I used to wear my
rosary like a necklace,
but only because it
glowed in the dark.
I am friends with a giving tree, and he is surrounded by girls
asking for twigs and leaves. He cries at the pain when some of
his bark snaps off, but only on the inside; he dares not complain
to those he loves. He turns to me for help. He hurts, but what
can he do? He loves those who hurt him, and those who hurt him
love him back, even if it's selfish love. I sit under his
shade, though spotty it may be for lack of leaves, to help think
of a solution of any sort, but I can't think of any
consolation save one: I give him a branch of my own.
Even if it means somebody else must curl in the corner of
their bedroom whispering to themselves Why me? Why
this?, there is something comforting in knowing that one
is not alone. Of course, even if it is knowing you are not
alone, there is still distress to be found in that
happiness.
You said, "Hey, I have that, too," and you saw emotion quickly covered by a polite mask. What if you had seen what occured later, held my wrist up to your ear and heard the joy singing in my veins and having found somebody like me? Would you have found comfort knowing that you could have an instant friend who understood an underlying struggle that is omnipresent even though she doesn't even know your name? Would you have found unease in the same thing?
The only things found more than the glee and relief in finding somebody like oneself are perhaps the grief that somebody else has shed the same tears and, even more so, the fear that they may find the jagged border between mask and skin. Sometimes that mask is all one has.
You said, "Hey, I have that, too," and you saw emotion quickly covered by a polite mask. What if you had seen what occured later, held my wrist up to your ear and heard the joy singing in my veins and having found somebody like me? Would you have found comfort knowing that you could have an instant friend who understood an underlying struggle that is omnipresent even though she doesn't even know your name? Would you have found unease in the same thing?
The only things found more than the glee and relief in finding somebody like oneself are perhaps the grief that somebody else has shed the same tears and, even more so, the fear that they may find the jagged border between mask and skin. Sometimes that mask is all one has.
♦
he'll never be that guy: captain of the football team,
straight-a student, making the entire cafeteria laugh at his
punchlines. the popular girls will never make jokes to him about
his six pack or compare the size of their hands, laughing and
mingling their hair as all of it gets twirled between fingers. he
is not a model citizen and my relatives would cringe at his
humour, though he accompany it all by playful grins and kind
eyes. if i were to say his name to my friends, i would be met
with laughter or confused stares, because would i not prefer to
fancy somebody popular? and yes, i'm sure all of the populars
are lovely, and i'm sure relating to quater-back-x-nerdy-girl
stories would be cute, and i'm sure others' approval
would make life easier. but him. never mind his status;
his smile is what makes my dimples come out to see the sun and my
shoulders remember what it's like to not bear their burden,
and sure, i know, he'll never be that guy—but i'd
like him either way.
♦
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♦
♦
Why are you so hard to write about? I can swear to any deity
above that I've tried my fair share of times, more than
I've tried for anyone before, but it's as if you are an
enigma to every word I know. You don't like big words, I
know, and I've learnt that they don't like you either. I
can list the things I like about you and I swear I know how to
write actual good poetry, but everything I manage to manufacture
appears to have escaped the hands of ten-year-old me who never
really understood poetry anyway. Still, I keep picking my pen
back up even after having thrown it across the room. I want to do
a part of you justice, even if not you as a whole. Perhaps the
way you smile, or the way the skin over your eyes is raised as if
to create a pedestal for your eyebrow. Your laugh, defaulting as
a snicker. The way you slip easy from humour into humorous
compassion. But I can't do anything. All I can manage is a
list of stupid things I like about a boy who is living a life I
wish I had the guts to follow. No matter the stuggle that lies
behind it, however, this list is the most beautiful one I have
every written.
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remove or otherwise alter this credit, even if the format is
modified. Thank you.
It's not that I dislike people at all; I love being around
others when we're on the same energy level, but it's just
easier being alone. Alone, I don't have to worry constantly
about if I'm the one secretly whispered about to other
friends whose expectant eyes make my tongue stumble over itself.
Alone, I don't have to keep score about how many more
interactions I've initiated more than all of the other people
in my life. Alone, I don't have to sit through three-people
conversations for which I might as well melt into the wall. Being
solitary isn't the easiest practice; I do get lonely from
time to time. The thing is, having a longing heart is better than
having one that is reaching its hands out to old friends only to
have them slapped back with disdain. I don't make an easy
choice when I don't bother trying to muster a
"hello," but doing anything else is nothing less than
self-destructive.
Your eyes were outlined with red, bracing themselves for tears
that did not come. Though your eyes were stone dry, you were
stone silent and still for the effort. I was doing my best not to
stare at you until you, but I hope you didn't think that,
when I did, my eyes were filled with pity; they were not looking
down at you, but looking up. All I wanted to do in that moment
was extend my arms in comfort. It was for both of our sakes that
I didn't, yet I still feel sorry for having not.
There’s a small cardboard box in my brain: a special one,
where I can forget everything I put in there, so it doesn’t
kill me from the inside. It works beautifully and holds all of
the woes I want badly enough to hide from myself. I can live from
day to day without fear of my self-manufactured toxins. There is
one problem, though, which lays in its integrity; it is made but
out of cardboard. My secrets and fears are a dense fluid, making
the cardboard sag at its middle and darken with saturation, and
sometimes it trickles out in a small stream from the box’s
open corner if I don’t pay attention. It leaves scars on
the floor that burn my eyes, but I daren’t more than
whimper. I will save that for when I slip under its brown flaps
one secret too many and its entire structure collapses, leaving
me to just brace myself for the corrosion of all I could never
stand to face.
~
I'm tired of hearing people say that giving up is always a
bad thing. Giving up on twisted stomachs and heavy thoughts would
not be a bad thing. Leaving the frustrations that manifest in
short fingernails and angry scrawls on lined pages behind me
would be good, just as it would be great if I could stop the
racing thoughts, always analysing and reanalysing sentences,
trying to decipher an encrypted message that might not even
exist. Giving up on you would be the best thing I could ever do,
and God knows it's hard enough to try without discouragement.
When I am screaming to myself, "Just let
me live," one might think I am talking to some
external power exerting restriction over me: smothering parents,
toxic friends, an omnipresent God. And while it's true that I
cry to the universe at night over things that they control, they
are just binding my wrists; I am always the one pressing the
knife to my throat. The way my stomach twists itself when I'm
in the presence of others like it's a damp towel to be wrung,
the way my mouth deftly sews itself shut so that my thoughts may
never roam, the way my legs will never hold a fighting stance
because all they've been taught to do is run, that is all me.
The sun and moon, forever looking over my actions, have long
since realised it, so maybe it's time that I do too.
