Tag Archives: nonfiction

Empty Girls Walking

I could never write again.

I could go the rest of my life without putting pen to paper. No one can force me to pour myself over essays or arrange stanzas for another sad poem or pick apart the meanings of words that I have yet to unpack.

I don’t feel like a writer. I haven’t sat down to work for ages – I write blog posts, sure, and some poems here and there. Words still tumble around my brain until they ache, until I have to do something or I’ll explode.

But there’s an essay that won’t let me go. I haven’t written it and I don’t want to do so. I don’t want to write down the thoughts – I want to pour them down the drain, light the sink on fire, and run away.

I don’t want to face this memory.

And it’s holding me hostage in the worst way. It has me by the brain and every time I get close to something else, it throbs in my skull. The words have come to me, angry and insistent, time and time again. It’s too much.

I wish there was a tidy ending.. a promise I could give that I’ll write everything down, that I’ll explain myself, that I’ll empty the vault and release the pressure building up behind my eyes.

I don’t know, man. I’m scared of everything I have to say. I’m afraid of how true it is, it was, it continues to be.

All I can do is look down at my hands and think, maybe someday.

maybe soon.

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Home

The bruises in the palms of my hands have just healed.

The skin had speckled and only recently has the purple hue faded from my skin. There is pain in growth, always always always, but this time it was my own stubbornness that hurt.

I’ve spent a solid 12 hours building fairly unimpressive furniture for my new apartment. I live here, by myself, with the cat I grew up beside. My boyfriend is often here too. It’s beautiful, a slice of a dream that I never imagined fulfilling.

Anyway.

Happiness has an edge of vulnerability and discomfort. I’m never quite sure how to hold it. This time, I’m trying to let it wash over my hands – never grabbing, never demanding more, simply enjoying the sensation as it flows.

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The Woods

the hands are mine – small and pale,
hungry. it is as if a seed has dropped into my
palms, stretching inward

seeking nutrients from a body I have never
understood. it is as if someone
has planted the last tree here,
inside me
and it’s urgent and important and
sometimes my anxiety peels back the
bark protecting my chest until
I can’t breathe
teetering against roots without
an anchor, always a jump away
from felling the forest —

then
he smiles at me

and I can feel the leaves press against my skin
from the inside, I open my mouth
and taste fresh air;
hand over hand, I climb out of myself.
I find the sun.

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Something Old

Here is where I was, two and three years ago. Simple pieces. Nothing too heavy or incriminating. But poetry always marks who I’ve been and where I’m going.

 

Bus #32 off Orchard

To the bulimic on the 9 AM bus –
I’m sorry heaven’s light burns the skin
around your chapped lips, I remember
how badly the sun can sting on mornings
like this
you slide into the hard plastic seat
as if slipping beneath a pinewood lid
your body sighs, collapsing inward,
and I wonder
how long you would be permitted
to sleep.

——————————————————-

we spill into the street
like milk flooding linoleum
and we know there’s no use crying

the sun has yet to claim its throne
seducing the last whispers of dawn
a frigid wind slips underneath our scarves
stroking the smooth napes of our necks

screaming metal materializes
girls clutching coffee struggle
to remember their own names
we file inside and no one says it
but we always crave the proximity.

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They Could’ve Been Dancing

I truly believe you’re either born a poet or forged into one – but I can’t decide where that leaves me.

I’ve been a poet longer than almost anything else – my love for poetry just barely predates my trauma and the subsequent illnesses it wrought. Poetry was my coping mechanism long before I understood what I had survived. Words just make sense in a way that numbers and figures never quite managed.

April is National Poetry Month, intended to expose the nation to the beauty and calamity of words. Poetry is where I began. My first poem was published in Highlights magazine before I was old enough to type. It was about the wind. There was an owl. That’s all I remember. But I dictated the poem to my mother and I was so proud when she printed it out. Proud, but nervous. Once it was sent to the magazine, it wasn’t my poem anymore. But we have the print in my closet, locked away under other little memories deemed soft enough to treasure.

And so I was a poet.

I won an award at Tattered Covers. It was expected that the winners would read their work aloud but I couldn’t, not in the slightest, so I trembled behind my mother instead. She read about the wind and I shook, face red, my words so separate from myself that I could barely stand to hear them. Then the crowd applauded! And suddenly the fear and dread melted into something different, something I have struggled to define in the years since.

It was like being heard for the first time.

I hope I smiled then, but it’d be true to form if I had cried instead.

 

 

They Could’ve Been Dancing

we’re packed into a storage house
past its prime, plastered with graffiti and
band stickers and my friend’s glitter
bombs from five shows ago that never
washed away

I don’t know any of the songs but
that boy has my heart in one hand
and my hand in the other and
I’m shouting beneath my skin, eyes open,
watching the men grab each other
and sway

it’s beautiful
tangentially speaking
as if music, like weeds, grew
around a structure and said

“yes, here,
this will be enough.”

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The Girl through the Wires

She found me in the strangest way.

I didn’t have many friends left by the end of that summer. I had been looking forward to the sun but even blue skies couldn’t pull me out of myself. Instead I stayed in my childhood bedroom, still processing bruises that had long since healed. I can’t remember exactly when Sydney appeared in my life – I only posting on my blog and saying I was unequivocably done with friendship. I was tired of being hurt, after all. Then this beautiful, vibrant Minnesotan crawled through the internet and offered me her hand.

“You can’t give up on friendship! I’ll be your friend.”

We’ve talked about our origin at length in the four years since. It wasn’t like her to write to people, she says, and it wasn’t in my nature to respond so readily. Somehow, we just knew to speak.

Sydney kept my heart open and hopeful, despite my best efforts to shut the world out. We messaged on Tumblr back and forth, back and forth, discussing everything from Harry Potter to human rights to teen suicide to our favorite bands. I’m still unsure how we fell together so beautifully. That fall, I met Sydney’s celebrity crush. I hugged Ed Sheeran and told him all about my best friend across the country.. the best friend I had never met.

When we finally stepped on the same soil, it was like coming home. I’d never felt instantaneously at peace with another person, but Sydney is special. She and I watched Ed Sheeran, our hands intertwined . I still remember her nails digging into my palm as Ed plucked on his guitar.

Sydney turned 23 recently. I am so pleased to say that our friendship is as strong as ever – and I can’t express how much I owe her. Sydney has let me lean on her on my worst days and she’s made my best days possible. sydney.png

I can’t wait for our future adventures, Squiddy. Happy belated birthday. xx

 

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The rules of hurting

We’re all going to hurt each other.

I’m not saying you should feel comfortable with that, nor should the notion grant you permission to hurt people left and right, but it’s true. You will hurt every single person you love – and every single person you love will hurt you.

The degrees will vary, of course. Not every pain is a death sentence. Sometimes it’s something simple, unintentional, like an ill-timed joke about your hair or forgetting someone’s anniversary when they were counting on you to make the cake. There are different levels of hurt.

Here are the rules of hurting:

  1. It is your job to tell people when something aches – even if you think they should know. Our thresholds for pain are so wildly unique that at times we must guide each other to the wounds that have been poked through our skin – even when you still see blood on their fingers.
    1. Rule one can be disregarded in two circumstances.
      1. If the person has committed bodily harm against you, there is no need to tell them about it. For example, if a man punches you in the face, do not return to him – even if he was drunk and claims he can’t remember his fist colliding with your jaw.
      2. If you have told the person before that their actions hurt you and they’ve made no move to fix it, you are under no obligation to tell them again. You can. It’s your life. But repeating oneself is tedious and hope can be most dangerous here.
  2. To paraphrase the brilliant Louis C.K., when someone tells you that you’ve hurt them, you don’t get to say you didn’t. If you have a strong bond, it hurts to find out you’ve hurt someone you love. But to trample over them and fill the air with excuses or reasons why their pain isn’t your fault is cowardly at best. We’re all going to hurt each other. That doesn’t mean we should allow our friends to hurt by our hand.
    1. Make amends, not excuses. If you can’t stop hurting someone you claim to love, please let them go.
  3. Just because you’re hurting doesn’t make you right. Those thresholds I talked about earlier? Those levels of sensitivity that guide us throughout life? They do not give you room to be cruel or vindictive. Your response to being hurt should not be to hurt someone else. And let’s be clear – having that drive doesn’t make you a monster, but acting on it does.

There are aspects of life in which you do not get a say. You don’t get to choose whether you’re chronically ill or disabled. You don’t get to choose where you come from. But it is my fondest hope that you get to choose who hurts you. It doesn’t have to be the family in which you grew up. It doesn’t have to be anyone who proved themselves unable to care for you in healthy, constructive ways.  I can’t wish you a pain-free life. But I hope you find yourself in the position to surround yourself people who will balk when they’ve hurt you, who will throw up their hands and hold you and make strides to never injure you the same way again.

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Sleep

I don’t fall asleep; I chase sleep, feet crashing against paved streets every night in my hayday. It eludes me more often than not. In fact, I only ever catch sleep at inopportune times: during movies I wanted to see the end of, or against my boyfriend in his living room as his roommates make crepes, or while I’m flossing (fingers still in my mouth, tied together by string).

My body lurches in these moments, desperate to fight off the victory I’ve been chasing. My head falls forward and down until I snap awake for a moment, just long enough to realize everyone knows I’m sleeping. There’s nothing to be done. I try to hold conversations. I reach for cold water. I reposition myself so I’m less comfortable. But when it wants me, no amount of effort staves off sleep.

I wake up hours before anyone else on those nights. My eyes trace imaginary shapes in the dark, straining for light. Sometimes I can’t remember where I am for a second – especially when I’m by myself, in my own bed. But it lasts for just a second, and for that I am grateful. I always remember in the end.

I try to coax sleep to return. My eyes watch the door as if convinced it’ll sweep through, sand in hand, ready to lead me back into slumber. But my door stays shut, my blinds closed. I count backwards until I reach morning.

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Sometimes We Are Monsters

My sister taught me to view relationships logically. She calls her process the cost-benefit analysis and, when she first explained it to me, I thought it was too cold. How do you look at a friendship or romantic entanglement and sum up its worth? How do you justify letting someone go?

Recently, I saw a post on tumblr that reminded me of my sister’s lesson. To paraphrase, if we allow ourselves to cut people out of our lives because they’re a hindrance to our happiness, we must also accept that someone may cut us out of their life as well. It is, in fact, a give-and-take. Sometimes we are the monsters in someone else’s closet, despite our best intentions, despite our greatest aspirations. We’re going to hurt the people we love and then they will have the choice: stay or go. Sometimes, if they are afraid or hopeful, they will choose something in between – a grey area in which the ground is never still, never peaceful. When you linger there, your stomach is in your throat and you can’t fill your lungs fully. You are always out of breath, body torn between running away and bolting your feet to the floor.

I lived in that space for a very long time, longer than I care to admit. When I finally walked away, I swore to myself that I would not return. I also respect that others won’t want to be caught in that situation, which is a long way of saying that I only want people in my life who decidedly want to be there and I will never force anyone to stay by me if it hinders their happiness. I only choose people who choose me – I have no energy for anything else.

So, if you should ever want to leave me, I will urge you to go. There are very few people that I would chase

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Country road home

Courteney and I were direct opposites. She was bursting with spirit for things that didn’t even register in my mind – like country music and sports and God. If we hadn’t spent hours at the restaurant together, I doubt we would’ve made it as friends.

The first day she stepped into the restaurant, I was intimidated. Courteney was thin, tan, and beautiful and, for our first few shifts, I felt less than good enough around her. And then one day, just by chance, we had our free meal at the same time and started talking. She was kind and smart and awkward to the point of hilarity, and from then on, I loved her. I’d call her C-Dazzle and C-Dizzle and anything stupid to make her laugh at me.

When I became her boss, I always had to tell her to stop talking – or to talk and walk, talk and sweep, to do something ‘productive’. And she never gave me shit for it. She’d smile and take the broom, barely faltering in her story-telling. Courteney also listened to every single god-awful story about my ex-boyfriend. She’d never yell at me or tell me I was stupid for sticking around for a man who continuously hurt me. Instead, she begged me to do something good for myself.When I finally cut him out of my life, Courteney hugged me and let me cry until I was empty. Then she told me how proud she was and that good things would be coming.

She was right.

The story about Courteney that I hold most dear is one that many people, even our coworkers, don’t know. In June, I had to leave my beloved restaurant because my manager refused to protect me from an aggressive, mentally unstable man who threatened to assault me. That same manager then told me and my entire staff that I was such a slut, I had no right to be afraid of any man. I’ll never forget when I broke the story to her. She was so angry that she was silent for a second.. but then Courteney said the most amazing thing.

“I’ll quit with you. The way she’s treating you is so wrong, I can’t believe this is even happening.”

And my heart almost burst in that moment because finally, someone saw and understood just how wrong the situation was. Someone believed me and loved me and knew I didn’t deserve to be mistreated. But I couldn’t ask her to go. This time, I embraced Courteney and asked her to stay. To watch out for everybody, since I wouldn’t be able to do it anymore. And she cried with me, just a little, just for a moment.

The last time I saw Courteney, I had popped in the restaurant to turn in my things. She raced from behind the counter like a baby giraffe and landed in front of me, absolutely beaming. She gave me an update on the boy she had been pursuing – I told her I finally got to date my crush, the same one she watched me pine over for ages. And she squealed and hugged me and made me promise to come back.

I fucked up, Courteney. I’m so sorry. Once Fort Collins was in my rearview mirror, I felt so relieved that I forgot to hold on to the people who made that town tolerable. I didn’t mean to let go. I thought I’d have time to get back to you, to go out and drink shots and watch you dance like an absolute weirdo.

I miss you. I’m going to spend the rest of my life missing you, threading you into the stories I tell and the poetry I write so that you can live on in me. I love you, Courteney. Thank you for your loyalty, your heart, and your spirit.

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