brittle bones and beautiful bliss

He lived 150 miles away.
but there was something far greater
than a two and a half hour drive separating us.
You're 4,432 miles away
(I know. I googled it.)
yet you seem closer.
Though not close enough.

He made my bones feel dry.
brittle.
I was afraid I'd break from the slightest movement.
but then you.
with your bedhead
and smiles
and love of the sea.

He wants to be a doctor.
Admirable I suppose.
Excuse me if I don't wait in line to kiss his ass.
He did more hurting
than he did healing.
bitter.

You'll be a marine biologist
and we'll live by the sea
and have a beautiful multiracial family.
Bliss.

I can't touch you.
but one day I will.

"Peace promise?"

tangley tuesday

he is Peter Pan
never aging.
the boyish upwards curvature of his mouth
is electric
and causes my skin cells to prickle.
he thinks my underwear is fun.
funderwear.
he's perfected the art of making insults seem charming.
and when we lie on the floor in the hallway,
our hair sprawled out on the carpet
his strands getting all tangled up in mine
I feel perfectly beautiful.
our hearts sync
as our noses touch.
Eskimo kisses.
He's a bottomless bag of peanut m&ms
all green.
Wine stained lips
and a bitter tasting tongue.

family outing

           “Five…four… three… two…. One,” we say in unison, watching as the sun disappears into the ocean. Ben is smiling at me. I love when he smiles. He has the kind of smile that is impossible not to reciprocate. He’s well aware of this fact.

                 I stand, extending my hands towards him. He takes them and I pull him onto his feet. Some people linger on the beach, while others head towards the parking lot. I pull Ben towards the shore. The water laps at our exposed toes. I curl mine into the wet sand.

                A gust of wind whips past us suddenly, tossing my hair about in chaos and obscuring my vision. I wrap my arms around Ben’s waist and stand on tip toe to kiss him. His hands slip around my waist and pull me close.

                I hear a camera snap in the near distance. Ben and I pull away and look in the direction of the flash. A woman with unruly blond curls and fireball red lipstick is smiling at us guiltily. There is a camera in her hands.

                “I hope you don’t mind. I’ve been trying to take some shots for my photography portfolio and my default idea was to take some sunset shots – then I saw you two kissing. I’d really like to take a few more shots of you if you don’t mind.”

                Ben and I look at each other briefly. I find the entire situation to be quite humorous. He seems to feel mutually.

                “I don’t see why not,” I say finally.

                “Oh, wonderful! I’m Felicity by the way.” she says with a wide grin.

                Three Asian children are building a sandcastle nearby. There is no adult in sight. Felicity holds up a finger to us.

                “Don’t move. I’ll be right back,” she says before shuffling over towards the unsupervised children. She returns a few minutes later, all three children in tow. She points to the shortest of the three.

                “This is Akari.”

                She points to the boy wearing water shoes and a sunhat.

                “This is Aoki.”

                She points to the third child. I cannot distinguish whether it is a boy or a girl.

                “This is Chie.”

                Ben waves at them. Aoki is avoiding making eye contact. Chie’s expression is leading me to believe that he or she has sand someplace sand should not be.

                “I’m their nanny. I’ve asked them to help me with my project. I was thinking my new theme could be multiracial family portraits.”

                “So just so I’m clear – you want us to pretend they’re our children?” I ask. Felicity shrugs.

                “Unless, you’d rather not.”

                “No, no. I think that’s brilliant,” I reassure her. A smile creeps back across her face. She gestures for the kids to arrange themselves beside us. Akari stands on my left, Aoki on my right. I hold out my hands towards each of them. Akari accepts, slipping her hand in mine. Aoki on the other hand seems less than willing to hold hands with someone he’s only just met. I can’t say I blame him.

                Ben and Chie are running along the shore a few feet away. I’m overwhelmed with feelings of nostalgia at the sight. Chie is laughing wildly. From the sound of it I choose to assume she’s a girl. Ben catches up to her, grabbing her playfully and hoisting her up on his shoulders. Chie places her hands over Ben’s eyes. I see him peeking through the gaps between her fingers as he walks towards us.

                “This is great,” Felicity gushes, snapping a picture.

                A small group of onlookers has begun to form around us. Felicity turns, scanning the crowd for another member to add to our family. She points to a teenage boy with rust colored hair.

                “Wanna help me with my photography project?” she asks.

                “Sure,” he replies.

                “What’s your name?”

                “Patrick.”

“Meet your new family Patrick,” she says, gesturing towards us.

                He seems a bit hesitant at first, but seems to warm up to the idea after a couple of shots. Felicity takes a shot of Ben and Chie, one of Aoki, Akari and I, one of Aoki, Ben and Patrick.

                As we grow more comfortable with each other the pictures seem less forced, and more authentic. It becomes felicity taking pictures of our genuine interactions with each other. She snaps several of us building a sandcastle and burring Aoki in the sand. Then a few of us in a brief sand fight.

                “Alright, I think I’ve got everything I need,” Felicity says. Chie groans in disappointment and stomps her foot. Patrick kneels to give Akari a high five. Aoki approaches me for a hug. As we embrace I notice Ben pinching Chie’s nose. She erupts in a fit of laughter.

                “Let’s get you kiddos home,” Felicity says loud enough for all three to hear. They wave goodbye before they go to gather their sand toys. Ben and Patrick exchange a handshake.

                “I really appreciate you guys helping me out with this. Maybe we should exchange emails so once I’ve finished editing I can send the pictures to you,” she offers.

It is then that I notice that the crowd of bystanders has dispersed. She hands me a pen and a piece of paper. I scribble my contact info on it. She hands me a business card.

“That’s my cell, feel free to call whenever,” she says.

“Thank you,” Ben replies, smiling at Felicity and placing his hand on my shoulder. She waves goodbye, and after helping her trio of children finish packing their things- they leave. 

truth be told, we're all a bunch of liars

We're not hardwired to mean it every time we say

I'm sorry.

We save most of our sympathy for ourselves
and give the leftovers to those who have earned it.

We're hardwired to say
Fine.
Or some variation of it, every time someone asks
How are you?

We all know the apologies aren't sincere enough.
We're well aware that if we truly cared about someone's well being
they would tell us that they're
Scared.
Because they don't know how they're going to pay the rent.
Because their mother has cancer.
Because
I
made
myself
vulnerable.

I'm sorry.
I'm fine.
I'm a
l
i
a
r
.

//hello, we've never met before but I wish we had//

What if we had been strangers on a train
And I asked you what book you were reading.
You'd say:
“The Old Man and The Sea.”
Then I’d tell you I’d never read it before.
You’d say it was your favorite.
And ask for mine,
“Tuesdays with Morrie,”
I’d answer.
We’d bond over similar music taste
The XX
PRiNCE
Flight of the Conchords.
You’d compliment my sweater.
I’d admire your socks.
Maybe I’d be bold and ask to take your picture,
But probably not.
Instead I’d ask you name
And you’d ask mine.
I’d smile at your reaction.
"Nice to meet you Oshin.”
Then you’d go back to reading your book
And I’d try to find another excuse to talk to you.

//What if we weren't strangers//

Greetings and Farewells

She drew out their goodbyes as long as he'd let her
because she never really wanted to leave him.

                      *I adore you.*
                               *I'll miss you.*
                                    *Goodnight boo.*

                But waking up to his messages somehow made her bed seem less empty.
                                                                        And she hated empty things.
                                                                                           So she endured goodbyes
                                                                   in exchange for tomorrow's good morning.

I'm in Love with Anne Frank.

I think I like to write so publicly because it makes me feel like there's a chance someone is listening, even if I'm just talking to myself.

I was inspired to watch the Diary of Anne Frank after having listened to the Neutral Milk Hotel song Oh Comely.  Perhaps the next time I hear the song she inspired - it will ring truer.

The story's end left me with a compulsion to pray for Anne (as silly as that may seem). So I did. I climbed out of bed, got down on my knees before my bed and I prayed. I also felt compelled to apologize for being a terrible human being.

I'm sure many people say the same but I felt like I could relate to Anne in many ways. I used to want to be an actress for a while too before I discovered my passion for writing. And like Anne I feel I have no other choice but than to write. To write what I feel, write what I know. Also, she was  very lonely despite having been in such close quarters with seven other people. I find that I am often the most lonely when I am in the presence of others. This is deeply unsettling to me.

I've always been very codependent, and I've always hated that about myself.  I've been too needy with romantic relationships as well as mutual friendships. Though I am growing fonder of being independent and being content being on my own - I still yearn to be close to people. I yearn for it, but my actions don't reflect that yearning. I don't try to get close to people. I dismiss them before they can dismiss me. No risk of rejection. My emotions remain in tact because I don't put them into jeopardy by gambling on people anymore. There was a time when all I wanted was the approval of people whose names I no longer remember. In my naivety, I was in bliss.

All my fears seem more consuming than ever now. My fear of loneliness, my fear of failure, my fear of being so afraid. I want to be brave,  and do things in the spur of the moment. I want to travel and start conversations with strangers. I don't want to be safe.

I've had 19 years of that.

I walk over to my bookshelf and pluck The Diary of Anne Frank from it. I've never read it. I think I will start. I find some solace in knowing she achieved her goal - to leave something that would remain after she died.

You did it Anne. You're exceptional. I wish I could've met you.

I'm sitting here in my bed like I do most nights and I'm thinking about things I usually try not to confront. I'm not listening to music. Lately I've been abusing that form of media - using it as a way  to avoid ever being alone with the thoughts that linger in my mind.

I think a lot of people find silence scary.
Is is because we're afraid of ourselves?
I wish I hadn't removed my blindfold.

business proposals in a hookah lounge

he was philosophical
the way any person is when they're high.

he wore black framed glasses
and talked too much;
which i kind of liked.
he said my name made me sound like a classy stripper.
i chose to take it as a compliment.

i didn't ask his age
though i wish i had.

he talked passionately about
aquatonics and molly.
he said he was starting up a business.

maybe i was flattered that he thought i was cute
or maybe he was generally interesting.
i'm not sure though.
all i can remember is the way the hookah tasted
as the music faded out.

Kissing Nerds

This is for the boys that don't get poems written about them.
The ones with bad acne and figurine collections.
Because one day you'll outgrow your acne
and a girl will find you charming instead of awkward.
And she'll want you to kiss her but you'll be too nervous.
But she'll be nervous too.

Favourite Person Ever

He said: "Of all the chat sites in all the internet, she walked into the one I happen to use."
He was drunk when they first spoke.
But she was too enthralled by the fact that he thought she had good taste in music to notice.
It had taken her years to train her ears to appreciate the sound of a bass solo
and learn to distinguish the no name bands worth knowing, from those that were not.

She had an appreciation for clavicles
and wrote too many poems about what love was, wasn't, and should be.
She liked to pretend that she hated cliches, yet her favorite movie was chalk full of them.

She said: "I dig you."
She dug so many things about him.
He had so much worth digging.
His love of the ocean and all things aquatic.
His green-grey eyes.
His general lack of amusement with things of the romantic sort.

He was too sincere to ever use lols
and fancied himself most competitive cooking shows.
And though he'd never driven a car, he had been para-sailing.

She said: "You're my person."
He said" "Make the world your person."
So they continued on in their mutual amusement,
exchanging selfies, sweaters and songs.
They spoke a unique language consisting of
puns
snark
lyrics
and innuendo.

5 A.M. Boys Part II

He was a boy with beautiful eyes
and an appreciation for colorful socks and generic tea.

A boy that played the drums and went to festivals.
The kind of festivals that left him longing for a proper shower
and his mother's pork belly stew.

He dyed his hair a fitting shade of black
And though he was underwhelmed by the idea of anything romantic
his use of smiley emoticons was enough to make up for it.

He taught me the importance of learning to appreciate cheap wine
and the power of using compliments sparingly.

He was the kind of boy that would be fun to spoon,
or so I assume
because I've never met him.

Venom and compliments.

Give me your
Approval.
I need
Validation.
I need a hug
The way
Daddy needs a drink.

I take in all
The sounds
Sights
Feelings
Tastes
Smells
And overdose like the sick boy
That forgot how to smile.
Maybe he was never shown how.

The cancer spreads to my throat
And chokes my words.
I spit up venom
And poison all my relationships.
Now I am alone.

Call my bluff
But don't tell me I'm pretty
Because I won't believe you.
I don't take compliments from strangers.

I wasn't expecting a wizard.

For a moment all I see is a broken little boy
that grew up without a dad.
I want to tell him it's not his fault.
I want to tell him
that dads are overrated.
We can share mine if you'd like.

But before I can slip behind the curtain
that keeps your true self hidden from the world
you put up caution tape
and say it's off limits.

As if I don't already know you're not the great and powerful Oz.
I don't care.
Because I'm not Dorthy.

          How do you mourn for someone who hasn’t died?

               For someone that’s alive and well,

            And worst of all – without you.

       How do you let go of something

   You swore to hold onto?

                When you build someone up in your mind

            It’s so hard to demolish what you’ve created.

       I’ll pretend I don’t know who you are

  The next time I see you around town.

            I’ll pretend I’m not jealous

        When I hear you’re with wife and child.

   I’ll pretend I don’t hope you’re a wreck without me.

And I’ll pretend I didn’t mourn

The Inflation of Love

I always wondered if love
is nothing more than holding onto what you've got
from fear that you won't find something better.
Just one big settlement.
Deal or no deal.

We carried on in our mutual settlement
weighing the pros and cons.
Trying to determine each other's worth.

When my pockets were empty
I decided it was time to make a return.
I could no longer afford all he had cost me.

Tainted Memories

I decipher your ever word
hoping to find some hidden message
entangled up inside;
That you miss me.

You were thinking of me.
That much I know.

I was thinking of you too
as I sifted through old photos
of us at your sister's wedding.
My favorite is the one of us kissing.

I'm scared I'll never forget you
but I'm more scared of being forgotten.

A Cynic's Idea of Love

Wednesday August 14, 2013 2:53 P.M.

                I think the reason I hate clichés so much is due to the fact that they have a way of distorting or perception of reality. They make us think our relationships aren’t romantic enough and that love is a feeling.

                Before I go any further let me just warn you that this is going to be my most cynical entry thus far. So cover your eyes if you want to stay in denial. I may only be 19 years old, but in my years here on planet earth I’ve learned a lot through personal experience, and vicariously through the experiences of friends and family both older and younger than me. You can learn a lot if you’re willing to listen to what people have to say – even if you think it doesn’t apply to you; chances are one day it will.

                I was like everyone else at one time. I thought love was an indescribable feeling. Butterflies, passion, happiness. I was sorely mistaken. Even if you’re not an avid church goer or Bible thumper, at some point you’ve heard the well-known love chapter of the Bible: 1^st Corinthians 13. If not, now would be a good time to go read it, even if just to refresh your memory.

                Of all the things 1^st  Corinthians 13 says love is – not one of them is a feeling. Not a single one. None of the traits listed happens on accident. In order to attain the characteristics, we must choose to actively pursue behaviors and attitudes that encourage patience, humility, selflessness, etc. This is because love is a decision. A choice. We don’t fall in love, it doesn’t “just happen”.

                For many of you this may be disheartening to hear, because you’re beginning to doubt everything you thought you knew to be true. You’re not so sure you love the person you so easily express the sentiment to. From the time we’re children we’re programmed with a false idea of what love is. Fairy tales tell us that love finds us, and when we’re older the same idea is reinforced by romantic comedies. No wonder we’re so passive about the whole concept of love. We’re passive because phrases like “fell in love” and “swept off my feet” are constantly being drilled into our skulls.

                Love is a choice. Plain and simple. We’ve over complicated it. “I can’t explain it, but I know it’s there.” I’m not being so cynical as to say love is not real. I am the world’s biggest hopeless romantic. But the truth of it is, I’m so sick of people saying things like “you just know” and “we didn’t expect to fall in love”. How can you claim to love someone if you can’t even explain what it is? When did love become so distorted? Chemistry and love are not synonymous.

                Some may argue that a mother loves their child before having even met them therefore my theory is invalid. I say bullshit. I don’t disagree that a mother can instantly fall in love with her child, but this is because she is deciding to. Nothing happens on accident. Love is no exception.This is not as romantic as you’d like I’d imagine. But think of it this way – if love is a feeling then just as effortlessly as someone fell in love with you they could fall in love with someone else. Feelings are fickle. So in a way the fact that love is a choice should be reassuring.

                I think back to when I asked him what love was. I didn’t even know what it was, but I was hoping he could tell me. We were passionately infatuated with each other. But I made the choice to love him the second go around. Things were grand for a while before they went sour, but still I loved him. I decided he was my person and that was that. But it’s like the saying goes: man makes plans, God laughs.

                It is not my wish to rain on your parade. I was lucky enough to have been taught some hard lessons at a young age. I’m thankful for the people that taught me. By no means am I claiming to have acquired any wisdom. All I can say is that I aspire to attain even a fraction of the wisdom had by the people that were so willing to share their experiences with me.

                It’s by no means my intention to crush anyone’s spirit. That’s not something I get pleasure from. I just thought I could share what has been shared with me. Many people may not take to heart some of the things I say due to my age. I’m too young to know what I’m talking about. I haven’t had enough experiences of my own. But I urge those older than me not to discount my opinion because of their pride. Not many of us are truly wise, but sometimes even a foolish person’s words can be meaningful to the next.

                However you choose to read what I’ve written – as advice or merely an explanation of my personal opinion – the next time the word “love” leaves your mouth, it will be more weighty on your tongue, and the taste it leaves behind will linger.

                

I don't like when you ignore me
like the rain that ignores my exceptional hair day.
Or the chill that ignores my goosebumps.

I don't like that you laugh at my jokes
for just a little bit longer than you should.
Like the one about the priest.
It wasn't that funny.

I don't like that  you didn't cry while watching the notebook.
Like the part at the end.
That was sad.

I don't like you.

If Happiness Had A Gender, It'd Be A Boy.

Monday August 5, 2013 11:40 P.M.

                Hey you.

                I’ve had some sort of breakthrough. Frankly, I’m disappointed in the type of book this is turning out to be. Anyone can write a book about depression and isolation. So what if I’m an underdog? People love a good underdog story, and they especially love it when the underdog makes a comeback. I’ve gotta give the people what they want.

                That’s not to say I won’t have sad days. But how unbearable would it be to read a pessimist’s’ diary? After a nice pep talk from mama E I’ve decided I need to make some changes. Mama E says positivity attracts positivity. She also gave me some good advice about being content with being alone and not relying on things and people to make me feel whole. I guess sometimes you just need someone to remind you of things you already know in order for it to truly sink in.

                It was a pretty average day. I worked the morning shift with Italy (who again reminded me why he’s nothing more than eye candy when he used the word ‘like’ over 1,000 times in a sentence). Then I deposited some checks, came home, snacked, made dinner, and watched a movie. The movie was about a writer. It left me feeling inspired. Writing truly is my passion, yet I’m too passive with it. I don’t cherish it like I should. In some weird way I know God has given me this one talent as a gift. I don’t yet know what he wants me to do with it, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out in time.

                It’s another one of those nights where I’m sitting amongst the crumpled sheets of my bed. I’m filled with childlike joy at having recently discovered the fact that the parking meter (bought from an auction) I was given as a quirky Christmas gift – is in working condition. I don’t know what possessed me to, but I found a nickel in spare change and dropped it the slot and turned the dial. I smiled so big I nearly split my face in two when I heard the soft ticking of the timer.

                If happiness had a gender it’d be a boy:

                Let me explain. It’s odd that we can find joy in the simplest of things. Things that we aren’t looking to get happiness out of. It’s as if the more we crave happiness the less attainable it is. Happiness is the disinterested, uncommitted boyfriend and I’m the overly attached girlfriend. Happiness thinks I’m too needy and I have to agree.

                In other news a customer that came in on Sunday afternoon complimented me on my nose ring; saying (and I quote) “I like your nose ring. It looks cute on you.” Laugh if you want, but I tucked that compliment in my swoon reserve for when I’m not feeling my best. A little compliment goes a long way.

                I think this job is helping me improve my confidence. I have to speak loudly, work quickly and efficiently all while being cute and cheerful. I think I do a pretty damn good job if I may say so myself. Self-esteem boost +3.

                

Ex Girlfriends Anonymous

Hello.
My name is Oshin.
I used to be somebody's girlfriend.
Now I am not.
But I am still Me I think.

"Hi Oshin."

5 A.M. Boys

He was the kind of boy that wore sweaters
and had a blog about music you've never heard of.

And he was cute
in a socially-acceptably-awkward kind of way.
The kind of way that was charming.

He had quick wit and clever quips.
And he stayed up until 5 A.M.

Single Girls Live in Fuzzy Red Cocoons

Sunday July 28, 2013 2:19 P.M.

                I was lying in bed all wrapped up in my favorite fuzzy red blanket remember fond memories of C and I. Sometimes as a lie within my red fuzzy cocoon of comfort I feel as if my bed is an extension of myself. It is hard to tell where I begin and it ends.

                It’s tiring being so painfully aware of how single I am. I don’t want to be this girl I’m becoming. The girl that doesn't exist unless she’s somebody’s girlfriend. I want to exist apart from someone. I want to exist individually. I don’t want to be so codependent. I hate how much I need people because I’m a terrible judge of character and the people I let get closest to me often hurt me the most. 

Kissing Queen

My life is boring. There is nothing particularly interesting about me. I have no special talents or abilities. Exciting things don’t happen to me. I live in Florida in a city you’ve probably never heard of.

                And this is my story.

                Let’s fast forward for the time being to my junior year of high school. Heck, let’s skip right to my first kiss. Underwhelming romantic, it took place in a soundproof piano room in the school’s independent music study area.  I ditched some school ceremony to rendezvous with him. We both sat on the wooden bench in silence. I was aching for him to kiss me, but he was playing hard to get.

                “I’m not going to kiss you unless you tell me you want me to.”

                “Why are you doing this? You know I want you to.”

                “But I want you to say it.”

                “I want you to kiss me.”

                And he did. It was awkward, but I didn’t realize at the time. I was too busy reveling in the moment. I’d made a bet with myself at the beginning of the year – that this year – my sixteenth pathetic year here on planet earth would be the one that I got my first kiss. I had succeeded. I was elated. 

People I know, That know me.

I know people
who have monsters in their head
instead of under the bed.

I know people that
spend their love
in order to buy time.

I know people
who use their daddy issues
as an excuse to hold on too tight.

Yeah, I know some people
and they're all a reflection
of me.

Dear Future Me

2:21 P.M. (Same Day)

                Dear Future Me,

                                I am writing you this letter in the event that in the near future you find yourself regretting your decision to break up with C. I got the idea from How I Met Your Mother so bear with me.

                He was a great guy but you needed to let him go so he could figure himself out and what he wants out of life. Likewise you needed to let him go so you could figure yourself out and what you wanted out of life. As much as you wanted to you couldn’t do this while you two were together and that’s no one’s fault.

                You’re both so young and need time to experience things that you wouldn’t have been able to otherwise. Everything happens for a reason and you must remember that when God says no to one thing it’s because he has something even better in store.

                It’s okay to remember the good times and even the bad if it helps you cope, but don’t regret. He was your first love and you were his. Revel in that and know that is something great. He was your first in so many ways and the thought of him having a second or third may hurt but a time will come when you’ll love again too. Don’t doubt God’s plan. Don’t doubt your decision. When you feel lonely just remember the words tattooed on your skin: “still growing into my wings, but one day I’ll fly.” Rest assured in that truth.

                You and C were the sun and the moon. It worked for a while but you were doing more damage than good by staying together. You had two different definitions of worthwhile experiences. You should never be with someone that makes you feel less than. You shouldn’t have to compete against the one you love. Love isn’t a competition. It’s sacrifice. It’s doing instead of just saying.

                Don’t be bitter or angry towards him. He loved you as much as he could at this point in time. Don’t put your life on pause for him, but you also shouldn’t rush into things out of spite. Don’t do anything stupid that could have a lasting impact because you think it will take your mind off the pain. It may work for a moment, but you can only outrun reality for so long.

                Maybe one day when you’ve both matured and lived a lifetime apart something magical will happen and it will be that much better because the time you spent apart. Maybe you’ll never see him again. Either way be happy that whatever happened was for the best. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and go do something productive.

P.S. You depending on how far into the future you decide to come back and read this, remember that you want to name your child Solace if it’s a girl and August if it’s a boy. Hell, just go ahead and have two kids. This is not to say you should rush into having kids. If ever you go through one of those phases where you think a baby will fix all your problems just watch the movie A Happy Event. You’ll thank me later. 

Treasure Hunt

                 After we both finished our meals and Asher had a second cup of coffee we paid for the meal – compliments of Gavin. We climbed back into his pick-up and he pulled onto the main road running through the city. We road in silence until –

                “Hey, you just passed our turn!” He turned to look at me and shot me his sideways smile.

                “Relax. I wanna take you somewhere. You trust me?”

                “I dunno if I should. The last time I trusted someone he betrayed that trust.” I trailed off and turned to look out the window as the streets flashed by. The first covers of night had begun to fall. We didn’t speak again until he pulled to a stop.

                “It should be close.”

                “What should be close?” Instead of answering he climbed out of the car. I followed him. I couldn’t tell where we were. Maybe some city park. We walked along a winding path for what seemed like five minutes and then he came to an abrupt stop. He strayed from the path, into what looked to be a small expanse of forest. I reached my arms out in front of me, not wanting to lose sight of him in the darkness and my fingers brushed against the back of his t-shirt. He stopped walking and held out his hand with a laugh. I took hold of it with only a slight reluctance.

                He began walking again, only slower this time to avoid tripping over the upturned tree roots. He jolted to a halt, letting go of my hand. I crossed my arms over my chest in a defensive stance as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He used it as a flashlight, shining it towards the ground.

                “There!” He said pointing.

                “What?” I asked, fearing his answer. He handed me his phone.

                “Shine it right here,” he instructed, guiding the beam of light. He kneeled on the forest floor and pushed aside some branches to reveal an army green storage box. He popped the latched and opened it.

                “What’s that?”

                “It’s a geo cache. It’s like a real live treasure hunt.” He dug through the box and found a small note pad and a pencil. “This is a list of all the other people that have found it before us. I’ll write our names down.”

                “How’d you know this was here?” I asked.

                “Well you can find coordinates online, but I made this cache a few years back.” He placed the pad and pencil back into the box. He dug around again and held up a hand woven bracelet made of hemp. He slipped it on his wrist and smiled. “One of the rules of geo caching is if you take something out, you have to put something in to re place it.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a lighter.

                “You smoke?” I asked. He tossed it into the box.

                “I used to. I just never stopped carrying around the lighter because I’d developed a nervous habit of flicking it on and off. It helped me cope with my anxiety.” He pulled out a piece of paper with a picture on it. He held it up to show me. It was a red, white and blue peace sign. “It’s a temporary tattoo,” he said, handing it to me.  I admired it for a moment before pushing it into my pocket.

                “I don’t have anything to put in,” I said.

                “Sure you do. There has to be something in that purse of yours you wouldn’t mind parting with.” I dug through my bag in the darkness until my hand brushed against a small bottle of body spray. I pulled it out and handed it to him.

                “That’ll do,” he said and tossed it into the box. He snapped it closed and was on his feet again in an instant. I handed him back his phone. He placed it back into his pocket and held out his hand to me again. I took it and we started walking back in the general direction of the car. 

Dream Me Into Existence

You like me more when you're asleep.
I seem prettier through your closed eyelids.
My voice is more sing-songier over your snores.
My touch feels electric.
I'm as real as you want me to be.
I exist as long as you're sleeping.

5:23 P.M. (Same Day)

                Work was painfully slow, but on the bright side my coworker was in fact very attractive. I kept waiting for him to bring up the fact that he had a girlfriend because it seemed too good to be true. The only unfortunate thing is that he didn’t invite me to grab a bite with him after work. He was handsome, he’s in a band, he’s Italian, he’s handsome. Let’s call cute coworker guy Italy.

                As we talked we came to realize we had quite a few mutual friends. He even knew a guy I’d crushed on my junior year. I tried my best not to make my enthrallment with him too obvious, butI’ve always been a terrible actress. A few times I looked in Italy’s direction and caught him looking back at me. Maybe I was just imaging it…but maybe I wasn’t.

                The sad thing about guys is that as a girl I tend to like the idea of a guy a lot more than the actual guy himself. I see an attractive male and think he will match up to my idealistic hopes of how a guy should be. For this reason I am frequently disappointed. This disappointment tends to start shortly after they open their mouth and begin to speak. The words that come out of a guys’ mouth largely reflect the kind of person he is. Certain things a person says can muck up how I perceive their physical appearance. I don’t care how good looking you are – the moment the word “epic” leaves your mouth you immediately drop ten points in attractiveness. 

Wednesday July 24, 2013 2:27 A.M.

                I miss having someone to hold and having someone to hold me. I miss tender kisses and the way it feels to share mutual affections with someone. I can’t seem to find a decent remedy for this, so here I am in the wee hours of the morning typing away on my keyboard, hoping to find some resolution to this dilemma.

                I can recall fond memories of days when C and I were going steady without much feeling now. Like there is a force field numbing my emotions. I’m not sure if I prefer numbness or pain. The obvious answer for most would be numbness, but pain can be pleasant when it’s reminding us of or mortality. I am alive, and pain is just a reminder of that. If I deny pain then aren’t I also denying the perks of my very existence?

                I’m not trying to go all philosophical on you, but I can’t help that my mind is churning with curiosity. Another thought that is occupying my mind is work. Tomorrow I work the morning shift with a co-worker I have yet to meet. My foolish hope is that he is attractive and finds me mutually appealing. Maybe then he’ll ask me to grab a bite with him after work and we’ll hit it off over a shared appetizer and lighthearted stories about years past.

                …But the cynical part of me can’t let me enjoy this fantasy because this part of me is quick to remind me that my fantasies are no more than overly hopefulness. I’ve learned the consequences that come with being overly hopeful and I don’t wish to re-experience these consequences sooner than necessary.

                I spent the last several hours over at J’s house. We caught up on our favorite TV series, smoked some hookah and talked about our dreams. I enjoyed myself, and for a brief time I forgot how lonely I am. But even in the presence of another I can’t seem to completely shake the feeling of isolation.

                I think I like writing because it’s another distraction from those feelings I try so hard to outrun. For a short while I have a purpose and I can feel as though someone is listening to me. Someone can hear me. But of course I’m just talking to myself really. That’s all this is. Me trying to comfort myself. And the thought of that saddens me more than I could have anticipated.

                My life is an indie drama that no one’s ever watched. It collects dust on the bottom of the shelf along with the other VHS tapes that are no longer of use to the video store… by this point I’m sure you’re beginning to grasp what kind of mood I’m in. Introspective. Deeper in thought than I’d care to be.

                As I now will myself not to cry I have the urge to walk down the hall, through the kitchen to my dad’s room and wake him up just so I can have him hold me for a few moments. So I can remember what it’s like to be comforted by someone other than myself. Someone that hardly has the choice to love me. Would he hold me? Let me cry briefly perhaps? Or would he turn me away before I plead my case? This could seem like a cruel response, but I too have been cruel so maybe it would be my karma.

                I know it’s hard for him to see me in a fritz. It makes him feel uncomfortable. Something he can’t fix. I just want him to be my dad for two minutes. Then I could shuffle back to my bedroom, slip into bed and drift in and out of sleep. I don’t know when my dad and I became so afraid of each other. Our relationship is now that of two roommates that don’t really care for the others company. It’s as if I woke up one day and realized I was homeless, yet ironically living in the home of my father. The separation we’ve built up between each other serves as an emotional wall so we can’t hurt each other. Those are two things we’ve both become experts on – hurting each other and building walls.

                It’s strange the way all these feelings well up inside me all of the sudden. I was able to keep them at bay all day, keeping busy at work. In fact I had a great day – even making a decent amount in tips. I keep torturing myself. This self-mutilation only seems to worsen. 

The Science of Falling

Love
Is an active choice.
Not
A passive fall.

The boy that froze.

He was always restless

and his foundations

never held. 

he didn't know how

to love himself 

the way she did.

So he remained wrapped

in the blanket of comfort

she provided 

until her fleece

was no longer warm enough

to keep the cold

from engulfing him. 

raining boys.

He wanted
to be a man
but he was nothing more
than a 19 year old boy
with buttons for eyes
and a claustrophobic soul.

Unloved at First Sight

I remember the precise moment I stopped loving him.
We had gone out to dinner.
I was just getting back from the lady's room.
He looked up at me and smiled.
His eyes, I noticed, were dead and lifeless.
Not even a dull glimmer of light remained. 
I blinked
thinking eyes would appear in the two gaping holes in his face.
They only grew deeper.
He looked at me quizzically.
Perhaps something in my expression had given me away.
I sat down beside him
avoiding looking at what had once been a pair of chlorine blue eyes.
It was as if something had changed in the time it took me to use the restroom. 
When I left everything was normal.
But when I came back he was no longer the man I loved. 
I denied it for a while,
dismissing it as a feeling that would pass just like indigestion. 
But it never did.
It only worsened.
An unexplainable bitterness began to build up inside me.
Today I looked through some old photos of us
and realized that I'd imagined those chlorine blue eyes of his
because he'd never had eyes of his own to begin with.
Funny howI was the one with the eyes and I was blind the whole time.
Maybe I should pluck my eyes out.

An Alcoholic's Affair

His touch was too eager.
Almost as if he was afraid
She would evaporate into thin air.
She wanted to.
But she laid there instead
as he murmured drunken slurs into her ear.
She could taste the bitter fluid on his tongue.
He never seemed to want her when he was sober anymore.
It made her feel utterly repulsive.
Was it her unsatisfactory performance
that had driven him to his alcoholism?
Or had her looks deteriorated so rapidly
that the thought of touching her was sickening?
Perhaps this is why his movements were always so rushed now.
He wanted to get it over with.
Maybe he no longer enjoyed it
but saw it as a right of passage he had worked so hard to earn
he felt obliged to indulge. 
Frankly, she no longer cared
to know the answer to these questions.
She felt his body convulsing on top of her -
a sign that he was close.
So she closed her eyes
and clenched her jaw.
"It'll be over soon" she thought.

Excerpt #2

                Mondays. Everybody hates Mondays. And with good reason. I woke up around noon and dragged myself to the bathroom to run the water for my bath. Pulling off my nightgown I staggered towards the bathroom mirror. It had already begun to fog up so I wiped away the steam with my hand. I yawned and stared at myself for a moment. I’m disgusted by the sickly looking girl that’s looking back at me. The mirror fogs back up again, and I welcome it --- not wanting to look at the ghost trapped inside the glass.

                I slip into the tub as the water is still running. The warmth of the steam emanating for the water hugs my body and pulls me deeper into its depths. I hug my knees to my chest, resting my head on my knee caps and watch the water level rise. I turn the handle that turns off the water once it is a good three fourths full.

                The water seems warmer today. My pores scream, silently begging for a break from the unbearable heat. I don’t listen. I sink down in the tub so that everything below my neck is engulfed in the flames of the water. The screams are drowned out with silence. A sigh of contentment eases its way from between my lips.

                I wish I’d opened a window. The room is humid and I find it difficult to breathe. My eyes close. Maybe I fell asleep for a moment or two. It’s hard for me to distinguish between sleep, and wakefulness these days. So let’s just say I fell asleep. It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes later when I opened my eyes again.

                My mind was still racing with thoughts of revenge for the betrayal I felt. I was sad, I was mad, I was everything in between. I waited for the numbness to settle in, but it never came. The ever present numbness I so often felt was gone without the slightest trace. Oh how I longed for numbness now.

Muse

October 3, 2012 10:49pm

                                                                              

It’s a sensual process.

Watching him paint.

But today I’m his subject, and there’s no talking. He likes it completely silent when he works. He talks about his paints like they’re a person, his brushes – a fine wine, and his canvas – a beautiful lady. He’s the kind of person that has a mind so complex that after a five minute conversation with him you’d just assume he’s dumb, or extremely high.

He says he can taste color. Sometimes I think I’m dating an eight year old. Then my eyes roll over his body, and I remember why I put up with it. When my eyes get to his waist he makes a hand gesture, signaling me to look at him. He wanted this painting to be profile. He’s very persistent about keeping eye contact. He says that the muse is as much the artist as the painter. They’re both part of the process. I open my mouth to say something, but he puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head. I scowl at him from behind wisps of my unruly curls. He smiles. He loves when I pout.

I’m wearing nothing but an oversized, tacky Bill Cosby sweater and a pair of his grey boxer-briefs. I’m sticky. I can feel the sweat dripping down my back. He’s been at it for an hour now. I’m uncomfortable, cranky, and tired. He says It’s sexy. He says I look better when I’m all grungy.

The cat curls up in my lap. He looks up from his canvas and frowns. He walks over to where I am on the couch and shoos the cat away. He walks back over to his canvas. It’s so large, he can nearly hide behind it. That’s saying quite a bit considering his large frame that stands as a whopping six feet and two inches.

Sometimes I think he enjoys painting more than he enjoys physical intimacy with me. When I see the way he looks at them – the paint, the brushes, the canvas – the way he speaks to them – the way he touches them. I envy them. What I wouldn’t give for him to caress me so gently. To whisper so sweetly. To love me so tenderly. My heart aches.

His fingers are on the canvas. He’s smearing the paint. He pushes his hair back from his brow and gets some blue across his forehead. There’s yellow on the bridge of his nose, and green on his left cheek. If I could taste color, I’m sure he’d taste divine.

He finally drops his brush against the easel, steps away, and smiles – admiring his work.  I stand and he waves me over. I look at it. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous even. But it’s not me. The girl in the picture is radiant. She’s flawless. She’s happy. She’s what he wished he saw when he looked at me.

We’re all just somebody’s muse I guess.

I wish I were the one behind the canvas, instead of the one on it. 

Laundry Mat

                 He looked out of place in a coin laundry mat. I can always tell when it's a person's first time. Call it a sixth sense. He set his basket down on top of a folding table and rubbed his chin, eyes searching...I know that look. Every newby gets that look. We meet eyes and his face brightens. Then he's striding towards me, eyes darting here and there. I'm shoving wet clothes into a dryer when he approaches me. I brush back my bangs and look up at my visitor.

                "Hey, I'm sorry to bother you, it's just - well I'm new to this whole thing."

                "I guessed as much. You don't really look like the typical coin laundryer."

                He laughs at this, pushing his hair back out of his face. "I forgot my soap."

                I grab my bottle and hand it to him. "Use mine."

                He accepts it with his left hand and reaches out his right. I think he wants to shake my hand. I place my right hand in his and he pumps our clasped hands up and down for a moment before retracting. His head tilts to the side. "You're a lefty aren't you?" I can feel my eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

                "How'd you know?"

                He shrugs, "I took a class on body language. I kinda guessed when I was watching you load your laundry, and confirmed it with that handshake."

                "Hmm, very observant of you."

                "I used to be a lefty. Trained myself to be a righty though. Just more convenient."

                "Lefties have more fun."

                "Is that so?"

                "It is."

                "I'll have to test that theory some time. Thanks for the soap," and then he sauntered back over to attend to his laundry.

                I felt anxious. I'd say half an hour had passed. He was reading the paper. I didn't think anyone read the paper anymore. Other than stock brokers...and he was far too attractive to be a stock broker. Maybe he was the intellectual type. He looks up to turn pages and I forget to avert my eyes. He smiles and waves. I give a half grin. He goes back to reading. I go back to reading him. So far I had gathered the following: he was tall - probably 6, 1", perfectly groomed teeth, coffee drinker (I could smell it on his breath), and a hunch told me he had a tattoo. I racked my brain, trying to think of a reason to go up and talk to him without seeming creepy. Nothing comes to mind. Just then I hear the crinkling of paper. I look up to see him folding up the newspaper and placing it in the seat beside him, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head.

                I grab a pack of gum from my purse and shove a stick in my mouth. I think chewing will take away my anxiousness, but I quickly realize it doesn't. He stands, stretches, and rubs his hair. Then he walks over to the vending machine; leaning his tall frame against it. I watch intently. B7. Twizlers. Pulling open the wrapper, he rips one off and takes a bite. I reach for another stick of gum. When I look back at him, he's looking straight at me. I sit still. Unsure what to do. he grins again. Why does he keep doing that!? He stands up again, finishing his Twizler and grabbing another, and my bottle of laundry soap.

                "I believe this belongs to you," he says once he's made his way across the laundry mat, to the corner I've tried to tuck myself away in.

                I stand and take it, placing it beside my empty laundry baskets.  "Thanks."

                He nods and takes another bite of his Twizler. "Do you like Twizlers?" he asks, pointing it towards me.

                "Yeah, it's my favorite candy actually."

                "Is it now?" he says, eyebrows raised.

                "Yep."

                "In that case..." he places his hand, palm-side up, in front of my mouth.

                "You want me to spit my gum out?"

                He just nods. My mouth involuntarily forfeits my minty gum. He then places the Twizler to my mouth. I take a bite. There's that grin again. He pops my gum in his mouth, hands me the rest of the Twizler, turns, and walks back towards his chair. I sit back down and finish the candy, hardly tasting it. We're having a staring contest. I can't tell who's winning. Maybe there's no loser in this game. He's chewing my gum, his jaw moving rhythmically. His right arm lying limply over the seat beside him, his right ankle resting on his left knee, his left hand is tracing the patch of five O' clock shadow on his chin. My eyes wander slightly upwards to his lips. They look soft and chewy, like two marshmallows I wanna slurp into my mouth and devour. His eyes are oddly dull for the brightness that seems to radiate from his entire being. On his head lies a mane of thick brown hair. It looks nicely groomed, styled suitably, slicked back with a few loose strands that dangle down in front of his face. He's dressed in a way that says "I care about the way I look, but I don't care enough to spend more than fifteen minutes getting ready in the morning". Today that entails a pair of jeans, and a snugly fitting white T. The fabric strains over his chest...I'm tempted to grab another piece of gum.

                He puts his wet clothes in the dryers. I pull my dry clothes out of the dryers and begin to fold them. He's watching me. I'm not looking at him; but I can feel it. He wants me to look up. He wants me to look at him. I can't muster up the courage, so I just keep my eyes down, admiring my now clean clothes. I hear footsteps approaching. He's standing beside me. I recognize the worn converse. I finally manage to look up at him. He's not chewing anymore. Must've spit out the gum. He's standing very close. I can smell him. He smells like cinnamon and cherry Twizlers. He bends down so we're nearly eye to eye. I smell the sweet on his breath when he finally speaks:

                "We were dying since the day we were born. How long does it take to die?"

                "A million years, and be there much sorrow for we only have but a short span to live."

                "So live, and live well. For sleep soon becomes eternal. Lasting."

                I'm amazed. "How did you- "

                He grabs the book half hanging out of my purse. "I glimpsed it when I first came over. I love Lockwood. He's my favorite poet."

                "I couldn't agree more. He's a rare gem. A true poet among imposters."

                So I was right. He's an intellectual. He leans in a bit closer and whispers, "That thine kiss were like that of an ember, dangerous and smoldering."

                "My lips do kiss to douse the flame that awakens a burning that cannot be numbed."

                His hand traces up my neck, to the nape, entangling his fingers in the waves of my hair. His fingers form a fist around the hair, and he uses it as leverage to pull my face closer to his. Our lips make a few brief encounters, brushing against each other as he speaks.

                "And oh, my maiden, rosy cheeked and fair, arousest thy not what thou' art not trained for."

                He spoke the last few words into my mouth as he kissed me. My lips parted eagerly to taste his. His mouth tasted fruity and minty. His lips were soft, and his kiss was firm. His hands groped my back. We were in a slight backbend over one of the folding tables. When we finally broke away, we stumbled a few feet apart, trying to balance our footing and steady our breathing. His hair was a bit disheveled. He pushed it back nonchalantly as I smoothed the non-existent wrinkles in blouse. Looking around, I noticed we'd acquired an audience. I counted four women, a few scattered children, and an older looking fellow who looked a whole lot like Bill Cosby.

                We smiled at each other, trying to contain our laughter. "Can I tell you something?" I asked.

                "Go ahead," he replied warily.

                "I lied. I hate liquorish."

                He smiled again. "Do you think if I took you to dinner later I could get your name, maybe even your number if I'm well behaved?"

                "There's Starburst over there in that vending machine. Those are my real favorite. I'm in a good mood - if you bring me some, I just might tell you my name. No promises though. I'll be sitting over there," I said pointing at my chair a few feet away. I walk to my chair and sit down, watching him lumber over to the vending machine with that grin on his face.

Jenny

I guess I’m a liar.

I told them I would meet them at the fair at seven.

I told them I was on my way at eight.

But I was lying in his arms.

I laid there in between the sweaty sheets twirling the purity ring around on my finger. He was asleep in a few minutes. I rolled over on my side, clutching the sheets to my chest and let the tears fall soundlessly to my pillow. I was lying in bed with a thief. He’d taken my virtue. I could report it stolen, but who would return it?

I drew my legs to my chest, pulling myself into a ball. The tremors rolled through my body like thunder. Holding in the gasps that shrieked inside my chest caused a burning like sensation at the base of my throat.

In anger, I tossed back the sheets and sat up; letting my legs dangle over the side of the bed and onto the shag carpeted floor. I wiggled my toes as my legs swung back and forth. Instinctively my hands caressed my stomach. The tears returned once more, streaking down my face and dripping onto my bare thighs.

I looked down at the silver band on my ring finger. The silver band with the words: true love waits inscribed in loopy cursive. I pushed the finger into my mouth, wetting it with my tongue. I pulled it out and twisted it loose, sliding it off of my finger. I turned back towards him and threw into onto the bed as I stood.

Standing there before the full length mirror pulling my hair back into a pony tail I realized that the girl the mirror reflected had a face different from my own. She looked sad and bitter – two things I was in short supply of.

Then I smiled at her and she smiled back at me.

There I am.