A Thousand Faces and One

I'm a good guesser.

I guess what people are feeling and what they mean and I'm always right.

Except, I don't ever say anything.

You wouldn't know it, but I'm a good guesser.

I knew that when you were angry and wouldn't let people do what they wanted, it wasn't just because you'd had a bad day.  You'd had a bad several years.

I knew that when you left for the not last time, you weren't weak.  You were craving and you still are.

I knew that when he asked you a normal question and you said you wouldn't answer, you were remembering every feeling you'd ever had at one moment and the force was enough to take you out of this world.

I knew that when you got upset, it wasn't a random heart string because you knew exactly which one was pulled.

Just as I know that the strings being tugged in my own heart have stretched and collapsed so many times, I stopped keeping count.

My heart is tired and I am tired and I am a good guesser, but you wouldn't know it.

Because I see the way you hide your face, thinking that no one actually knows.  

I see the way you cry, not for forgiveness, but for your own stupidity.  

I see the way you look at him and feel disgusted and not just by the scars he holds.

I see the way you roll your eyes, like, superficial, but it's actually seven fathoms deep.

Because I have known these things and maybe not at your longevity, but enough to taste the bitter that comes with it and enough to know that I'm a good guesser.

Pins and Needles

A slice through the thick of your skin
cannot stop the rain from taking all of the air.
Just as lying in the bed you made
cannot warm up your 0 degree body.

And I'm pretty sure there's a mouse living in my closet.
I hear him and sometimes feel him
and I just wish he'd disappear
because I can't stand the sounds of something living.

No, the signs of life in my bedroom once again
only makes it harder to think
and worse for the imagination
and hard on the lungs.

What I really want is to lie here
and hold onto myself
in the silence,
alone.

Because although I don't need you
to keep my heart pumping,
I want you to be the one to
make it work once again.

Darling, We've Hit Rock Bottom

"She is deceased."

I never believed in the voice overs when a sentence said would plague a character over and over again.
But these three words said by Officer Shidome were so effortless, I can't help but keep hearing them.  I hear them all the time.  I don't even remember what her voice sounds like, but these three words have piled up in my brain and I see it in block letters and I get this strange feeling in my stomach and chest and throat.

And maybe at this point, you're all worried that I lost my mom or a sister or whatever.   But my mom is upstairs on the computer right now, and I've never had a sister.

No, I'm talking about my freaking dog.  And if you're laughing at this point, you're a heartless, soulless bitch (or bastard, whichever you prefer).

I mean, you probably think it's freaking ridiculous that I've cried everyday for the past week over my dog's death.  You're probably thinking, 'It's not like it's a human.  It'd be bad if it was a human.  I could understand if it was a human.'

But you will never get it, unless you have or have had one of these selfish bitches (pun intended) yourself.
Like, get this:  These little monsters freaking love you unconditionally.  We use that phrase so much, I think it's lost every meaning.  So just think about it.  Unconditionally.  Like, you could throw them off the Empire State building and they would still love you.  And then you just have to love them back.  There's no way out, I swear.

Okay, so then you teach them how to do things like sit and roll over and play dead (but if you're me, you teach the latter by using the phrase 'avada kedavra').  Except, they're so freaking smart that they pick up different phrases you don't even teach them.  Like 'Say you're sorry.' or 'Go lay on your bed.'

And then they die in the stupidest way possible.  Like, in my case, they get hit by a car.  Seriously?  You didn't understand that the speeding, metal piece of shit could kill you?  It's a billion times your size.
(But not really because you weigh 50 pounds.)

And I'm in such a horrible place right now because I also loved my dog unconditionally.  I just kind of pretend it didn't happen so that I don't feel it.  Except, I find myself waiting for her to meet me at the door or watch me from the backyard or run down to my room at bedtime and escape under my bed.  So then it just hurts that much more.

See, she's messed me up so badly that I didn't cry when I read The Fault in our Stars.  It's a freaking book about kids with cancer that fall in love with each other and I didn't cry.  I couldn't freaking cry because I wasted all my emotion on this dumb animal.  I've shut out most feelings and it's bad and she's just a dog, but this is more than I can handle.

I'm just afraid that this was supposed to prepare me for something greater because I've never experienced what everyone considers real loss.

I'm sorry to those of you who have experienced real loss.  Because that must be infinitely worse than this.

Because if this isn't what everyone considers real loss, I don't want to find out what real loss is.

Memoir of the Imminent

This is who I am.


And when I look back ten years from now, I don't want to see you.

I don't want to see your expectations,

your heaving sighs,

your rolling eyes.

I don't want to see your face behind mine.


I don't want to see your cowardice

or you powerless

or the way you use your weaknesses against everyone you love.


Because I don't want to see you, or much less be you.

I mean,

I don't want to be that girl who

hides under her blankets

with that lonely Pandora station playing in the background.


Because this train has left that station

and it's been derailed

and it's heading south where the sun is shining.


See, when I look back ten years from now,

I want to see someone who

knows her place

who shows her face

to all of those she feels she's disgraced.


It's like,

I want to be someone who

doesn't need to be corrected by her mother

who doesn't need scoldings from her father

when shes fighting with her mother.


I want to be someone who

gets along with her brothers

and can tell them she loves them

and isn't afraid to show up at family functions because

she's not stoned like the rest of them.


I want to be someone who

picks up the phone to

call her mistakes

and tells them she's sorry

for making them worry

but she needs to leave them behind.


See, This is who I am.

Or I guess

who I will become.


But, I'm starting with my eyes;

I'll strip away the lies

that they can't seem to stop focusing on.


I'll make my feet start walking

and my hands start talking

because even if it comes to, "Talk to the hand."

I'll still have something genuine to say.


And then I'll do a lot of work on my heart

because it's the hardest thing to restart.

It'll bleed and tear

and fill with air

until it's actually ready to rupture.


But that's okay,

because it'll understand

when the person that I want to be

will finally become who I am.