A love letter, but not really.

9/1/16

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.

Monachopsis: the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place

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.

No reply

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
Giggling.

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,
Eyes bloodshot,
Lips cracked.

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?”

Delivered.

Read.

No reply.

Does His Love Make Your Head Spin?

6/7/16

High tide in my eyes.

This hurts too much
And I love you so.

High tide in my eyes.

I spent all of your birthday
Wondering what happened
And why.

Don’t let me go.

High tide in my eyes.

Running
And sprinting
And hunched shoulders
And choking
And gagging
And shallow breaths with splintered ribs.

High tide in my eyes.

And you wouldn’t realize a thing.
While my head is spinning, spinning, spinning.

Eyes heavy with the ocean at high tide.

Breathing Exercises

5/27/16

Hitched breathing.

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.

Amethyst and Flowers on the Table

An image: A morose girl sits and waits for her lover.

An image: The lover walks over to the girl, with a bent posture; looking at the floor.

An image: the girl glances with wide eyes, almost toward the ceiling; longingly.

An image: the girl’s thoughts wander to the lilacs they always had on their kitchen table in their first apartment together; she thinks about the way they dried out and died but still looked beautiful, even as the water dried out of the vase.

An image: His thoughts wander to the girl and why she was always killing those damn flowers, even though the fragrance always choked him.

An image: Purple. Her favorite color and the color of all her favorite flowers.

An image: Her lips, frozen in the winter. Purple.

An image: Amethyst that she always kept on the table, broken from a geode. Purple.

An image: the red wine that stained her favorite white shirt from laughing so hard she spewed it all over the table. Purple. She misses laughing so hard her shoulders shake and she doubles over, falling to the floor in drunken joy.

Images, images, images. Purple.

Lilacs, amethyst geodes, those blue and red popsicles kids suck on in the Summer. Purple.

Her favorite color. His favorite sweatshirt. Purple.

The colors of her favorite Spring sunset. Purple.

Lilacs, lavender, lust. Purple.

Amethyst and flowers. Purple.

Her last love letter signed with a heart.

Purple.

Death With Dignity– lyrics by Sufjan Stevens

Nostalgia

Nostalgia. What a funny word. Nostalgia: a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations. I think it’s funny because I can feel nostalgic for a moment that isn’t yet in the past. Nor does it have to be a happy association. I can feel nostalgia for the people who’ve hurt me so bad I feel like I’m running through mud after them. I can feel nostalgia for June 2nd, 2014: The (no longer since) happiest day of my life. I can even feel nostalgia for all of last May — when things were starting to look up, but was still the lowest I’ve ever felt. I can feel nostalgia for the time when I couldn’t feel anything at all. I can feel nostalgia when I’m on the beach after all this, running in my underwear out to the ocean and hoping it can hear my laughter and see me smile. All of these moments are indescribable. A fleeting second in my life, yes, but the memories will live on. Nostalgia is a word in which you feel sad for feeling happy. And I’m not sure whether that’s painful or beautiful or depressing. Maybe all of the above.

LOUD

2/16/16

My whole life is dedicated to being loud. Being desperate. Being boisterous and discombobulated. Laughing obnoxiously just makes the joy more real. My laughter can speak for me. Believe me, you’ll know when my smile is real. It’ll blind you like the sun. It will sparkle like snow lying on the pavement beneath the moon. My wide grin and starry eyes can melt the hearts of many. And sounding conceited is not something I’m afraid of because speaking up intrigues people. I will yell from rooftops and scream from the sky with words like “I love you”. Beauty isn’t always soft with pale skin and pink roses. Sometimes those roses smell harsh and have thorns that will cut up your palms. And sometimes yelling out in pain feels a lot better than laughing so loud your stomach hurts. That’s just realistic. And so am I.