We spent Saturday mornings downtown at Battery Park.
The air smelled of September mornings-apple spice, cinnamon, cider, and the faintest
hint of crisp wind blowing off the waterfront.
The sun warmed our backs through the cotton of our shirts as we strolled along. You held my hand tight as I hobbled over the cracked, treacherous sidewalks, my arms straining from the use of aluminum crutches.
Your laughter filled the silent spaces and you smiled wide as you kissed my cheek.
Time slowed down, froze even, as we wandered the maze of the Farmers' Market.
It was a zoo of crude, wooden stalls, each hailing a brightly colored banner and boasting their goods for sale in larger print. My eyes combed each and every one, sometimes staring wide at things I'd never heard of or seen. My mouth watered to taste every delicious smelling food before me-pastries,chalupas, strudels, croissants, locally grown corn, cucumbers, tomatoes. My hand itched to run my fingers over the soft, woven scarves, make the wind-chimes sing in the breeze, or rifle through the hand-photographed cards.
Our caravan always ended up at the same apple stall. Despite my protests, you always purchased cider donuts-six for five dollars, and two small cups of apple cider.
You'd take my hand and lead me through the gangs, over the soft-packed dirt and moist grass, to the steps of City Hall. We'd climb to the top of the first landing and nestle into the furthest corner, backs resting against the cool stone.
You'd reach into the plastic baggie, and hand me a lukewarm donut,
sticky with cinnamon and a sprinkle of sugar. I'd break the donut into
pieces and take tiny bites.
You always laughed when I did that-and smile when I closed my eyes
and savored every delicious cinammon-sugary crumb.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Egyptian Addiction
Adrenaline ravishes
my sapphire fuel lines
and
I can taste
spicy addiction
as
the needle approaches.
Guns whiz
and my back's ironclad
against
the black parlor chair.
The veins in my arm
scream
as my fist clenches and
the creamy
underside
of my arm
is exposed to
surgical steel.
One
two
three
deep breaths as spikes
piece my skin.
A miniature prick,
pain becomes pleasure
as it
trickles through my blood
and a prick
transforms a numbing tickle.
Blue, purple, black
ink replaces blood
as a lead Eye of Horus is reborn
and ancient Egyptian souls
mate with mine.
my sapphire fuel lines
and
I can taste
spicy addiction
as
the needle approaches.
Guns whiz
and my back's ironclad
against
the black parlor chair.
The veins in my arm
scream
as my fist clenches and
the creamy
underside
of my arm
is exposed to
surgical steel.
One
two
three
deep breaths as spikes
piece my skin.
A miniature prick,
pain becomes pleasure
as it
trickles through my blood
and a prick
transforms a numbing tickle.
Blue, purple, black
ink replaces blood
as a lead Eye of Horus is reborn
and ancient Egyptian souls
mate with mine.
Daddy, you were(n't) supposed to
You spent twenty years
telling
me
I was trash.
Your voice echoed in my ears
"You're nothing but a piece of shit.
You'll never amount to anything."
Daddy, you were supposed to love me.
My ears still remember
the time you took the thick
hardcover
book,
cracking it against my face.
Blood streamed from my ears
but
it was with my tears
that I saw red.
Daddy, you weren't supposed to beat me.
So many nights
I spent sleeping
on hardwood floors,
crying because
you didn't love me.
Daddy, you were supposed to protect me.
Do you remember the night
your fist smashed the glass
of our blue wooden door
and
your blood
painted
the lawn?
Daddy, you weren't supposed to be drunk.
Two years this December
you walked out that door
and never looked back.
Daddy, your selfishness nearly killed my mother.
Four years ago
you collapsed with three brain aneurysms.
I couldn't bear to look at you
a bloody leopard
corpse
in your hospital bed.
You were supposed to die that October.
Daddy, sometimes I wish you had.
For the first time
in
twenty-one years,
I crush your voice beneath
my tower feet.
Daddy, I am finally free.
In May, I will walk across that stage,
diploma in hand,
and
I'll smile into the crowds
because I will have proven that
I finally did it-
I gave myself a future
when you always told me I couldn't.
telling
me
I was trash.
Your voice echoed in my ears
"You're nothing but a piece of shit.
You'll never amount to anything."
Daddy, you were supposed to love me.
My ears still remember
the time you took the thick
hardcover
book,
cracking it against my face.
Blood streamed from my ears
but
it was with my tears
that I saw red.
Daddy, you weren't supposed to beat me.
So many nights
I spent sleeping
on hardwood floors,
crying because
you didn't love me.
Daddy, you were supposed to protect me.
Do you remember the night
your fist smashed the glass
of our blue wooden door
and
your blood
painted
the lawn?
Daddy, you weren't supposed to be drunk.
Two years this December
you walked out that door
and never looked back.
Daddy, your selfishness nearly killed my mother.
Four years ago
you collapsed with three brain aneurysms.
I couldn't bear to look at you
a bloody leopard
corpse
in your hospital bed.
You were supposed to die that October.
Daddy, sometimes I wish you had.
For the first time
in
twenty-one years,
I crush your voice beneath
my tower feet.
Daddy, I am finally free.
In May, I will walk across that stage,
diploma in hand,
and
I'll smile into the crowds
because I will have proven that
I finally did it-
I gave myself a future
when you always told me I couldn't.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
A Ginger's Devotion
Our hands nuzzle
Worn ridges
Against fresh silk
Your thumb stroking symphonies
Against my cocoon flesh.
In the darkness
I burn and
Pledge.
You smolder too.
I drink your scent
As my lips skirmish the velvet
Of your neck,
When I burrow deep on
Hunt for fire against
Ice calculations
Of insomniac nights.
I blame you
For this brilliant inferno
Dancing merrily atop
Stone walls and supple flesh.
Ice Queen hearts feeble
Beside soldier prowess,
Aged in vain
For a ginger devotion
Blazed and weaved.
Worn ridges
Against fresh silk
Your thumb stroking symphonies
Against my cocoon flesh.
In the darkness
I burn and
Pledge.
You smolder too.
I drink your scent
As my lips skirmish the velvet
Of your neck,
When I burrow deep on
Hunt for fire against
Ice calculations
Of insomniac nights.
I blame you
For this brilliant inferno
Dancing merrily atop
Stone walls and supple flesh.
Ice Queen hearts feeble
Beside soldier prowess,
Aged in vain
For a ginger devotion
Blazed and weaved.
Francisco Morning
Today was the last morning
I woke up wearing
The leopard suit
Across my naked flesh,
An empty bottle
Nested in the spot
You should have been.
Today I woke up with my last black eye.
My skin puckered purple
Festered blue around the edges
And a patch of yellow
At the crease.
The night before I’d fallen
From the stiff new
Leather couch,
My face kissing linoleum
As your fist
Cracked my side.
The mahogany night-table cushioned my fall
Its hunkered legs staked the crevice of my ribs
As
I dropped.
You left me, there,
The shattered vase
Lay siege to the floor,
Steel shards painted
My fingers
Red.
You walked out that
Damn door.
Today was the last time I woke up crying.
The yellow satin pillowcase tear-soaked
And
Blood-stained.
The cloth faded
Every happy memory.
I woke up wearing
The leopard suit
Across my naked flesh,
An empty bottle
Nested in the spot
You should have been.
Today I woke up with my last black eye.
My skin puckered purple
Festered blue around the edges
And a patch of yellow
At the crease.
The night before I’d fallen
From the stiff new
Leather couch,
My face kissing linoleum
As your fist
Cracked my side.
The mahogany night-table cushioned my fall
Its hunkered legs staked the crevice of my ribs
As
I dropped.
You left me, there,
The shattered vase
Lay siege to the floor,
Steel shards painted
My fingers
Red.
You walked out that
Damn door.
Today was the last time I woke up crying.
The yellow satin pillowcase tear-soaked
And
Blood-stained.
The cloth faded
Every happy memory.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Cowardly Lions
I’m fucked up. That statement, in itself, is something people throw around just as carelessly and often as the phrase, I love you. I myself have used those very words to explain to someone just why I was incapable of functioning. Last semester, it was the answer to everything. I was going through major bouts of depression, and demons from my past just kept coming back to haunt me. It literally got to the point where I struggled to get out of bed in the morning, missed several classes, and proceeded to ignore mass calls and texts from concerned parental unit and friends. I even contemplated what exactly was my place in the world. The answer was I just didn’t know. I was broken and empty. I felt like my world just kept crashing down around me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I cried myself to sleep night after night and it had gotten to the point where I was lucky if I slept at all. I only functioned because I knew I had to.
Coffee and the dark became my drugs and the only thing that kept me sane. There were points where I was so stressed, exhausted, and depressed that I would literally break down in tears for hours, even if I was in the middle of a classroom. I disappeared from the outside world and barely spoke to anyone. I went to and from class (on the days that I was able to function enough to sit there, that is), to and from work, trudging up the UVM hill for trauma therapy, and stumbling to the cafeteria for food only when I’d reached the point of weakness and starvation. Even then, I only ate enough to sustain myself and keep the hunger pains at bay. I knew I was driving myself into reckless abandon, and slowly, I was killing myself. Emotionally, I was dead. Mentally, I was close. Physically, well I still walked. Nothing made sense except for the fact that I knew I was numb inside. There was a huge, gaping hole that I couldn’t see, but I knew was there. I just didn’t know if I’d ever be able to make it go away. I was a good girl and listened to my advisor and went to counseling twice a week, but nothing helped. Then, one night, it all changed.
I woke up one morning and decided I was tired of being miserable. Tired of being weak. Tired of giving up. I hated to lose-yet here I was losing track of my whole life. I was letting the demons and the negative influences in my life win. If I continued, I would sink so far into the darkness that I would never pull myself back out. I realized that maybe I was fucked up, but I was only empowering it further by succumbing to the demons and the negative aspects that had haunted me. I was always a fighter, always the victorious. So, why wasn’t I fighting now? I didn’t want to be the girl who haunted the darkness, drove herself into depression, or surrendered her feelings to the bottle every night. I’d lived recklessly in the past, and I didn’t want to do it anymore. I had a bright, promising future at hand. Hell, I’d worked my ass off for it for four years, and here I was on the brink of destruction. Was I really willing to throw it all away because I was too weak to fight this battle? Maybe I wouldn’t win, but I sure as hell could put up a fight. I didn’t sleep for days because I was too focused on trying to find the good in my life and get reacquainted with what I defined as my happiness. That’s when I decided to stop planning and start living.
I fought my way through my darkness and through my demons; because I knew that I had so much to live for. For too long I was weak. I was better than that. If anyone knows about an unstable, hell-driven life, it’s me. Maybe not as hell-driven and terrible as some, but more than a lot of people I know. Sure, looking at me you would have no idea what I’ve been through-you’d think I was a happy, intelligent person who was driven to succeed. That’s because over the years I’d become skilled at hiding the demons and creating a mask for outsiders to see. If I never let anyone in, then perhaps it would weaken their power to hurt me. I’d learned to live with my secrets, though they ate at me everyday. But if you really looked at me, and really saw, you would know. You could see it in my eyes, though it was carefully hidden. Only a select few ever could.
This summer, I thought I’d found a new form of happiness. I was given a second chance at something. For awhile it seemed maybe it was enough, maybe this time, it was worth fighting for. I was wrong. Sunday, on a day that was supposed to be celebrating my brother, came crashing down. All with one simple phrase: I’m fucked up. I just stared. Are you fucking kidding me? Now, after so long, this is going to ruin it? Anger bubbled inside, but I tried to keep it under control. If it was anything I’d learned, it was that sometimes it’s better to keep my temper in check. Otherwise, things would get real ugly real fast. Two and a half hours later, I was back to square one. All the words, all the tears in the world, wouldn’t erase the mark that I’m fucked up had left. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Had I really been so stupid again? I had let that phrase dictate my life for too long, until my mother told me the harsh words that I didn’t want to hear, but knew I had too. You’re only as fucked up as you let yourself be. It woke me up and made me realize, that yes, I was crippling my future and my life because I was enabling this monster to succumb me. I wouldn’t let it be victorious over my life, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to stand there and watch as it crippled yours as well.
You didn’t like what I had to say, and you may hate me for it, but someone had to tell you. I could never go back to what there was before, because those memories, that connection, had died a long time ago. The loss hurt for a long while at first, but then it faded away. I gave a second chance, but I sure as hell would not falter my ground. I wouldn’t hurt myself like that again. I would not, would not give a third chance. Not if I wanted to keep myself sane. This time, I was first. I was the one who decided to walk away. Never again would I let the words, I’m fucked up dictate my life. Because, in truth, it was a cop-out. It was the answer everyone gave, the shield everyone hid behind, when they were too much of a coward to take a chance on something that could’ve perhaps been one of the best decisions in their life. Life is full of risks, chances, and curveballs. Sometimes things really are cut and dry. It’s not everyday that you’re given second chances, so don’t pass them when they come around. Usually, you have to stop planning and just start living. Without risk, without daring, without courage, you will never have a real life at all.
Coffee and the dark became my drugs and the only thing that kept me sane. There were points where I was so stressed, exhausted, and depressed that I would literally break down in tears for hours, even if I was in the middle of a classroom. I disappeared from the outside world and barely spoke to anyone. I went to and from class (on the days that I was able to function enough to sit there, that is), to and from work, trudging up the UVM hill for trauma therapy, and stumbling to the cafeteria for food only when I’d reached the point of weakness and starvation. Even then, I only ate enough to sustain myself and keep the hunger pains at bay. I knew I was driving myself into reckless abandon, and slowly, I was killing myself. Emotionally, I was dead. Mentally, I was close. Physically, well I still walked. Nothing made sense except for the fact that I knew I was numb inside. There was a huge, gaping hole that I couldn’t see, but I knew was there. I just didn’t know if I’d ever be able to make it go away. I was a good girl and listened to my advisor and went to counseling twice a week, but nothing helped. Then, one night, it all changed.
I woke up one morning and decided I was tired of being miserable. Tired of being weak. Tired of giving up. I hated to lose-yet here I was losing track of my whole life. I was letting the demons and the negative influences in my life win. If I continued, I would sink so far into the darkness that I would never pull myself back out. I realized that maybe I was fucked up, but I was only empowering it further by succumbing to the demons and the negative aspects that had haunted me. I was always a fighter, always the victorious. So, why wasn’t I fighting now? I didn’t want to be the girl who haunted the darkness, drove herself into depression, or surrendered her feelings to the bottle every night. I’d lived recklessly in the past, and I didn’t want to do it anymore. I had a bright, promising future at hand. Hell, I’d worked my ass off for it for four years, and here I was on the brink of destruction. Was I really willing to throw it all away because I was too weak to fight this battle? Maybe I wouldn’t win, but I sure as hell could put up a fight. I didn’t sleep for days because I was too focused on trying to find the good in my life and get reacquainted with what I defined as my happiness. That’s when I decided to stop planning and start living.
I fought my way through my darkness and through my demons; because I knew that I had so much to live for. For too long I was weak. I was better than that. If anyone knows about an unstable, hell-driven life, it’s me. Maybe not as hell-driven and terrible as some, but more than a lot of people I know. Sure, looking at me you would have no idea what I’ve been through-you’d think I was a happy, intelligent person who was driven to succeed. That’s because over the years I’d become skilled at hiding the demons and creating a mask for outsiders to see. If I never let anyone in, then perhaps it would weaken their power to hurt me. I’d learned to live with my secrets, though they ate at me everyday. But if you really looked at me, and really saw, you would know. You could see it in my eyes, though it was carefully hidden. Only a select few ever could.
This summer, I thought I’d found a new form of happiness. I was given a second chance at something. For awhile it seemed maybe it was enough, maybe this time, it was worth fighting for. I was wrong. Sunday, on a day that was supposed to be celebrating my brother, came crashing down. All with one simple phrase: I’m fucked up. I just stared. Are you fucking kidding me? Now, after so long, this is going to ruin it? Anger bubbled inside, but I tried to keep it under control. If it was anything I’d learned, it was that sometimes it’s better to keep my temper in check. Otherwise, things would get real ugly real fast. Two and a half hours later, I was back to square one. All the words, all the tears in the world, wouldn’t erase the mark that I’m fucked up had left. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Had I really been so stupid again? I had let that phrase dictate my life for too long, until my mother told me the harsh words that I didn’t want to hear, but knew I had too. You’re only as fucked up as you let yourself be. It woke me up and made me realize, that yes, I was crippling my future and my life because I was enabling this monster to succumb me. I wouldn’t let it be victorious over my life, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to stand there and watch as it crippled yours as well.
You didn’t like what I had to say, and you may hate me for it, but someone had to tell you. I could never go back to what there was before, because those memories, that connection, had died a long time ago. The loss hurt for a long while at first, but then it faded away. I gave a second chance, but I sure as hell would not falter my ground. I wouldn’t hurt myself like that again. I would not, would not give a third chance. Not if I wanted to keep myself sane. This time, I was first. I was the one who decided to walk away. Never again would I let the words, I’m fucked up dictate my life. Because, in truth, it was a cop-out. It was the answer everyone gave, the shield everyone hid behind, when they were too much of a coward to take a chance on something that could’ve perhaps been one of the best decisions in their life. Life is full of risks, chances, and curveballs. Sometimes things really are cut and dry. It’s not everyday that you’re given second chances, so don’t pass them when they come around. Usually, you have to stop planning and just start living. Without risk, without daring, without courage, you will never have a real life at all.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Not A Rebound Girl...Right?
Sometimes I feel like I’m just a replacement for her. You don’t want people to know we’re dating, and the only question I ask is why? I think it’s because you still care what she thinks, what she’s going to say and because you still want to be with her. Sometimes I wonder if it’s really me you want to be with, or if I was just a replacement to prevent the emptiness from consuming you. You said you’ve wanted to be with me for over 17 months. You never asked because you were afraid I was going to reject you. You didn’t even take a chance. And then you just vanished.
Over sixteen months later, I get a text from you. You want to come back into my life. And because I missed you, I caved in. You tell me you never stopped caring about me, and that you thought about me over the sixteen months you were with her. Now, you have me. You look at me with that smile, brush the hair out of my face, and tell me I’m beautiful. Sometimes I want to know what you’re thinking when those brown eyes meet my blue ones. But, as always, you refuse to tell me. So I stopped asking. I thought I made you happy. Or at least that’s what you always tell me. Sometimes, I find it hard to believe. I’m so used to false words, that why would this be any different. I know you were together for awhile, but I’m tired of constantly feeling like your past is going dictate our future. It’s starting to weigh heavily on my mind, and my happiness.
You’re worried that when he comes home in 19 days, it’s going to change how I feel about you. I already gave you my answer. It isn’t. If I wanted to be with him, I wouldn’t be with you. Now would I? Yes, for a long time he still held my heart. Yes, I want to see him. But only for closure, so I can finally come to peace. So I can finally heal. And be free to give my heart to you. When I go to bed at night, it’s you I wish I was laying next to. When I wake up, it’s your face I want to see. During the day, it’s you I think about. Not him. So doesn’t that give you your answer? I choose you. I told you this. I thought it would make you happy. I mean, isn’t it supposed to?
I’m not her. And I never will be. I once told you I would never hurt you. I just told you I would do anything for you. I am nothing like her, and I pride myself on that. You tell me that’s what you like about me. So, then, why do I feel like you want me to be like her?
If you’re so happy, and “over her,” then why do I constantly feel like I’m second to her? You say you’ve finally got what you wanted. Me. So, then, why do I feel like you’re ashamed to be with me? Why do I feel like I’m not enough?
Over sixteen months later, I get a text from you. You want to come back into my life. And because I missed you, I caved in. You tell me you never stopped caring about me, and that you thought about me over the sixteen months you were with her. Now, you have me. You look at me with that smile, brush the hair out of my face, and tell me I’m beautiful. Sometimes I want to know what you’re thinking when those brown eyes meet my blue ones. But, as always, you refuse to tell me. So I stopped asking. I thought I made you happy. Or at least that’s what you always tell me. Sometimes, I find it hard to believe. I’m so used to false words, that why would this be any different. I know you were together for awhile, but I’m tired of constantly feeling like your past is going dictate our future. It’s starting to weigh heavily on my mind, and my happiness.
You’re worried that when he comes home in 19 days, it’s going to change how I feel about you. I already gave you my answer. It isn’t. If I wanted to be with him, I wouldn’t be with you. Now would I? Yes, for a long time he still held my heart. Yes, I want to see him. But only for closure, so I can finally come to peace. So I can finally heal. And be free to give my heart to you. When I go to bed at night, it’s you I wish I was laying next to. When I wake up, it’s your face I want to see. During the day, it’s you I think about. Not him. So doesn’t that give you your answer? I choose you. I told you this. I thought it would make you happy. I mean, isn’t it supposed to?
I’m not her. And I never will be. I once told you I would never hurt you. I just told you I would do anything for you. I am nothing like her, and I pride myself on that. You tell me that’s what you like about me. So, then, why do I feel like you want me to be like her?
If you’re so happy, and “over her,” then why do I constantly feel like I’m second to her? You say you’ve finally got what you wanted. Me. So, then, why do I feel like you’re ashamed to be with me? Why do I feel like I’m not enough?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)