An Unfortunate Silence

My feet gather dust and specs of repressed stress and dread that have been left behind, but never fully forgotten. Sludge mixed from dissatisfaction and abandoned dreams decorates my shoes as I make my way along the incline.

Everything shines and sparkles red above me, as the sun painfully glitters over the expensive rooftops and into my eyes, searing my cheeks and extracting my worth. I can’t shake the image of a blinding blood-red light, swirling around atop an  ambulance. The assaulting spotlight spins away, like that of a light-house, before smacking me straight in the eye and straight in the chest again. And oh, it never fails.

There are no longer any shoes on my feet, even dusty or tarnished ones, for they have taken those from me. Not out of greed, but by nature. Sometimes I think they may not even realize they’ve taken anything, or maybe they convince themselves of anything opposing that preposterous idea. They’ve become accustomed to stripping me of my dignity and my free thought, and so it is a daily an uneventful process now. For me, though, it is always as devastating as the very first time in which I was told that no one would care for me, and the things I have to say were barely worthy of being called thoughts. Titles and names and misnomers and blame.

I’ve been told time and time again that words are just words, but I will never succumb to that kind of misanthropic belief, no matter how much I distrust anyone but myself.

I’ve been told time and time again that words are so much more than words, that they will move mountains and change tides, and even more, change minds. This belief I want very much to succumb to. To wade underneath the weepy waters of my contentment and believe that one day I will find the words I need and I will learn to craft them in such a way that I may even change mountains and move tides, and at least get someone out there to think.

This belief may be all I have to hold my fragments together while the shiners of the overwhelming and painful red light speak. Wrapping a decrepit hand around my throat, the filed nails at the end of bony gray fingers trace my pulse ceaselessly. It feels as if there is something much thicker than saliva lining my throat, as leaning my chin away from the anxious fingers forces me to stick my nose in the air. Words are woven yet again into sentences, and the dark words overpower both the amount of oxygen in the room, and me as I feel them snake around my neck. They strive to cover every inch of my throat that is not already repressed by a decrepit finger or nail.

My breathing is jagged, less from pressure, and more from the nerves associated with the possibility of pressure. It is for my own good, the owner of this hand tells me. It is for my future. It is for the children I will not have, and it is for the religion I do not practice.

Grime and soot gather in the ventricles of my heart, and any semblance of a coherent language has vanished. I have dyslexia of the brain, and my thoughts have become alphabet soup. Luckily the grime has confined itself to the single and all-important organ that is said to regulate me. Though I never feel regulated. Never regular. It is burdensome to have compassion clouded and blackened, to have hope concealed by hatred, but it is so much safer to keep my despondency there, in a guarded piece of me. At least it has not peeled itself away from the walls of my heart, at least it has not been pumped through my viens and spread, vessel by vessel, vein by vein, organ by organ. At least it refuses to metastisize. At least it has not been shared.

At least there can still be those in the world who have hearts free of soot, pupils liberated from blinding assault, and throats free of constricting hands. There are those who can love openly, see clearly, and breathe freely, and for that, I can and I shall endure a blackened body, a stifling assault, a racing conscious, and an unfortunate silence.


2012

Back to Bed

I’ll scream

And I’ll scream

But no one is

Coming,

Trudge to me

Through the snow,

But keep the car

Running,

I’ll do what I please

In the heat of the night,

Don’t be scared in waking hours

Of what you may find

After the chill of the morning

Has swept down the street

Take this as a warning,

The feeling won’t keep,

I hope you won’t mind

If I soak through my sorrows,

I’ll slip out of your bed

Bright and early tomorrow,

Don’t be surprised

When you wake up alone,

You don’t need to

Be scared

There's no need

To phone.

Everything is alright,

It’s the way things must be,

I will trudge to the car

While you are asleep,

If I keep running north

The snow will keep,

You’ll forget my perfume,

Put it out of your head,

I was all just a dream,

Please,

Go back to bed.


2012

Me Right Side In

I wonder if there’s anyone

Like the girl I want to be

Who wonders what it’s like

To live her life like me

I bet her

Hands are warmer

I bet her

Intentions are true

But she will

Never love

The universe
In any precise similarities

She will never know it

In quite the same way,
That way I do.

She can travel

The world

And follow

In your wake

But she will always

She will always

Be your

Unresolved mistake

She flips her eyes

Like they’re mine

Wears my freckles

With pride,
Like they're really
Anything to look at
Like she's knows
Better ways in which
My features must catch light.

But do her words

Reach your heart?

Is she still me inside?

And when you look

Into her eyes

At night

Do they shine

The way mine did

For you

Underneath

Unrealistic reveries?

Underneath

The lamplight?

Are they even near

As bright?
When she speaks of
Places I find my passion,

Anywhere near

As bright?

She can’t reach you

And she knows, but

Can those lips

Of mine

Mask her spite?

I wonder if there's anyone

Like the girl you'd like to be

Who looks across the table

And finds a girl like me.

I’ve searched

And I thought

Maybe there were

Maybe there were

A few

But none were as good

None were as you as you.

So maybe there’s a me

Smarter, sweeter, stronger

But she will never

She will never

Understand why
Her "better than" me's
Aren't better.
Aren't me.



2011

My Selfish Deposit Box

Do not pity me.

For I am selfish

Somewhere.

I am self-assured,

In a nook

Of myself

That remains

Perpetually foreign

To all but myself.

It may be hidden

In the shallow basin

Of a collarbone,

Or the spaces

Between my fingers.

But it’s doubtful,

For they’ve been

Searched.

And no one has

Found me yet.

I am selfish

Within.

In this crevice

Somewhere

Inside of me,

I know myself

Quite well.

It may conceal itself

In the crook

Of my elbow.

Or the back

Of my knees

But it will always be

It thrives

Somewhere

In this space

Where the

Secrets weave

gracefully

among their desolate

beating brothers.

Through one another

Through one another

That’s where

My knowledge lies.

It may be lost,

Drowning in a sea

Of strands,

Swimming through

The waves

Of my hair.

That’s where

My selfish tendencies

Thrive.

I care for her

I care for him

I care for you

But I care for me more

In this ugly

Unknown

Space.

And here I am not sorry.

Here I mend myself.

And this is why

I’m not looking for

Apologies

Because for you

the place

May not be hidden

Secret, or dark.

Still,

There you mend yourself.

And there,

You shall never be sorry.



2012

How To: Dreams.

Tell me.
Where does a dream
come from?

Does it sprout
from the tendrils
of hope
that wind through
a heart?

Does it weave
it's way
along brainwaves
and encompass
the mind?

A dream is.
Correct?
Abstract, but
Oh so tangible.

A dream is
a wish your heart makes?
a fervent hope?
It comes from deep within,
or so I've been told.

The silvery
shining lining
on every hopeful cloud.

Tell me when.
When is it alright?
Is dreaming
child's play?
I suppose it's uncool now?
Then I guess
I'm an incorrigible loser.

How to follow a dream?
Do tell.
To chase?
To hope?
To hunt?

A wish.
Wish, dear.
Wish, darling.
For your dreams
May be all
That are true.

Who decides
the perameters
of my potential?

Tell me.
Tell me what you know.

What do you know about hope?
Tell me
There's something else for me.

Yes, I believe.
Do tell.


2010

Riddle

I am enigmatic,
A saying,
A question,
A picture,

I am 1,000 words.
I’m fake Asian food,
I am midnight.

A bag of glitter confetti,
A bowling coupon.
I’m a red chair cushion,
And the shoes on your feet.
Today,

You are easily read,
A book,
An answer,
An image,

You are 1 word,
You are noon,
You’re rice,

A box of computer paper,
A grocery bag,
You’re a white pillow,
And the socks on my feet,
Every day


2010

My Name

In English my name means…..you know what, scratch that. I don’t know what my name really means, and why should I? I mean, there are a lot of people who need to know everything right then and there, and I’m not that kind of person. If I had to take a guess, it might seem to me like a sort of yellow color, maybe a pale blue. My name is morning and I am night, it’s simply not fit for me. My name is not the real me, I am secretive, dark, and deep, much light the cytoplasm of the universe, the darkness that lies between the stars. My name on the other hand, is the bright blue sky and the yellow sunrise, which fit me when I was about five, but I think that I’m just about ready for a change.
It is also my second cousins name too; I can only assume that I was named after her. I always wondered if she was more like the sun or the moon, the morning or the night, midnight or noon. Although she is still alive I have yet to meet her, so I wonder.
There is only one place I will ever go by the name Ellen, and that would be Cotillion. At school my name is Ellie, and I’m not saying I like it, but prefer it over the hard stone sound from my N in Ellen. Ellie is much softer. When someone calls me Ellen I feel either too young or too old, never where I am.
Everyone always says that the name Ellie fits me. I'm not sure why, but I hate that.  When someone tells me that the name Ellie fits me, it makes me think that they do not know the real me at all. They know the School me, the real me does not think that way, use the same vocabulary, or even act the same way. That is why I chose writing, communicating without talking, connecting without sharing... it seems the practice was made for me. I hate public speaking, and I hate fitting in like a cookie cutter. If I were a coloring book and my name were the colors, the crayons markings wouldn’t be even a tiny bit outside the lines. I need something to help me escape my cookie cutter life, something to make me seem more unpredictable, as I hide behind a hesitant conscience.
I would like to baptize myself under a new name, a name that’s less typical of me. I need a name that no one else has... like…Beyonce. I’m not exactly saying I want to be Beyonce, but think about it. How many Beyonces do you know? ONE! I need a name like that. I need a name that, when it's spoken, everyone always knows exactly who they’re talking about. Maybe I would change my name to……… well that’s just it, I don’t know what my name should be, because I thought more and more and finally I realized that which ever name I would choose, I’m going to want to change it later. Although something like Kira or even Beyonce would be nice, soon enough I will want to change it again. So for now I guess I’m coloring inside the lines.


2008