On the Eight Day
Recovery
I think there are pieces of me still glued to you; so stubbornly stuck to your skin. My widening eyes, the color of my lips, my keen memory and my perception.
But she's been waiting for you at home, massaging away the tension in your back as the remainder of me is loosened by the lavender scented oil I once bought you for Christmas. And with each night, with each massage, you shed me like dead skin and she sweeps your memories of us underneath the rug.
Flame and Ashes
You and I were a flame once. And now, we are nothing but ashes of second-hand cigarettes waiting to be taken away by wind.
Maybe
In another lifetime maybe we meet in a coffee shop, at a play, maybe in a bar. In another life you have better intentions or I could ask for more. In another lifetime I would ask you to stay or you would have never left.
Cathartic Crowns
Every person you are in love with, are immortalized in your writing, and it is quaint thing. Telling the world how much you have your pieces taken from you. The way you loved them was consuming, and then tell me why they loved you; because of your face, your smile and your laugh.
You have told me the nights, you almost bleed your wrists to death and I can't afford to tell you the nights I tried to stab myself.
I can see in the way your fingers tremble; the first time you felt the weight of hate, and the bone of your legs ever cracked because of the pressure. Because the smooth skin of your palms have been hardening.
You are a child that loves the rain, because in the early mornings you put your hand out to the drops of the sky, but you are also a child that loves the sun, because in the early mornings, your hair is lighter and your smile is brighter.
Anger is the way my father left. Hate is the way my mother never talked to us after.
Your first name is derived from history, and it shows, your keen memory, your perceptive reasoning. I notice that when people first meet you, they bow unknowingly.
You are an open book, and I have read most of the chapters in it. The uncertainty in your voice when we are together, the milk box every morning, a cat snuggling into your knee in the garden, and sneaking in an ice cream stick during lectures.
You believe that love is not a finite source.
You believe we don't really have one true love, and we just don't have enough time to find the others.
There are some things you do not believe in though, —
You do not believe you would have lived through the age of ten
You do not believe that you are a forgiving person.
You do not think that people will remember the color of your eyes.
Remember how I told you the most dangerous thing a person can do is to forget?
I admit, I may forget if they were black, or if they were brown, but I know the world is in them.
You told me that if you ever got a chance to choose your own parents, you would never choose them again, and you never did look at me that time.
You told me that summer nights in España, is a place where you finally belong to someone and someone belongs to you. That the boy you loved and knew all the parts of you is the color of gold.
I do wonder and I do want to ask at times…what is my color, your favorite subject, do I teach well?
What have you written up until now?
At times I want to say what really happened between my mother and my father, at times I want to talk about how it was hard to pick up my life and start over again, how a life in education has made me miss a lot of opportunities in my own, but I wanted to have Wednesdays with your smile instead.
Because your young face was comforting, you approach everything with a smile, you hand letter when you are bored or I see you walking alone from the clinic and as much as you are story teller, you are listener.
I want to tell you that yes I have bled from other people's wounds, and I bled from yours the most.
And lastly, let me tell you this to answer all your questions.
Your keys, were never just duplicates, I just needed to replace the lock, because there is more than the world than a jaded professor that fakes his smiles, that hides everything with a laugh. There is more to write than the sun in my eyes, my warm hands, or my reverent voice -
No, wait.
That's telling you too much —
after all,
that was only the second floor of the building
after all,
that was our last time talking.
.
Day
Loving you was like watching the sunset. In the moment, it was beautiful, and warm, and felt like coming home; but when it was over; I can only feel the darkness, and the emptiness and the coldness.
Remember
I remember the day I realized I lost you; I remember waking up, groggy, dreading the day to come, and being hit by the stark realization that we haven't spoken in two months, I haven't seen you in two months, I've spent every day since pretending I'm not plagued by your memory, of what could have been; pretending that every poem I write isn't for you.
Silly Girl
I don't know what I was expecting. How could you, with your sunshine smile, kind eyes, and quiet laughter; you, who is deeply in love with her, ready for forever, ever want someone like me? Me, who is not beautiful, delicate, or desirable; me, mouth full of knives, shaking and numbing fingers, and ripped thighs; who has nothing left to offer but sadness. Of course you would never love someone like me, because there's nothing to love.
Start a Conversation
I want to sit here, and tell you I am doing better. Tell you that I now go home with a friend by my side or that I do not eat alone anymore, that I do not struggle to get out of bed. Tell you that because I do not talk about my sadness, it means there is nothing left to talk about.
I want to tell you so badly that I am better. But that would by lying, and the only thing I'm okay at is not lying. You see, I get out bed, only because the nightmares are too much to bear; I do not talk about my sadness, because there is no one left willing to listen anymore.
I have run out of metaphors to say: "the only reason I haven't killed myself, is because I am scared of failure." I have run out of pretty words to say: "I am not better."
Point of Interest
I'm scared that loving you was the most interesting thing about me.
Musings
Did you know that it is impossible?
To imagine a color that you've never seen before?
I wish I knew how to tell you that there are still days I do not know if I will make it to thirty. There are still days I crave to see what the inside of my arms looks like, and I go to sleep, hoping that tomorrow never comes.
I wish I knew how to tell you that, no, I'm not okay. I haven't been okay in a long time. I don't think I've ever known how to be okay. I am uncomfortable in the thought of being okay, because what if this pain—this shaking hands, stuttering knee caps, bent over the toilet pain—is the only noteworthy thing about me?
I am uncomfortable not knowing who I am without this constant ache in my chest; because, what if without the ache, I find that there is nothing else there? Nothing worth to write about, nothing worth to notice. What if this, this pain is who I am?
Did you know—it is impossible to imagine a color you've never seen before?
Begin Again
If I could start over, there would be no beginning. I would never introduce my tongue to your name; never let myself become a falling grace from your lips.
If I could start over, there would be no us; I wouldn't be something for you to ruin, and you wouldn't be something for me to immortalize with my words.
If I could start over, go back to day one, knowing everything I know now; like what it's like to be swallowed whole by an empty void, I wouldn't.
You see, there was a time when the concept of me did not exist without you; I was merely pieces of a whole, who couldn't exist without you to complete the picture.
I thought myself smaller; thought myself into corners, and hidden behind locked doors, I thought myself gone for so long, hoping that, one day, there would be nothing left to think about.
I allowed myself to be destroyed by the hurricane that is you. Enchanted by your sweet messages, filled with promises of tomorrow, and recovery. I was blinded by your smile, never noticing your razor blade fingers until my skin was stained red.
Like all hurricanes, though, you left as quickly as you came. Your destruction paved its way through my world, not caring about what you left behind; leaving only me, swallowed by the debris of our love.
You may be the storm, but I have lightning in my fingertips, and everything I touch is always left a little more explosive. If could start over, there would be no water to precipitate.
Think of the Future
Before you go, kiss me one last time, and promise me you'll never hurt another student like you've hurt me.
There was time I thought you loved me. You wanted to know every dark thought in my brain; you wanted to see me at lowest point. Truth is, though, it was not love. I was desperate for love, and you were desperate for a sense of purpose. However, you cannot kiss me well; you cannot love me recovered. You are not the cast to my broken spirit. I am not the ice pack to your bruised ego. I am not here to make you feel useful.
To the person who may one day complete my constellation:
Please, do not compare me to a piece of art. Yes, the sentiment is nice and appreciated, but please refrain from doing so. You see, art is meant for great museums. Art is not meant to be touched, only admired from a far; art can only be viewed during work hours. Art spends every night alone.
If you must compare me to something, please consider comparing me to your favorite blanket. The one you've had all your life, tattered from love. The one that makes you feel safe, and warm, and like nothing can hurt you.
Compare me to your favorite movie. The one that you've watched more times than you can count; the one that you know all the lines to, but you will continue to watch it over, and over again, because the characters feel like family, and watching it feels like coming home.
Compare me to your childhood teddy bear; the one you've slept with every night. The one that fights off the monsters. Compare me to something that you love, something you could never let go of.
If you let me, I will be all those things. I will make it my mission to keep you safe, and warm, and never let anything hurt you. To be your family, to be your home. To fight off all the monsters. Even the ones inside you.
Please, do not compare me to art. Art is beautiful, and perfect, and I am neither of those things.
He hurt me–a lot. But he also made me feel as though I was made of sunshine, and I was the most important things in his world. On the bad days, I wrap myself in that familiar feeling of being loved by him–even if it was all a lie–trying to teach my lungs how to breathe again. I'm still a work in progress. I hope that one day, I will be able to feel warm without his love; that I can make myself believe that I am made of sunshine.
I've forgotten the color of your eyes, but I still hear your voice in the middle of the night. I've forgotten your favorite movie, but I still feel the imprints your hands left on my body. I haven't heard from you in years, but I still wonder what you're doing. I wonder if you laugh the same, or smell the same. I wonder if you ever think about me; I wonder if you ever knew about the way I forgot how to breathe when I saw you walking towards me; or the way that my body ached to touch you.
In an unimaginable plot twist, you're back in my life. Something I've dreamt about for the last four years of my life. You're back, and guess what–nothing's different. I'm still sad, you're still distant, and the sky's still blue.
I spent four years writing about this amazing reality in which you come back, and, magically, everything would be fixed. A reality where my lungs are no longer filled with water, I no longer want to unzip my veins, and I love waking up every morning. None of that happened.
I want to believe it's because we're both different people now, and it will take time to make everything feel like it used to. That we need to learn how to love each other again. Maybe that's why I'm a writer, because I can make even the most impossible scenarios believable, that even I start to believe it.
I guess I'm losing my touch, because even I can't fathom such a facade. I know that we're not kids anymore, you don't need me, and, in reality, I don't need you either. I didn't need you to survive, because I did it all on my own for four years. It was me who kept me going; it was me who got me up every single day, and did what I had to do. It was me–it's always been me.
You were never my hero. It's always been me.
He could never love someone like me. He is lean limbs that tower over those who are not worthy of his light; I am ribs hidden beneath layers of regret. He is made of porcelain, I am nothing but shards glass, held up by stuttering knee caps, buckling under the weight of my mistakes. He, epitome of light and beauty, could never love someone like me.
Maybe if I compared you to vodka, I'd finally regret you name coming in contact with my tongue. If I compared you to fire, I'd finally stopped reaching for you in the middle of the night. If I compared you to weeds, I'd finally pluck you out of my life. If I stopped comparing you to everything beautiful in the world, I would finally stop romanticizing you, and all the pain you've ever caused me. Maybe, just maybe, I would finally learn how to stop loving you.
