Consequence of Sound

It was my mom’s birthday yesterday.

Not my white mom’s; my black mom’s.

Well, “African-American” if you want to get technical but who wants to get technical with someone who pronounces your name wrong every goddamn time she calls,

when she calls,

if she calls.

When she

never

fucking

calls.

I’m not bitter.

I guess the problem with us, as people, is that we think we are gifted with eternal time; that we can spend entire lifetimes fucking up without any repercussions. Without any consequences.

In second grade I got my first pair of glasses;

In fourth grade I got sent to the office.

In eighth grade I won my first spelling bee and, in tenth grade, I learned that words only help

when you speak them.

I spent my entire childhood wishing I could bottle thunderstorms. Heavy thunderclouds and lightning bolts fastened beneath glass, electric wind swirling like frenzied lightning bugs in mason jars – I wanted it all. I wished ink into words and words into mouths and mouths into outstretched arms and that mothers could not both arrive and depart in the same sentence.

I wished to be reckless. I wished that even when I could talk about darkness no longer, even when there were no more instruments to adequately express my anguish; even when there was nothing left to tarnish, I wished to be fearless.

You see, there will come a day when there will be plenty of time to be cobwebs, plenty of time to be bronze medals, or snail shells, or lupine seeds, or fragments of exoskeletons examined and pinned, rustling at the past, but there will never be enough time to live if you spend it wishing fantasies into realities.

Did you know that a mother bird regurgitates her food into the mouths of her children to make sure they eat?

Sometimes I wish I knew who the fuck I’ve been trying to feed by emptying myself.

I spent every shitty high school lunch period wishing my cut apple could return to itself without help, without reassurance; that its sections might remember each other. I was devastated the day I discovered that

a shape

could not survive without

a shift.

I wish I had learned how to speak with words long before I learned how to speak with my body.

I wish my black mom would call me.

I wish I didn’t spend so many years trying to convince myself that fixing pain with more pain would, somehow, teach me how to survive; how to be okay.

 

 

 

 

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Robbers

bloggie2It’s 1:24 in the morning and I realize now that the hours between 12 and 4 have a funny way of making one either feel on top of the world or beneath it.

A man with green woven eyes that each started out with a train of thought that went on and on and on ending in tangled messes pooled in his pupils took advantage of me last night. It was dark and our blood seemed to be mostly comprised of Pinnacle bullshit and chain-smoked memories; we cut off what we could but somewhere, along the line, I forgot things.

Little interwoven fibers.

One

by

One.

There was no needle to pull the thread along.
And I forgot a few more inches of his eye string until all I had was a tiny little piece and I couldn’t quite remember just where we had started off.

I suppose I’d never seen the end of the world before last night; where salty air grips your throat violently.

Where the sea meets the sky in a dull blue line before you.

It’s where the wind caresses the tiger lilies in big ceramic vases, where the street glimmers with diamonds and emeralds of broken glass; where children’s thundering, heartbeat ­footsteps pound as they race for the rides in bright and foamy sandals.

Where the garbage and mystery flirt lazily with murder, where the seagulls converge on plump, glossy trash bags; where the flies hum their own ode to the stench amplified in July’s humidity.

Where tiny diners stand as they implode from within; where nothing ever changes.
It’s the immortality that lurks in the peeling, stained wallpaper, and the sticky linoleum floors and the cigarette-tainted voices of the waitresses.

I saw that last night. I saw it in the way his bottom lip missed a step when I murmured something about trust; I saw it in the way he swallowed me whole.

And maybe I’m insane for making someone so violent sound like a masterpiece but

Maybe that’s how I allow myself to forgive.

And maybe I can’t quote biblical verses or remember the story of Adam and Eve but maybe we’re all just misguided sinners in the hands of angry gods and maybe this is why 1:24 in the morning feels so goddamn beautiful even after men with heavy eyes ruin your favorite pair of underwear and

Crush your universe.

A Letter To The Things in Which I Am Learning to Love

To my stomach, an anomaly of soft curves made from proudly eaten cupcakes and pizza,

To my feet, calloused with midnight adventures and every tree that I have ever climbed while trying to prove to my brothers that girls are strong too,

To my hair made of tangled forests and wild vines- the dominant trait from the blood of my ancestors comprised of beasts and lion-hearted girls- I hold my head high to balance this crown.

My hands can’t fix everything no matter how badly my soul wishes they would, my eyes are wide and naïve searching for a god- a beauty that scratches deeper and realer than any manicured hand ever could- and my skin is rough and weathered and tethered but it is made of earth and young civilizations so I will not apologize.

To my body, I will apologize for betraying you because American Apparel only makes size extra small and I thought that was better, I will apologize for making you believe that freedom comes only in the form of beauty that is silken and bears a straight nose, I will apologize for starving you and abusing you and shredding you into galaxies on nights it felt too dark and too lonely to be alive, however,

I will no longer apologize for

Owning you.

To my body, my body that no longer offers ribs in the sunlight but, instead, offers strength in all lights, you are not just my body;

You are potential.

Let’s grow old together,

My friend.

Selfies in a leather bodysuit after pizza. Yolo?

 

Maybe, Sometimes

Maybe,

sometimes

I like how I think that I can chase the universe and the universe, me.

Energize me.

Grow me.

Form me.

Sober me.

Feed me.

Undo me.

Discard me.

Catch me.

I chase my trust issues with Jäger and run myself into warm highs because, truly, I’ve never been one to embrace the cold but, sometimes, I like that. Maybe I like how I’ll always be in search of myself.

Sometimes,

I like how the dark has always made me kind of nervous.

I remember spending many nights alone when I was younger because my sister had friends and I was weird and I remember laying on the top bunk, waiting. And listening. And searching. And I would yell for my dad even in the hours of the night when the silence was louder than the rest of the world and he would come into my room. And he’d listen. Sometimes I’d talk for only a few, fleeting moments-sometimes I’d talk for more- and then he’d walk me to the bathroom never because I had to go but because he knew that it made the dark seem less violent; less crippling.

God,

I swear, I could remember it like it was yesterday. There was something about the way he stumbled with his tired feet and heavy eyes that made me feel like we were both just trying to survive. He never hated me for having irrational fears. He never failed me.

God,

Typing this makes me question why I ever stopped loving him.

Maybe.

(sometimes)

Maybe, sometimes I talk when I’m not supposed to and maybe, sometimes the meals I find myself eating end up finding their way down shower drains or shady gas station toilets which, in turn, end up reducing me down to even shadier gas station floors but,

maybe,

sometimes

I kind of like that I’ll always be a little fucked up. My palms are stitched together by life lines and callouses and tiny little scars that no one will ever understand and my trash can is filled with Diet Mountain Dew bottle caps and other bullshit but, if that means that someone else’s palms won’t have to be stitched together by the same damn things and their trash cans won’t feel the need to drown in bottle caps and old bullshit then,

maybe,

sometimes

I like that too.

Maybe I like that I rush things.

Maybe I like that I see the world differently.

Did you know that,

sometimes,

the same stars can make multiple constellations?

I would let the darkness of all those nights swallow me whole, I would fill my trash can with more bottle caps than it knew how to hold and reduce myself down to a thousand gas station floors; I would write these posts day and night and afternoons and dawns and other times of the day the earth dissolves in if I knew it could save a life.

Because

maybe,

sometimes,

I like the idea that all my fears could change the world.