I’m the macarons.
The characters we create are just reflections of our bloaty selves.
I’m still experimenting with line weight and color schemes – bear with me!
I look down on the hopeless
Romantics – with their necks
Outstretched so far into the
Clouds that it takes decades
Of delusion to knock them
Down; I look down on
Heaven, the notion that any-
One and everyone will find
A person, that every heart
Will see love; I look down on
The greens and blues, the
“Old days,” the presumption
That we, in the new age, are
Somehow defective – because
We, born from a new wave,
Are powerful and raw, the
Separation between man-
Made, hand-made, and god;
I look down on the planet
From a high and mighty horse,
That every heart will see love;
Because to see is not to keep, and
To keep is not to share, and
To love, and be loved in return,
Is remarkably rare.
A year ago,
I decided I wanted to be warm.
I’d save money, pack up, and move –
Maybe in a year or two –
A place where the snow and beaded lights
Can’t suffocate my mind
And take me back –
I won’t go back.
I lost $300.
Another $20 on a train.
I sat in my car with soft music playing
And watched the midnight hour consume
Whatever was left of my childhood
Outside the church I grew up in.
(My body would burn if I went in.)
I don’t remember snow,
But there were lights
That danced in my head like dynamite
Until the final glimpse of my self-awareness
And I went home.
I don’t remember snow,
But I remember feeling cold
And, by choice, alone.
I won’t go back.
I fear the falling of leaves
Like feathery toxic things,
Pretty in the air and on the ground,
Pretty in the sky –
But only for a moment,
Til they brown and dry
And layer upon layer
On the summer in my mind;
And it dies,
And I die,
And so do the crickets at night;
So do the cicadas and butterflies –
No more open-window lullabies –
And I am,
And I won’t go back.
I will build a home of sun-beams and moss;
A fortress of pillows and sheets,
Instruments with strings,
Maybe sand and terrycloth –
Maybe I’ll build something bigger
Than what I was.
And maybe my problems will follow,
But I will be ready
When the chemical pool in my head erupts,
I will fight it
With kind words and sun –
Again and again.
Until it stops.
And I will be warm.
And I will not go back.
A late Sunday comic –
No one likes the raisins (except me).
I grew up in the same neighborhood for 21 years. It was a little townhouse development outside of Newtown; the kind where every house is a cookie-cutter version of the other. But think low-budget; my parents were (and still are) poor.
The suburbs have a lot of consistencies; neighbors you get to know, kids hopping off the bus at 4pm, that couple who gardens every Saturday – after awhile, it all becomes a sense of comfort. At least for me it did. My favorite consistency was watching the evening sun come through my window, creep through the blinds and flicker on my bedspread. Then some weird dove would make a sad cooing sound from the overgrown bushes in our backyard. I loved it, I don’t know why. It felt warm.
Things got weird around the time I was middle/high school age. Marital problems, financial losses, mental illnesses, bad friendships/relationships, etc. Our house was both physically and figuratively falling apart and we didn’t have the money to fix any of it. I did what I could, but a teenager could only lend out so much money. I remember being 15 telling myself, “I’m working to save money for books in college.” That didn’t happen. (Hello, student loans.)
My senior year of college, after 3 years of community college, I finally lived away from home. I was smack-dab in center city in a considerably large dorm room by myself. I loved it. I loved the freedom, I loved the city, I loved being able to walk anywhere I wanted. I guess I missed home sometimes, but I didn’t miss the chaotic energy that came with it. Being away was very, very good for me. I was broke as heck, but I was managing. I studied, I ate, I slept, I lounged – my little dorm room became somewhat of a “home;” rather, it felt more like home than home really did.
Fast-forward a year; I’ve stormed off to my grandmother’s in hysterics because my father (a depressed, drunk, devout Catholic man) and I got into our worst yelling-match yet. Mommom’s didn’t quite feel like home, but she took care of me and it was a place I could take a hot bath when I was feeling particularly manic. My brother was there, too (he couldn’t handle my dad either, but for slightly different reasons.) Having my brother around helped recreate the homey atmosphere I longed for, but with my grandfather’s mind and health deteriorating, there was still a lot of bad energy going around.
In case you haven’t noticed, I’m very sensitive to my surroundings.
Between switching jobs, staying with Tyler, and hunting for apartments with my friends, I didn’t really have a consistent home. “Home is where you make it,” he told me. But I never really made a home out of any place to begin with. It was always the things around me that were home. He was my home. My brother playing music and tapping away at his Mac Book was home. My best friend and I strolling around Newtown and sipping coffee was home. Coming downstairs in the middle of the night and finding my mom drawing on her tablet was home. My dog licking every crevice of my face in the morning was home. The light flitting through my window, the sound of cicadas, they were all the things that calmed me down and made me feel like I was home. The four walls I was in never mattered.
I’m afraid to find a place of my own. Nothing is permanent in your twenties, and that’s both the scariest and most comforting part about adulthood. This year in this apartment, next year somewhere else – it scares me. I thrive upon routine. Nowhere has felt like home for awhile and I don’t know how to make one. All the things that made me feel at home are now scattered. My brother and best friend are still in the suburbs, I had to give away my dog (the saddest decision of my life by far), Tyler is going back upstate for school, the city where I work doesn’t have any comforting sounds – all I have is me. And I don’t know how to make a home out of myself. But I know I need to learn.
I’m not sure what writing this has accomplished, but at the very least maybe you’ve learned a little more about me. Or maybe you can relate. I wish I had some life-changing advice to end this with, but I don’t. Just know that no situation is permanent. And if you’re in limbo like me, remember that even if your homes are far, they’ll still be there when you need a place to stay.
I thrive upon routine;
Rupture, die, rinse, repeat;
No night is complete without
Dried, boiled, steeped at my bed side.
I desire stability;
I desire my own warmth at night,
My own skin, my own breaths,
My own arms tucked tight around me.
The only one
I know with all certainty
Will never abandon me by morning.
I wake up with the sun and cleanse thoroughly
Whatever ails I fought the night before;
I am always fighting.
I crave routine and the sounds of summer,
The softness of winter,
My worn, steady hand –
“You can’t make me sad
Because I already am.”
He blepped towards me, I had no choice.
Between the grids of glitter on a pitch-black slate,
Between the intermittent flickers of yellow, gold, and gray –
Between and behind,
It feels like a dream.
It feels like a lie.
But I could push myself against the glass
And see every inch of endless blue tarp,
Breathe the palm grass,
Feel that white-hot splinter,
In like a whirlwind and out like a whisper,
I float with thoughts of not being human.
I didn’t make this hell,
But still I walk through it.
If I could bury my body in the sand
And stare up at the clouds all my life,
But is to do no harm to do no good?
There were days of feeling happy
Before this pitch-black sky,
But it feels like a dream.
It feels like a lie.