeye’s dry sarcasm about the fact that he literally fights aliens with a bow and arrow. You can literally say one word to a Marvel fan and get us going for an hour talking in snippets of script that make sense to us. Pointbreak. Strongest Avenger. Shawarma. Budapest. As a writer, I appreciate the character arcs and the storytelling all on its own. I think they give us such complex characters who break their stereotypes, sometimes boldly and sometimes in more subtle ways, but they grow so much and we get to see all of that.
2. The Characters
I think every character teaches me something new and I relate to them all at different moments in my life. I love Cap’s undying loyalty to his country and to his friends, especially Bucky (#victimnotavillain). Thor learns a massive lesson of humility and becomes truly worth of Mjolnir and becomes such a great and caring leader. Tony has such a yearning to be a protector and he tries so hard to hide it beneath his genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist façade but he cares so much. Nat is so strong despite feeling like a monster. Clint is literally just trying to live his life but he stands up for his friend when they need him. The way Loki's smile falls in the elevator when Thor tells him he can finally be rid of him. I could go on and tell you how Wanda fights for a better world through her pain, or how Vision tries so hard to have the human experience, but the MCU is so big these days it would take me an hour. And if you stop me in a coffee shop and ask me about it, I’ll probably spend an hour telling you how much I love them all. Even Mark Ruffalo as the Hulk (though not at the same level I love everyone else at).
3. The Action
The same way I like watching football, and football movies, and war movies, I genuinely just love a good fight scene. Bucky on the motorcycle in Civil War…iconic. The “she’s not alone” scene of Infinity wars. Nat using Cap and his shield as a spring board in Avengers. Cap and his shield in all fights. Thor and Mjolnir. Tony stepping seamlessly out of the suit. Spidey learning to adjust to his suit and deactivate instant kill. I just love the adrenaline and the choreography of fight scenes. It’s like dance, it’s an art and a sport all at once.
Excelsior means ever upwards and that’s where the MCU has always been headed. Stan Lee leaves a legacy bigger than a cameo, he leaves us three phases of greatness, each building on and surpassing the ones before it.
Excelsior.
One and Someone Else
One has broken edges like me.
Like all the ones before him.
Broken edges bathed in alcohol and unbelief.
And if he picks me up, I can't hurt him any more than he'll hurt me.
The pain will be mutual and it will sting like the whiskey he takes to numb it all.
Someone else is whole.
The right choice.
A better choice.
But if he gets too close I'll hurt him, even if I don't want to.
He'll pick me up and then drop me when I cut his hands and I'll break again.
I can't survive another break.
I'm not the girl I used to be.
I'm too hopeful for one.
Too broken and guarded and cynical.
Too messy for someone else.
And nothing fits in my chest the way it used to.
Nothing feels right the way it used to.
And I no longer know who I am.
Like all the ones before him.
Broken edges bathed in alcohol and unbelief.
And if he picks me up, I can't hurt him any more than he'll hurt me.
The pain will be mutual and it will sting like the whiskey he takes to numb it all.
Someone else is whole.
The right choice.
A better choice.
But if he gets too close I'll hurt him, even if I don't want to.
He'll pick me up and then drop me when I cut his hands and I'll break again.
I can't survive another break.
I'm not the girl I used to be.
I'm too hopeful for one.
Too broken and guarded and cynical.
Too messy for someone else.
And nothing fits in my chest the way it used to.
Nothing feels right the way it used to.
And I no longer know who I am.
Friday, October 5, 2018
Scene From a Book I'll Never Write
"One day I'm gonna run away from here."
"And then what?" He didn't bother looking at me which irritated me. I wanted him react. To care. To stop me.
"And then maybe I'll be happy once I'm away from this stupid place."
He shook his head. "You wont."
"Won't what? Be happy or run away?"
"Either one. You won't run away because you're too scared. Scared to be alone, scared to try something new, scared to move on. You're scared of everything. And you won't be happy no matter where you are because it's not the place that's the problem."
For a second, I processed what he'd said.
I wanted to be mad at him. I wanted to yell in his face and tell him he was wrong about me, that he didn't know a thing. But a tiny curl of panic ignited and burned beneath my sternum, because maybe he wasn't so wrong after all.
"Watch me." I said, ignoring the burn of fear and stomping away. So what if he thought I was scared? So what if there was more to my pain than the town I was trapped in? There's more to everything in life, all the time.
I was going to prove him wrong.
I would prove them all wrong and never look back.
"And then what?" He didn't bother looking at me which irritated me. I wanted him react. To care. To stop me.
"And then maybe I'll be happy once I'm away from this stupid place."
He shook his head. "You wont."
"Won't what? Be happy or run away?"
"Either one. You won't run away because you're too scared. Scared to be alone, scared to try something new, scared to move on. You're scared of everything. And you won't be happy no matter where you are because it's not the place that's the problem."
For a second, I processed what he'd said.
I wanted to be mad at him. I wanted to yell in his face and tell him he was wrong about me, that he didn't know a thing. But a tiny curl of panic ignited and burned beneath my sternum, because maybe he wasn't so wrong after all.
"Watch me." I said, ignoring the burn of fear and stomping away. So what if he thought I was scared? So what if there was more to my pain than the town I was trapped in? There's more to everything in life, all the time.
I was going to prove him wrong.
I would prove them all wrong and never look back.
Friday, September 14, 2018
Sinking Ship
Sometimes "I love you" isn't enough to save a burning ship.
The butterflies aren't worth the tears.
The pressure against your rib cage as your heart tries to beat out of your chest isn't enough to make you stay.
It doesn't matter how he makes you laugh or how he thinks you're pretty when you feel least beautiful.
You rationalize and plan for a compromised future and it's still not enough to make you say it back.
You say "but he's so good" after every "he's not what I want."
You follow every "we don't fit" with "maybe one day he'll change."
Sometimes the one sided conversations in your head are just an excuse to ignore the truth
Sometimes he says I love you and it hits you like a ton of bricks as you realize you have nothing to say.
You choke on the words and the truth and the timing.
You don't work, not even on paper, while your heart stutters and tries to find a way to settle.
You go back and forth about the possibility of "us" and the outcome is always "never."
So tell me why tears still burn your eyes when you think of him? Why do you still run the problems over and over in your head looking for a loophole? Why do you keep looking at your future trying to decide what you could live with giving up?
And how do I let go when my heart is holding on like he's the only thing keeping it beating and my head is only half in the fight?
The butterflies aren't worth the tears.
The pressure against your rib cage as your heart tries to beat out of your chest isn't enough to make you stay.
It doesn't matter how he makes you laugh or how he thinks you're pretty when you feel least beautiful.
You rationalize and plan for a compromised future and it's still not enough to make you say it back.
You say "but he's so good" after every "he's not what I want."
You follow every "we don't fit" with "maybe one day he'll change."
Sometimes the one sided conversations in your head are just an excuse to ignore the truth
Sometimes he says I love you and it hits you like a ton of bricks as you realize you have nothing to say.
You choke on the words and the truth and the timing.
You don't work, not even on paper, while your heart stutters and tries to find a way to settle.
You go back and forth about the possibility of "us" and the outcome is always "never."
So tell me why tears still burn your eyes when you think of him? Why do you still run the problems over and over in your head looking for a loophole? Why do you keep looking at your future trying to decide what you could live with giving up?
And how do I let go when my heart is holding on like he's the only thing keeping it beating and my head is only half in the fight?
Friday, August 31, 2018
Just Sleep
Once upon a time, I was a girl. Naive and hopeful, but she was broken long ago.
Once upon a time, I was a warrior. Fire and steel, but she got tired of eternal battles.
Now, I am a stranger to myself and the world but I don't know how to find my way back to either version of what I was before.
Too broken to be whole, too whole to be broken, I am instead numb.
I feel the painful, picking, tingle of the world around me but I am not part of it. Not anymore. Not yet.
I seem trapped in a bubble; seeing but not being seen, listening but hearing nothing, screaming totally silent.
The path behind me is destroyed. Invisible. Impassable.
The fire that lit my way has long since burned out.
I am left in the dark, not knowing where to step next.
I spin in dizzying circles of stagnation and an empty, hollow, aching kind of pain.
Everything around me looks hauntingly familiar in a way that knots up terror beneath my sternum and yet, it's not the world I knew.
It's a muffled, fragmented space that no longer has a place for me.
I have no name, no place, no plan to escape.
I feel it should terrify me to my core but it instead inspires in me a bone deep kind of weary.
All it does is make me want to sleep.
Sleep and sleep and sleep until this bubble I'm trapped in pops and the cotton is my ears comes out and the world comes into focus again.
Sleep until the girl I'm meant to be can find me and wake me.
Sleep and sleep and sleep.
Once upon a time, I was a warrior. Fire and steel, but she got tired of eternal battles.
Now, I am a stranger to myself and the world but I don't know how to find my way back to either version of what I was before.
Too broken to be whole, too whole to be broken, I am instead numb.
I feel the painful, picking, tingle of the world around me but I am not part of it. Not anymore. Not yet.
I seem trapped in a bubble; seeing but not being seen, listening but hearing nothing, screaming totally silent.
The path behind me is destroyed. Invisible. Impassable.
The fire that lit my way has long since burned out.
I am left in the dark, not knowing where to step next.
I spin in dizzying circles of stagnation and an empty, hollow, aching kind of pain.
Everything around me looks hauntingly familiar in a way that knots up terror beneath my sternum and yet, it's not the world I knew.
It's a muffled, fragmented space that no longer has a place for me.
I have no name, no place, no plan to escape.
I feel it should terrify me to my core but it instead inspires in me a bone deep kind of weary.
All it does is make me want to sleep.
Sleep and sleep and sleep until this bubble I'm trapped in pops and the cotton is my ears comes out and the world comes into focus again.
Sleep until the girl I'm meant to be can find me and wake me.
Sleep and sleep and sleep.
Saturday, August 18, 2018
Standing Still
Last time I felt this way, it broke me.
He took my hope, my heart, my love, and he crushed it all.
I wasn't sure I was even capable of ever feeling that way again.
But here you are.
My head is spinning and my heart is beating much too loud.
It makes me want to run, to be reckless, to avoid the possibility of a promise.
But I'm trying not to run.
I'm standing still while my skin sets to fire, while anxiety blooms in my chest to choke me.
I'm letting tears burn my eyes as panic squeezes my lungs until there's no air left for me to breathe.
I'm letting fear eat me alive for a chance with you.
I keep thinking if I let it kill me long enough, I'll make it out alive.
But I'm terrified, confused, and exhausted.
I need you to make a move before it's all to much and I run to something I'll regret.
Please, I'll hold still for as long as I can, but you've got to move.
He took my hope, my heart, my love, and he crushed it all.
I wasn't sure I was even capable of ever feeling that way again.
But here you are.
My head is spinning and my heart is beating much too loud.
It makes me want to run, to be reckless, to avoid the possibility of a promise.
But I'm trying not to run.
I'm standing still while my skin sets to fire, while anxiety blooms in my chest to choke me.
I'm letting tears burn my eyes as panic squeezes my lungs until there's no air left for me to breathe.
I'm letting fear eat me alive for a chance with you.
I keep thinking if I let it kill me long enough, I'll make it out alive.
But I'm terrified, confused, and exhausted.
I need you to make a move before it's all to much and I run to something I'll regret.
Please, I'll hold still for as long as I can, but you've got to move.
Sunday, July 29, 2018
Campus
Walking on campus last night was strange. I felt this tug in my chest as I rounded the corner and saw the Welcome Center. And it hit me all at once; that this place healed me in ways I hadn't realized until that moment. It was like walking into the room where someone saved your life. It was a turning point, and it didn't feel like coming home so much as it felt like coming back to yourself.
I drove slowly and looked around, remembering the path I'd gone down when I was there. A path of healing and growth. The first friend I made. The boy who lit the sarcastic spark that had died inside of me too young and saw more in my eyes than anyone else ever had. We spoke in looks and gestures and so many moments being his friend mended the broken pieces of me. The first class I took surrounded by people who loved what I loved. People who laughed at my jokes and listed to my ideas and didn't look down on my plans. The instantaneous friendships that blossomed into twitter conversations during class and Starbucks runs afterward. The first room where I made my first real "college friend" that I had more in common with than just our classes. The friendship circles that became a tradition with strangers who became friends. Snaps and snorts and national days and workshop anxiety and people who loved me just the way I was. And then the thing that healed me most: the hallway where five people became friends and planned to skip class with trips to the zoo and sailboat purchases and laughed until the bell rang.
As I sat in my truck, waiting to go meet my fellow sailor friends, I realized how beautiful it was that I was coming back as alumni to see people who changed my life more than they could ever understand. I walked onto that campus at nineteen, broken, grieving, drowning, lonely, scared, a ghost of the girl I had been and then it changed me. Every class and every friend and every day blew a little of the dust off of me. I walked back onto that campus last night at twenty three, a graduate with a job and a friends who missed me and a place that felt like home.
I drove slowly and looked around, remembering the path I'd gone down when I was there. A path of healing and growth. The first friend I made. The boy who lit the sarcastic spark that had died inside of me too young and saw more in my eyes than anyone else ever had. We spoke in looks and gestures and so many moments being his friend mended the broken pieces of me. The first class I took surrounded by people who loved what I loved. People who laughed at my jokes and listed to my ideas and didn't look down on my plans. The instantaneous friendships that blossomed into twitter conversations during class and Starbucks runs afterward. The first room where I made my first real "college friend" that I had more in common with than just our classes. The friendship circles that became a tradition with strangers who became friends. Snaps and snorts and national days and workshop anxiety and people who loved me just the way I was. And then the thing that healed me most: the hallway where five people became friends and planned to skip class with trips to the zoo and sailboat purchases and laughed until the bell rang.
As I sat in my truck, waiting to go meet my fellow sailor friends, I realized how beautiful it was that I was coming back as alumni to see people who changed my life more than they could ever understand. I walked onto that campus at nineteen, broken, grieving, drowning, lonely, scared, a ghost of the girl I had been and then it changed me. Every class and every friend and every day blew a little of the dust off of me. I walked back onto that campus last night at twenty three, a graduate with a job and a friends who missed me and a place that felt like home.
Monday, July 9, 2018
Shadow Self
"You're different than when we met" he said.
I took a moment to think.
"I'm not the girl I was back then. The girl I used to be, I think she's still there deep down inside me. But she's buried under the rubble. She's asleep; asleep or knocked out cold from the pain."
"Then who are you now?" He asked.
"Me? I'm just a shadow of her. An intangible, darker version cast out into the world by the things that fell on her. I feel temporary but also like I'm stuck because I don't know how to save her. I'm not strong enough to pick up the debris and carry her out. I'm not made of enough substance to really touch her and wake her up."
He didn't have anything to say to that.
I think it's because he's felt like a shadow-self for much longer than I have. I think maybe he figured out how to live in that world between worlds. It's ironic; I used to want to wake him up and now all I want is for him to let me fall asleep. Then maybe our shadow-selves could find peace.
I took a moment to think.
"I'm not the girl I was back then. The girl I used to be, I think she's still there deep down inside me. But she's buried under the rubble. She's asleep; asleep or knocked out cold from the pain."
"Then who are you now?" He asked.
"Me? I'm just a shadow of her. An intangible, darker version cast out into the world by the things that fell on her. I feel temporary but also like I'm stuck because I don't know how to save her. I'm not strong enough to pick up the debris and carry her out. I'm not made of enough substance to really touch her and wake her up."
He didn't have anything to say to that.
I think it's because he's felt like a shadow-self for much longer than I have. I think maybe he figured out how to live in that world between worlds. It's ironic; I used to want to wake him up and now all I want is for him to let me fall asleep. Then maybe our shadow-selves could find peace.
Sunday, July 8, 2018
Left
Things in my life keep breaking me.
A little at a time, the cracks deepen.
I'm holding onto a shattered heart.
People keep pulling on the pieces where they used to live, tearing up my hands.
My first instinct is to hold on tighter and not to let them go.
The stinging in my palms hurts, but I know the loneliness hurts more.
The emptiness they leave behind that rattles me to the bone.
So I hold on tight, and squeeze the shards until blood makes them slick and they finally slip away.
And I am left on the ground, broken and battered.
Hands bloodied and scarred.
Heart missing pieces.
Emptiness crushing in.
Looking at a trail of footprints leaving me alone.
A little at a time, the cracks deepen.
I'm holding onto a shattered heart.
People keep pulling on the pieces where they used to live, tearing up my hands.
My first instinct is to hold on tighter and not to let them go.
The stinging in my palms hurts, but I know the loneliness hurts more.
The emptiness they leave behind that rattles me to the bone.
So I hold on tight, and squeeze the shards until blood makes them slick and they finally slip away.
And I am left on the ground, broken and battered.
Hands bloodied and scarred.
Heart missing pieces.
Emptiness crushing in.
Looking at a trail of footprints leaving me alone.
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