12.14

filling. overflowing. brimming.

that is how the tides wash over. and like a sweeping wave, they fall upon.
covering, smothering. drowning you. suffocating. choking. 

making contact with the edges of your body. pushing, stretching, yearning for an outlet 

and then its sucked out like a vacuum, without resistance. the tears flow.

and flow.

and 

flow.

those drops that wet and caress the surfaces they touch,

feed a seed stuck deep

and what blooms isn't vibrant or dainty.

instead a plain plug that makes itself known

every time you move 

or breathe.
a dull ache. a persistent presence.

the ones who feel this lingering restlessness

must walk the earth as clouded mirrors

passing each other not recognizing.

kindred in kind,

but concealed by their radiating darkness.

but sometimes the light hits the surface

just right

and a glimmer catches your eye.

and you peer to look closer

touching the cold, smooth surface

that refuses to give way

proving that it exists outside of you.

solace.

a melancholic feeling of light that bounces from shining surface 

to surface

the cloudiness washed clean

by those tears that came from that very darkness.

and we shine.

and shine

and 

shine.

10.23

If anything was ever consistent about me, deep down in my core, I thought it was the fact that I could see myself clearly, that there was no separation, divide, or lacuna between my concept of myself and the way I am, and that I am my emotions. To talk about disengaging from my emotions, to detach, disentangle... is nonsensical to me because every last bit of my being is that very emotion. This might sound narcissistic, but I know some part of me always operates and navigates life as though I am in a movie. That everything I do, every gesture, every expression is on display for the world to see. More specifically, for that certain someone who was birthed from the same serendipitous coincidental meeting of time and space and the same energy and fiber, the person who has the capacity to see me for me as I see myself. When I listen to music on the train moving, going, changing time, place, space... I always feel like there is a presence about me. Watching, feeling what I feel. Maybe that's the way I've learned to live with myself and my loneliness. Some part of me resents being my own company because that company never feels like its enough. And paradoxically, I'm not alone because my emotions are themselves a close presence, always making themselves known. I am them and aren't them at the same time. What does it mean to embody emotions? They're not simply things entombed in a body. They are an energy, a sense that is is engraved into your every nerve ending, the weight of your body, and the feeling of the ground beneath your feet. Written and rewritten like a palimpsest. They're magical and otherworldly in that way. Radiances of a body and soul. I always had words for them, no matter how alien. I could paint them in my mind. Not an exact replica, because they're not material of this world or of this dimension, but a convincing forgery. A forgery masterfully crafted by the hands of the very artist that created the original. I feel as though I have lost that vision. That otherworldly sense that gave me access to this otherworldly existence. I can overlay the forgery on top of the original and map every brush stroke, every point, every monad as they coincide. Yet there is no resonance. No compounded amplification between two beings of a feather that recognize each other. No frequency, no vibration, no recollection, nothing. And everything is ash. And you can't feel your body anymore. So you sink, and float, and sink, and float...

To All the Boys Who I Didn't Love Myself For

I loved so many boys with pretty eyes. The boy who told me to drink grapefruit juice before my district spelling bee competition because it was supposed to make me smarter. The same boy who wrote be a cute card when I qualified for state saying, "it was the grapefruit juice, I tell ya!". The boy who played cello across from me in middle school orchestra, who later would drop a hedgehog made of the wax from a Babybel cheese as a gift on my desk. The boy who did all of the science competitions with me and would message me about homework, but would never give me the time of day in person. The first boy I tried to do the deed with only to be thwarted by ill-fitting parts and too much shame to try again. These were the boys who I fluttered for, the ones who made it impossible to think around, the ones who made my glasses fog up during an unexpected run in. I always said too little around these boys that I loved, keeping my love to myself because words were a risky investment when there was no guarantee of words back.

I stopped loving boys with pretty eyes because who needs love as a prerequisite for intimacy if you're a radical modern woman with thoughts and desires beyond the confines. Grapefruit juice was replaced by the boy who tried to finish off a whole case of Twisted Teas to prove a point. What the point was, unclear. Hedgehog was rewritten by the first boy who managed to stab it in, leaving as much of a mess as would be expected if you were to actually have a run in with the prickly animal. Mismatched parts overshadowed by the repeated pain from forced parts, distorted parts, replaceable parts. Messages were replaced by no messages at all after the deed was done. Wham bam, thank you ma'am, as was once put so eloquently by someone I knew. But one thing was still the same. No words. 

No words said when it felt like skin being ripped apart, abraded, burned. No words said when the casual slap triggered flash backs to the days of corporal punishment from a disciplinarian mother. No words said because words couldn't be said when no air is allowed to pass through your vocal cords as your airway is cut off. No words because it's easier to decide that this is what you wanted anyways, that the first time doesn't matter as an empowered woman, that it doesn't hurt when no words are ever exchanged after. 

I've always wanted the wholesome. The person who would move the bowl of popcorn before starting a pillow fight. But what I accepted were the boys who left a mess at the site of my body. To all the boys who I didn't love myself for...