Insignificant moments
fill my head like lincoln log structures
begging to crumble
at the hands of toddlers
unknowingly playing jenga.
I don’t understand the images,
and the further I question,
the more I am confused.
I’ve begun to call them my dream reality.
The glimpses feel so real,
so telling, but
maybe it’s just my imagination
filling in missing childhood memories.
It’s this feeling,
like the smell of bread burning
or the taste of molding milk.
It’s this feeling of always being second
because first is perpetually taken;
it’s occupant flesh or the concrete
pedestal stood in their place.
It’s this feeling of feeling
like everything and nothing matters,
all of the time,
and you can’t quite explain why
your shins are bruised
or why there are pinch marks on your arm.
It’s this feeling of losing
in a game against yourself —
checkmate.
It’s this feeling
that makes me feel so
forgotten.
It feels like I’ve done something wrong,
even when I never opened my mouth,
never took the bait,
never raised my gaze.
Very few have ever reached far enough
to tap upon my soul, set up camp,
and listen with an orange in hand.
Your name leaves a complicated taste in my mouth.
There’s sweetness,
like nectar that slips down a butterflies’ proboscis.
It reminds me of your touch —
legs draped over yours on that sunny day,
hand in hand.
But there’s also sourness,
like lime on the edge of a tequila shot.
I don’t know what to do with it,
staining my tongue with bitter words
that make me sad to think are true.
Perhaps it’s also a bit salty,
like the ocean breeze we both laughed into,
or the tears that pool under my chin.
Yet, the punch,
that is from the day we said goodbye,
the day I grieved without knowing I was grieving.
Your name,
sharp in memory,
will soon start to fade, growing bland
like an unripe peach.
She spends her time watching, waiting for souls to leave.
She saw the girl break free —
float away like a balloon —
and watches the boy,
sinking into that abyss,
unable to help.
Everyday, she must watch beautiful people fall apart,
each departure chipping away at her soul.
She stares and hopes for the day when someone stares back,
hoping to use her power for healing.
The drumming gets louder with the passing months,
more and more people are searching.
She can barely keep up, trying to end the war
before it begins.
Only, she doesn’t notice the one staring,
invisible to most, including her.
The boy watches whenever her head is turned,
learning her ways slowly,
warned to never look into her deep, soul-searching eyes.
Murk cloaks him,
hiding from her and whoever else
isn’t supposed to know he is here.
Another watches him,
aware of the ensuing battle.
How does a social construct
alleviate the emotions I feel —
how can time belong in a place so sacred,
so full of love and rage and sorrow?
I wish to stop time,
to simply exist in this state of
grief and triumph —
to exist knowing more about myself
and how, even *this*
does not define me.
*this* was hard,
and I did not know why —
I could not comprehend
even with the time I spent on it.
It wasn’t until I stopped thinking of the days
that I began to hear my voice —
my dear younger self —
that I understood that *this*
opened a door for me to sit within
and listen.
{punctuation inspired by a dear *friend*}
Men walk down the street,
clad in baseball caps and running shoes,
strutting like greater sage-grouses.
Women walk by in short dresses,
purses hanging lazily off their shoulders,
swaying with the breeze.
It’s quiet with the drawn out, calculated
steps of each passerby.
I sit and think about their movements —
the degree of the arm swing,
the angle of the smile,
the cadence of left to right.
I know someone who walks as if dancing,
an internal metronome pounding
out a beat to which they move.
Each step so deliberate,
each head tilt as if in prayer.
Others cannot help
but take notice of the rhythm,
side-eyeing and smiling,
aware that they too, enjoy dancing.
I feel like a raft out at sea,
drifting with oars pulled in,
rocking to a rhythm unknown to me.
I will hit land eventually,
or choose to put my oars
out in search of it,
but for now,
I choose to float, feeling
the emptiness of the realness.
Realness, something
I didn’t know I could understand,
but my fingers
type out these words knowing
more than they ever did before.
It’s hit harder than I thought it would.
Emotions moving like the tides,
rising quickly in the quiet moments
and retreating slowly,
wave by wave.
My hands feel the weight of it,
the heaviness of the emptiness.
It sits in my palms,
trickling through the cracks—
an hourglass with infinite sand.
I lay awake in bed—
left alone with my heart,
my musings and ideations,
my tears of salt
dripping slowly into each ear canal.
It never truly had a label,
but it brought me joy—
joy and confusion and
confidence and
comfort to know that I am capable.
Human nature is to try and to fail,
to make mis-takes and to learn,
to hurt and to love.
(We use screws instead of nails.)
She shouts, guarding herself with words like bullets,
rather than admitting fault.
(We use anger instead of compassion.)
He goes silent, building walls,
layers of brick to block the pain.
(We pray to be different from our parents.)
But trauma is cycled through generations.
I feel the weight of my great-grandmother
in the movement of my hands over my heart.
I hear the last cries of my grandfather
before his heart turned sour.
(To heal is to break the cycle handed down to us.)
(To heal is human.)
*I found this poem in a journal from July 8, 2019. I remember this summer — all of the loneliness I felt and all of the macaroni I ate. Enjoy, if you’d like.*
I watch the marigolds bloom and die;
I smell the woods falling prey to fire;
I feel the weight of the atmosphere crushing us to the Earth.
The world keeps turning;
people keep running;
and I keep waiting.
I’m waiting for the day I can straighten my back,
heave the weight up and over my head
and breathe.
I’ve spent so long gasping for air
only to feel it taken away from me.
I carry this burden so someone else doesn’t have to.
I am your Atlas.
Let me shoulder your pain.
So It Goes 