February 19, 2018
Can you feel it through the city smog?
Of course you can!
This is all vibration
And nothing against the city
But the smog could not kill these thoughts
And the thoughts come in waves that
Emanate toward your heart
And I am all flailing limbs when I speak with intentions to love you,
And clammy hands
And you are all
gentle stroking of my hair
And loving touches of my spine
And I crave to rip into the muses of your brain
The way a werewolf would rip into your heart
But I am no werewolf
And you are no prey
And together we are two people
Sharing bits of soul and purpose
And it hurts so much to love you so hard
I’m waiting for the moment you say you’re sorry, months from now, when I’ve finally had the energy to transform into someone new and someone better.
Waiting for that moment so I can laugh and brag about how lovely my life has become without a parasite always attached to my core.
So I can tell you how much I’ve grown to love myself without you.
The way I see it, there’s a puzzled look on your face right after I finish the “Fuck you.” With a period instead of rambling forward with a list of reasons why.
And I’ll smile while I sip my iced mocha in the September breeze and watch you walk away.
It’s been months since I’ve heard from you, and I won’t allow myself to even pretend to care… you obviously couldn’t pretend long enough to send me even a heartfelt
“I care about you, but I’m fearful of what’s to come so I’ll act like you don’t exist until you write an angry poem about me, and then I’ll come running back and tell you I won’t do it again. And then I will, because I’m an incredibly immature asshole.”
I promised I’d always be honest with you and I’m damn-right going to hold myself to it.
I mean it when I say I wish you well.
You’ve taught me to love myself enough to let go of people who treat me like the one they want to talk to only when they’ve run out of better options.
Yes, I get that you’re doing the best you can with what you know right now.
I told you it doesn’t make you a bad person, which is true, but the part I left out is the part I hope you learn from.
I hope you learn from your emotions.
I hope you learn not to treat others like they don’t matter just because you’re hurting.
And I also hope you read this not-so-poetic-angry-poem.
The seasons are changing, and I’m changing with them.
Love always, Rach.
5/28/16 (Old, but revised.)
My father told me the story of his youth
And how he’s grown old and his father has died
And how he wishes he could remember all of the moments from his “golden years”
“Those were the days, man.” He said.
And I looked up at him, teary-eyed
And thought about how sad everything feels now; even if I can find joy in certain, perfectly lit, almost too-good-to-be-real moments.
Like a photograph.
And if I’ll remember these days as my “golden years.”
And what happens if I don’t¬¬—
If everything I remember is gray and still, like a poorly lit room during a storm that’s lasted days after days after days.
And then we sit there laughing our guts out,
Like everything is okay when it’s not.
And I turn away and my thoughts wander to the same old soundtrack.
The one of monachopsis.
The one that sings about how difficult life is when you can’t pretend you’ve found the meaning in it, or hold it together just one more day.
The symphony’s sweetest sound is when lyrics are tied together in just the right knot.
Round and round and round and round and round.
I’m on the tilt-a-whirl at the fair.
It’s a still summer night.
I throw my head back
I picture this image as I sit,
Waiting for you to call.
And the phone doesn’t ring
And doesn’t ring
And doesn’t ring.
I make my way out of bed
Not even fumbling for the light switch.
It’s late evening, and my palms are sweaty.
My head spins like I’ve been on a rollercoaster.
I look in the mirror
And see skin white as a sheet,
I fumble back to bed.
The phone still doesn’t ring.
14 minutes later,
a text: sorry, I’ve been out all day.
“Hey!! It’s okay haha, I’m sure you were busy. How was your day?”
A revolution doesn’t always mean weapons and protests and war.
A revolution can mean love.
Love: an intense feeling of deep affection.
It can mean peace.
Peace: freedom from or the cessation of war or violence.
It can mean harmony.
Harmony: agreement or concord.
A revolution is not always “a forcible overthrow of a government or social order in favor of a new system.”
Revolution: an instance of revolving.
Compassion is the new war.
What would happen if we loved all our neighbors like the bible told us to?
What if we started looking at the bible as just a book, and started listening to the messages God gives us in our everyday lessons?
What would God tell you? What kind of advice would he give?
Imagine words coming out of our mouths like perfectly harmonized symphonies.
True inner peace comes from loving yourself—not forcing others to love you.
What would the world look like if we started empathizing?
If we started forgiving ourselves for our “sins?”
Jesus isn’t the “answer.”
We are the revolution.
I hold onto the edges of the rainbow
the color in between the blue and green
because that’s the color of your eyes.
I grasp the rain drops within my fists
And put them inside my pockets
With my spare change and crumpled up
I take a mental picture of the
And how it lights up the
In your dark hair
I pinch together the thoughts
And I find it
To let go of
the rapid beating
of my heart
Won’t shut off
Even when I am
the light-switch on my
The golden hue of
And the colors
Of the sky
And my goddamn
Wet gum wrappers
Fit the mood
The swift movement
Of your long,
Has filling my lungs with air always been this hard?
Asthma exacerbated with the odor of stale cigarettes hanging heavy in the heat.
I feel like I’m going to puke up my lunch.
Whether it’s because of what you said, or the smell, I’m not sure.
But I’m most definitely going to puke up my lunch.
I say this with a chuckle because it’s supposed to be a joke, but I actually mean it.
There’s always been this romance about chain smoking outside of a coffee shop or some shit, but I just can’t stop thinking about the carcinogens and yellow teeth and foul breath when you kiss me.
In through the nose, out through the mouth is what my therapist told me.
But again, the dingy smell that clings to your clothes when you hold me makes that harder than it should be.
My lungs are squeezed hard by fists clenched too tight.
I’m kicking myself in the shin as I remember “In for five, hold for five, out for five.”
And I’m actually hoping you suffocate on your last puff of nicotine, while I choke from laughing too violently at the morbid irony of it all.
And then we both drop dead on the scorching pavement.
Happily ever after.
Like a fairytale gone sour.
I hope you burn in hell like the butt of your goddamn cancer stick on my forearm.
I love mornings. And feeling silly just after waking up.
I love feeling protected by the love that surrounds me.
I love feeling the lightness in my chest and the weight in my head late at night when I’m talking to my best friend.
I love the cold, and how it reminds me of certain moments when I didn’t care about my purple fingertips or burning eyes.
I love the feeling of bliss when I’ve run out to the beach at 11 pm in my underwear.
I love laughing so hard my stomach hurts.
I love my favorite songs, and how certain lyrics just meld together and make so much sense.
I love balloons and watching them float away.
I love sparklers on holidays.
I love night-swimming.
I love the smell of you and how it lingers.
I love the words, “You’re so dumb”, said with a smirk.
I love giddy laughter and sad laughter and nervous laughter and sleepy laughter.
I love hearing voices get higher when they speak about something they love.
I love eyes that smile.
I love color, and how I know it’s a blessing when I see my favorite ones set the sky ablaze.
I love the night sky, and how gazing at the stars make me feel miniscule.
I love observing people’s quirks, and watching them fiddle with their hands during conversation.
I love the fire in my cheeks when someone compliments me, catching me off guard.
I love myself, and I’d be okay falling dead right this second if it means I’ve lived a life worth living.