Nostalgia is a filthy liar that depicts sweet moments as more than just that.
A long pause and
A deep breath and
The Earth is silent.
More silent than I’ve ever not heard.
Not even the sound of footsteps
No ears ringing or
Children yelling or
Cars murmuring or
Tires squealing or
Blood rushing through
Frozen fingers and
Frigid cheeks and
From the ice-cold.
The best kind of numb.
The numb that eliminates
Single words that
Mean not only something but
“You are alive and well, and that’s enough.”
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.
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
Don’t let me go.
High tide in my eyes.
And hunched shoulders
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.
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.