Non-fiction: Eavesdropping on Life

​ If you stand long enough waiting for the New York City subway, life comes alive around you while your thoughts drown out the ordinary sounds of city life. What comes to life by pure chance, by accident, by being in the perfect place at the right time while you're lost in your own world is magical. You begin to stand in awe at the ebb and flow of humanity blooming in the grimy subway tunnels. 

 You see it all in the matter of a train ride.

You see the rush of bodies, the mother holding her child's hand as they rush toward closing doors, a brave soul sliding their umbrella out in time to gain last-minute access to two weary spirits, and a long grateful sigh of relief. There’s the merriment of music playing from some unknown location in the system of tunnels and the toe taps of fellow passengers getting into the music. The soft chatter of tourists in foreign tongues as they stand around with hands in their pockets decked out in I Love NYC gear. Then there's the tired mother with her three children peddling candy to the hostages of public transit, who busy themselves by looking the other way and dodging the child's sad, full eyes begging for a dollar while the kid's mother has yet another young one strapped to her back. A weariness drags her down, similar to the homeless man lying down against the back wall, covered in today's news. Surrounded by chatty teenagers gripping shopping bags and cellphones, like half of the platform inhabitants aren’t just fighting to live day by day, being sealed tight in the tomb of chance that brought lost souls to this very meeting point. Until they meet again, or not, dancing to the stampede of worn soles slapping against tiles that had seen better days to other platforms, to trains, or to the steps leading to fresh air above as life inevitably moves forward, with or without you. 

Behind the Waxen Romantic

 Who would write a poem about a cactus?

  I would.

  Mostly because I can relate more to a cactus than a rose, even with her thorns. I've built walls around myself and still find myself adding bricks/spines to keep out predators. I wrote the poem because, at the time, I felt defeated, and I needed to write poetry for my college class. This came out over Chick-fil-A and a rather vicious game of ping pong in the college commons. 
  Most poets wax romantic about women in relation to objects of beauty, but I don't see myself as radiant as the moon or as intoxicating as a flower. To me, flowers are weak and I didn't raise myself to be weak, I grew out of spite.
And what is a cactus if not a plant built purely out of fucking spite? Am I right?
Cacti are this hidden beauty; they're a useful plant if you know how to use them. So, I meant every word I said when I compared myself to a cactus.
I know I'm beautiful, if not by industry standards.
I know I'm useful because, in a pinch, everything I am can be used in order to survive.
And lastly, I was never meant to just be 'beautiful', so I'm okay not being picked first, or even last, I rather be left to my own divices.
I'm better to be admired from afar than stuck in one pot, underwatered, and placed under fluorescents.

  Plus, I grew up in the desert. And after accidentally NOT kicking a soccer ball away from the mean plant, my ankle smarted when it connected to spines and spines connected to pliers, which eventually rid me of ouchie boo-boos. I relate 110% to that stubborn-as-hell plant and wish not to be anything else.

  

Response Poem: Rupi Kaur

A daughter 

should never

beg her parents

for common decency,

for love,

or for kind words;

That don't hold

a second

meaner

meaning.

The Airplane Bracelet

​

I’d walk by them at the store, admire them, and run my index finger over the tiny beads and the plane that sat in the center. With others milling about with no thoughts about why I stood in awe, I’d take a few minutes and be in my little world, lovingly admiring its simplicity. Something so little caused such a well of happiness in my soul that I had to pull myself away from them any day I went to this store because, in comfort, they also caused discomfort.

Each time, I’d go back, repeat the routine, and walk away without buying it. Unease filled me in both coming and going. Each day, I walked away. 

Buying the bracelet would cause problems at home, and I was working actively not to cause any more problems or rustle any more feathers. 

It wasn’t the price that would cause these problems but the symbol that the plane would signify in the head of my significant other if I purchased this little trinket of self-perceived hope. 

I tell everyone who comments on its simple beauty that it’s because I love to travel, and I do, so I’m not lying. But I’m also not being truthful.

The plane means so much more to me than a mode of travel, transport, and industry. 

It’s a beacon of hope, of magic, transformation, freedom, an image of growth, of invention, innovation. It also meant a bit more under the surface: safety, understanding, dreams coming true, and the hope for better after being at my worst. It was the mustard seed Christians cling to, yet mine a tiny golden airplane wishing me the peace and calm I craved in my coming journey.

I finally bought it at my lowest and wore it under my Fitbit, so it stayed hidden. After all, I needed something hopeful to remind me I’d be okay even at the risk of causing problems in my marriage because I knew he would hate what he thought it would signify.

It signified a life beyond this emotional pain at the hands of who I thought my future was and that not every day would be like this. So, anytime I felt like giving up, I ran my fingers over the beads, traced the tiny plane, and cried in hopes of gathering enough strength to move forward. 

Now, the silver is coming through the gold where I’ve run my fingers over its polished metal, and I’ve since bought a new one for the day this one finally gives out with how much I’ve put it through. If hearts, minds, and aching souls could, I wish I could replace those just as easily as I could the tiny gold chain with its little gold plane but still hold on to the precious scraps that got me here.

To today.

To yet another day.

Futures Past

​I see futures 

In the eyes of strangers

I see promises

In the shine of rainbow eyes

and in the eyes of my past

I see nothing but sorrow

Because once upon a time

I saw futures there, too

But came to see them no more 

Not One, or Two, I’m All Three

I’m Positive

Don’t give up 

Keep holding on

If you ever leave

I don’t know what I’ll do

Your times not up

It will all be okay

Just look on the bright side

It’s a brand new day 

I’m negative

You’re too broken

To be fixed

Not good enough

To be kept

Or loved

Or held

when you cry

On the floor

You’re too negative 

Too dark

You let things consume

Until suicide is nye

You hold blades to your wrist

But can’t do the deed

Hold pills in your hand

But numb out 

Instead

Too weak to make true

Your wishes of death

Too strong 

To hold on 

day after day

For some semblance

Of hope

Or a single sun ray

To give life

To give meaning

To the sad soul within

I’m morally grey 

I’m neither sunshine

Or clouds

I’m the foggy in between

The world holds this beauty

That’s been left unseen

By eyes grown accustomed 

To light

Or to dark

In the haze 

Of the light

Overcast 

In Perfection 

Light and dark

Day and night

The difference between

Ambiance

And candle light

“One Day”

​“One Day” 

        is a cruel 

             humorless farce.

There’s no one day

You’re stuck in a torturous hell loop, 

      Producing the same mistakes

Over and over again.

You look for love, 

      For life, 

          For forever,

And end up living 

        in a purgatory 

of your very own design.

You want love,

      You get lessons,

You want acceptance,

           You get distance,

You want inclusion,

                   You end up alone

There’s no such thing as a happy ending,

       Or a happy, healthy home

              Only happy beginnings

        Or tearful endings

 And nothing but shitty timing…

Conversations With You

​

The most adult conversation 
You and I ever had 
Was while you were laying on the floor 
While I laid in our bed 
You looked up and laughed 
Said you couldn’t take me seriously 
Because I slid over the side 
So we could talk eye to eye

The love was still there 
But admiration took a turn 
When our lives became too much 
And turned into two halves 
Of a different whole 
It wasn’t that long ago, 
But something came in between 
Call it sorrow or nightmares 
Or something else entirely

In unison we sighed 
With a realization we couldn’t hide 
Finally it reared its head 
The answer that had been left unsaid 
Maybe it was time 
To stop fighting what was clear 
In difference we should stay 
But maybe it was better off that way 

Because love was still there 
It was admiration that took a turn 
When our lives became too different 
And spiraled into two 
We were no longer each-others halves 
Just a half of another whole 
It wasn’t too long ago 
When something came between 
Our love and our safety 
Or something else entirely

The most adult conversation 
You and I have ever had 
Was you laying on the floor

My arms crossed 
on the side of the bed 
You looked up at me and laughed 
As you explained how weird we were 
When we were once bound 
And now laughing about being no more 
Than friends who used to be lovers 
At midnight on the bedroom floor

Poem: Explaining the Void

​

I’ve never felt a pain quite like this before. 

I don’t even know if you could term it as easy as pain. 

It’s an ultra-concentrated feeling of utter despair 

Seasoned with sadness, anger, and other unnamable feelings I cannot grasp. 

It’s like the life has been taken from my soul like a plant starved for light or one not watered enough and completely starved for weeks on end. 

Only being fed just enough to survive, but barely.

It's like a survivor eating bark to keep on surviving, waiting for search and rescue to find them cuddled up to a bloodied volleyball.

It's like stabbing through each bandaid you put over a newly dressed wound and changing it repeatedly since you keep bleeding through.

It’s cutting off an appendage and having to repeat the sordid story ten times until someone realizes you’re bleeding all over the ER floor eight hours later. 

It’s being told you’re not on fire when you clearly see the flames or told you’re not drowning as you take your last full breath.

It’s being told you were misunderstood when you explained that 1+2=3 when the clear answer is definitely 1, and maybe you should go back to math class because clearly you misunderstood the basics. 

It’s bleeding out in front of people who know you don’t bleed that much and then acting like it’s an average Tuesday while their feet are stained red. 

My chest is full, my heart is numb, I feel full of emotion, yet none at all. 

My body hurts, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth because I long to scream that I’m not all right, but everyone’s wearing earplugs and can sleep soundlessly through the night.