no more of this, okay

I will not let you in

I’m done with wearing

this vulnerable skin

I’m done with being

some fragile skeleton

 

Instead

I’ll become the ghost of your

ghosts

I’ll imprint memories of us

until whether you’re asleep

or awake

my name

is on your lips

 

my image burned into your eyes

 

So that we both suffer

from this disease

until we’re both contagious

and volatile

and crashing

 

Because it’s your fault

I was careless

 

I trusted that you would know

when I wasn’t safe

when I was afraid

of misstepping

and having to leap out of the way

of your indifference

 

I trusted that you would know

when you no longer loved me

and that you would say it

 

instead of keeping me prisoner

an ugly insanity

I want vices,

identifiable

and visible

reasons to shun and

be shunned

And I want,

more than anything,

the kind of insanity

people are comfortable with

and not this

embarrassing kind

which people take pains

to look away from

bravery or something, I guess

They call what I do bravery. They put me up on some pedestal of whore/martyr and ooh and ahh over me. They look at my long locks and long, long legs and say oh you’re so beautiful, I don’t know how you have trouble.

They don’t see the scars on my inner thighs; they don’t see the extra flesh bulging out from underneath the wire of my bra, my bra that now has trouble holding my breasts. Because I’m doing that other thing when the dissatisfaction has settled so deep inside me. I’m endlessly hungry and think that once I sate this lust of mine, I’ll be happy.

And I shrug to myself as I consume another jelly doughnut, feeling at least 3 rolls spanning from that underwire to my belly. If you can’t be happy, the consolation prize is being well-fed.

Still, I’m somehow brave. Still, I somehow have all the answers.

But all I do to elicit this admiration is put on my face. I put on my face and walk out into the dark street and then into a bar. I sit there, and I wait for love. Or whatever passes for love in that fleeting moment between my third beer and the eighth.

I go back to a faceless person’s place, we rut on his dirty sheets, and then I call a cab and come home, feeling emptier than before.

That’s what bravery is now. Bravery is hoping for love in all the wrong places and all the wrong people.

Bravery is holding out, and then giving in at the first touch of somebody who isn’t repulsive. Bravery is apparently the same thing as desperation, as that fog of neediness that rises to choke you because you’re lonely and can’t stand to be alone for another moment.

I guess, you could say, that bravery for me is not just ending it altogether.

If that’s bravery, fine. But really, I’m just trying to pin down happiness.

I can’t say I’ve never been happy. I go through moments of pure happiness. It’s addicting. It tastes like sunshine and fucking skittles and puppy kisses. But then, the thing about happiness is that you always need more of it to keep going. You need it, or otherwise every other moment without it is so pale and grey and heavy in comparison that you can’t bear to go on.

Happiness is a pill that’s too expensive for me to afford, most of the time. Happiness is sometimes at the bottom of a pint, underneath some sweaty human being, and sometimes it’s so much more. Sometimes it’s actually getting to see some fucking stars for once. Sometimes it’s bathing in the sea and baring my breasts on a beach and feeling free. Sometimes it’s just lying on the floor of my apartment, Mr. Fish swimming happily in his little tank, and the both of us listening to a record I just bought at the market.

But I tell these stories to admiring friends who are attached to people they say they love. Attached to what are called “significant others”. Significantly, this might be what makes them think of my life as some courageous tale. They ooh and ahh and envy me this life of fucking strangers.

This sad, pathetic life where all I do is put on my face, and hope for love in all the wrong places and all the wrong people.

Unbeknownst to them, one day I’m going to do the really brave thing and jump off this pedestal, in hopes of shattering into pieces so tiny that trying to find happiness will no longer mean anything to me.

This, I think, they’ll call “cowardice”.

Melissa

Our ceiling has an outlet. Every time I tip my head back and look up, I can see it. And who knows how long it’s been there. And who cares really?

Because you aren’t here. And it’s not funny to see it when you’re not here with me to laugh about it.

When the shower-head exploded last week and I had to call the landlord to replace it and the woman from the apartment downstairs came up to knock on the door to tell me the water had dripped down through her ceiling, it wasn’t funny. When I fell asleep curled up uncomfortably on your grandmother’s tiny Italian couch, my feet and head hanging off either end, that wasn’t funny either. Not even when a boy was singing and playing his guitar under my window, almost as if he was serenading me but most likely he was drunkenly serenading the night. Nor when I saw the apples you left in the fridge wrinkling like pitiful little balloons, losing all their air and collapsing into themselves.

You didn’t knock on my bedroom door to tell me to get up. To ask me if I wanted to go for breakfast at that breakfast place we always go to with the most delicious home-fries and your favourite blueberry jam.

You didn’t take over the kitchen with all your dishes, your 90’s dance party music blasting through the apartment, waking me up and then lulling me back to sleep because when you’re here I feel safe enough to sleep.

I feel safe when you’re here, you know?

I know if I feel the sadness well up in my throat, I can open your bedroom door, lie on your bed with you and not have to say anything.

I know if I need to be outside, you’ll come with me and I won’t feel so aimless and lost just walking around like I do when I’m by myself.

I know I can talk to you about anything and maybe you won’t approve of some of the crap that I pull because you want the best for me, but you’ll be supportive anyway.

I know that sometimes I feel sad even when you’re here but that you’re my best friend in this whole wide world and when you’re not around I’m less.

I’m less than me.

heart break

my heart is going to take a break, okay?
Because
my heart is dead tired

and has nowhere left to go

my heart is wrung out

and no longer seeks love

out

no more flutters

no more trying to match

beat to beat

The synchronized dance

is dead

and my heart has exhausted

all its hopes for more

Than this

vagabond

nothing feels like home

nothing feels safe

 

like permanent ink

scrubs away with soap

even this skin I wear

stretches thin facade

too tight

and I need scars to remind me

 

of where I am

and who I was

 

people who were forever

got lost somewhere

traces of them left

where I’d rather not

remember

 

and nothing feels right because

 

a desert has settled

where my heart should bleed

and I am unforgiving

 

unknowingly cruel

I am a pair of dry eyes

dry lips

parched

for some sense

of the familiar

 

but the restlessness

inside me

picks up her feet

and keeps walking

 

ever in search

of oasis

I was right, wasn’t I?

I was right

I was right to end it

this is what I say aloud

this is what I tell myself

as I curl into

the creaky mattress

and remember the times

you were here

 

listen for your familiar

tread on the stairs still

a knock on my door

 

I strain in the silence

to listen

and feel

you again

 

even if it’s right

what I’ve done

I ache

 

because it feels

wrong

the invisible sad

you don’t see this, of course

 

but sometimes it’s so hard and

I force myself to cry

until my throat is raw and red

fluttering

like ribbon

 

hoping to wash it away

but there is no drain;

it just collects

 

and you don’t know

 

how fragile I’ve always been

news flash:

same old same

heartbreak

in every fist I make to keep it in

keep the sad locked up

quiet

shush you

 

lips closed

but trembling and

always on the verge

of telling

but I won’t

I can’t

 

I know better than

to disturb the facade that is

all of us going through

the motions by which we’re

so easily

convinced

of each other

 

you can look for the sad

but you won’t see it,

of course

 

because I bury it

so deep

all you notice

is the smile

which I draw on with lipstick

to make you more

comfortable to be

around me

 

and you continue

blissfully unaware

 

but you don’t know

you don’t know, of course

that the sad

never stops