And then, one night you wake up on accident.
And then, eighteen months later, you draw a line in the sand.
And then, four months later you draw another.
And then, broken, you know you are loved.
And then?
Xuebing Du
KIROKAZE
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Janaina Medeiros
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
wallacepolsom

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

blake kathryn

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NASA

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Kiana Khansmith

titsay
Jules of Nature
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

★
cherry valley forever
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
occasionally subtle

#extradirty
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@authorjoyroyal
And then, one night you wake up on accident.
And then, eighteen months later, you draw a line in the sand.
And then, four months later you draw another.
And then, broken, you know you are loved.
And then?
Stasis.
An unconscious decision
Has been made, maybe
Was made, maybe
Six weeks ago.
A switch flip,
A quick trip
And now
No more flow,
No more wanting
Or flying or
Being made
Desperate by
Clinging,
But by the need to go.
I’m finished.
It’s frightening.
What have I done?
I opened the box
I should’ve opened
An age ago
But refusal felt
Like loyalty, love
And now betrayal.
But it’s open.
I can’t put the lid back on…
I can’t.
I can’t put the lid back on.
It would be
So much simpler…
Put the lid back on.
Exist with the lid on.
But it’s gone.
It’s gone.
It’s gone, and I didn’t
Mean to…
I didn’t mean for this
To be where I landed.
Conversational
How it all fell apart remains a baffling and enigmatic thing. Like a twist ending to a story I wasn’t writing, somehow inserted into the narrative that is my life.
Conversations are so complex, and sometimes I find them hard to follow. I oscillate between crushing clarity and so much mental turbulence as to send my coherence into a nosedive. I’m a smart person, but sometimes I feel reduced to a mental toddler when the layers are too thin and too myriad at once. Like a strange oral baklava with too many flakey strati to count.
How did I get here? seems an increasingly common thought, and I wonder if it’s just the situation in which I find myself causing the cognitive dissonance. I was tracking every detail so clearly. I had such a strong point of view. I knew I was right. Nope. Sometimes you start there, and end somewhere completely different.
“One ticket to Tampa, please.”
“Absolutely! Here is your ticket!”
“Welcome to Cheyenne!”
“Wait, why am I in Cheyenne…”
“Because you bought a ticket to Tampa, of course.”
The attendant’s calmly cheerful tone throws me even further off kilter. Apparently, I’m the one who isn’t keeping up here. Unlikely. But more plausible by the minute.
“Umm… right. Thanks.” I take the ‘Welcome to WY!’ pamphlet she shoved at me, and study it curiously. No one gives brochures at deboarding anymore, right? Suddenly it feels like I’m in a 90s movie. I open it and stare blankly at the words inside.
“Run. Now.”
What the… that makes even less sense than any of the airport chicanery. I just got out of town. And to a completely different out of town than I was trying to get. Why would I come to Wyoming to start running? I fold the pre-creased sections of pamphlet back into a closed position and take a deep breath. Okay. What does this mean? No one in the vicinity looks even remotely dangerous. I re-open the creases once more, just to check myself. I know I read it correctly, but all the same, it seems the responsible thing to do.
“Yesterday is calling.”
Wait. I know I read it correctly. Didn’t I just say that? I close it once more, and reopen, working the creases faster, and wondering if they will tear under the use.
“Gotcha. Welcome to Tampa.”
I blink a number of times in quick succession, my body leaving my brain behind and trying to make sense of this mysterious pamphlet on its own. Go for it, body. Maybe you’ll have better luck without me. Once more the creases close, and I almost expect them to creak like an old oak door now.
Welcome to WY.
The front page is an old friend at this point, with how stoic and steady it’s been. The unchanging words are comforting, and I hesitate before opening once more. What will I find inside next?
The interior text doesn’t change this time. The valley between truth and hallucination grows and shrinks at once, and I pull the little cardstock culprit closer to my eyes. As if that will change anything. Curious, I rub at the ink with my thumb and forefinger, but it doesn’t budge. Well, I give up.
I make eye contact with the family of four on the inside of the Wyoming tourism board’s attempt at coaxing me into thinking this is a great place to land. That they distribute after I’ve already landed, for some reason… can’t spend too much time on that thought. There they are, smiling suspiciously while casting fishing lines into what looks like a backyard pond, not a fish-stocked lake.
“You’re big.” The little girl with shockingly white hair and freckles on her nose speaks the obvious, but it doesn’t register with me as funny or even out of the ordinary.
“You’re little.” I quip back, and that seems to be the end of the conversation. I go to close the creases, but the little voice chirps out from the tri-fold torturer.
“Don’t mind the words. They like to play tricks on people.” So the text demon or whatever it is, is a repeat offender. Your honor, I’d like to remind the courtroom that the scare tactics employed by the analog AI inside this pamphlet have been perpetrated upon countless visitors to Tampa, er Cheyenne, er… here… and it has to stop. You can end the suffering today, with your just and swift verdict in favor of my client.
I snort at my own joke, and the relief travels down to my fingertips. Laughter really is good medicine.
“Thanks,” I say to the little girl who is now somehow a brown bear cub with a fish hanging halfway out of its mouth. Seems right. Tampa is big salmon country, right? I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere.
I close the troublesome piece of 100 lb paper and go to put it in my bag. But I don’t have a bag, do I? That’s right. It’s clearly too cold to carry a bag in the snow. The “Welcome to New York” marketing ploy really is silly. Why would I ever go to the beach when I could skate down the icy streets of Tampa? I breathe in the air deeply. Nothing like the Cheyenne air, but the comfort is fleeting when I remember that I’ve been in my living room the whole time.
“Did you hear what I just said?”
There it is again. The conversation that rolled downhill with my participation, but somehow not my consent. I heard you. I just didn’t know where I was.
“Sorry. I’m not sure how we got here.”
The walls were gray and white and beautiful deep blue
Almost navy, but somehow more cheerful
With sunlight streaming in big windows
And a calm tone.
I made a home made within those walls.
Dove deep and worked like
Life depended on it-
Which it did, but not proportionally
To how I chased.
The big L that I sat behind
Gave me six years of memories,
Outside of a month or two in a back area
Which was marred with a lot of tears
And was delightfully short lived.
Six years of laughter, life, tears , and grind,
Slowly inching toward indispensable
And sharing too much of myself
With those who would love me hard
And fail me spectacularly.
I solved the mysteries of you
So quickly you were blindsided
That I could predict your words
And anticipate your needs.
I became more than what I’d been called to do-
Almost a surrogate daughter.
You listened, back then…
Or made me think you did.
I believed you wanted my input
And valued my opinions
As much as you said you did.
Your “wow”s and “how did you-“s
And “I need your thoughts”
Felt like value. Like power. Like importance.
I somehow missed the term “distraction”
And the willful adherence to your own blindness.
I somehow missed the way
Clothes needed to be modeled
And you dismissed your wife.
Somehow, the pretense of choking me
When you were frustrated
(Bonus points for the tiniest reason)
Missed my cognitive centers
And buried itself
Deep in my cortisol
And the twitching muscles of my face.
The statements that I was worth twice my pay
Taken as compliments
Instead of red flags.
Out of 8? 9? increases over 6 years-
Only a singular one was not connected
Directly to taking on more work.
Am I misremembering?
Or is the mole hill of evidence
Becoming a mountain
Without my consent?
Two more days.
I’ve already put in a lot of “lasts”
Over the past two weeks,
Some without even knowing it.
I’m slowly extracting the poison
Drop by drop
But reality is only just beginning to hit.
You bought me flowers
And wrote beautiful words
About trying to imagine
Your life without me…
But when I imagine
Mine without you…
I hope timidly for better.
Try to feign innocence, But we've all heard you revel in the wrongness of what you say... Before you say it. During. After. Your laughter ringing in our ears as you take a victory lap around the cesspool. Why you feel attacked at the request for the maturity you so sharply require of everyone else, I will never understand. Your standards for others impossible. Yourself, exempt. I see the flailing arms and flying spittle of the toddler deep within, beating the floor with your closed fists. And I wonder: Should I feel more sorry for you? Perhaps my grace is wearing thinner than I like to think I ever let it get... My empathy losing steam on the incline of your treatment, day in and day out. My mind floats, so grateful that I don't go home to you. So overwhelmed for those that do. So furious that they've bowed and molded and manipulated to survive- instead of dragging you kicking and screaming to the actual moral high ground that you claim to live on. I watch you like a movie, now. Your life played out so clearly and with so much technicolor. I see your choices in behaviors I predict, and feel the widening gap between what you think is funny and I find despicable... And I grieve. The state of things, and the loss of the you I used to see behind your eyes. The knowledge that I'm outgrowing you feeling like a cloak made of fact and gospel, more than ego and heresy.
Asset to liability
A big swing, a loss
Still both
Commodities
My body
Anger bubbles
At a low boil
A kinetic energy
To which
I am not adjusted
And chafes at my soul
Rubbing raw
The walls of my
Good nature
How do I scream into the void
When the void screams back
“Nobody cares
And nobody gets it.
And if they get it
They care even less.”
My weary heart
A source of simple burden.
A gift
When it began.
The exact prescription
For the unseen
But ever present dangers.
I dove in
And conquered.
My skills applied
And your praise abundant.
I wearied
But still found joy,
The positive
Outweighing problems.
You encouraged
For the added
Responsibility,
“No ceiling”
To the hard work’s payoff.
I did it
Fearfully
Reluctantly
But well.
I watched my light dim
And your face
Contort.
I didn’t recognize
The home I’d found
With you.
Your constant affirmation
And your constant need
Slowly morphing
Into constant weight
And constant combative criticism.
No matter how hard.
I have to be good
And consider every
Angle of how I could hurt
Those around me
With my boundless
Sadness and my
Eager fear.
No matter how bad.
I must remain ethical
Amidst any rage
That bubbles to
The surface
As I protect my life
And loved ones
From the sharp
Blade of the
Honest fury.
No matter how bad.
I must remind
Myself that I am
Blessed and buried
In ease
So much that
The shame
Of my emotions
Drags me forcibly
Back to the
Fetal position.
No matter how bad.
I must maintain
Appropriate behavior
In my speech
And actions
To be worthy
Of any care
Let alone love
In the mud of
The pit.
No matter how bad.
I mustn’t drink
Because it’s frightening
To lose control and
Because I could start
And not know how
To stop
Until the whole
Cauldron of my
Excruciating desire
Has been emptied.
No matter how hard.
I mustn’t be trusted
Even if I work
To retain a
Trustworthy and
Honest cadence
Because my hurts
And furies
And dreads
And passions
Are far too big
Too sharp
Too scary
To be endured…
Or accepted…
Or loved.
I watched a stuffed animal
Drowning
And the tears sprung forth
Faster than ever
A well of fear
Opening in my chest
For the loss
Of the safety
And security
Of a loved thing.
My inner child
Never so near
As when the soft things drown
I predict you.
“Yes?” I say…
A quizzical look…
“You were about to-“ I name…
A chuckle and a shake of your head.
“Uncanny.”
Yes, I know you think so.
And I’m perceptive.
But you are less wild
And more predictable
Than you imagine.
And I, less magical
And more aware.
Your jokes get harsher
Or stranger?
“Sometimes I’d like to deck you.”
A smile and a slight giggle.
You’re taller than I am.
Should I fear you?
I know you’d never
But I wonder why the jokes.
“Not to actually hurt you.”
How do you separate the two?
“But just-“
Oh there’s more to the joke.
“I think I’d get pleasure”
There’s that word.
‘Pleasure.’ ‘Beloved.’
Words too big
Or too specific…
“I think I’d get pleasure
From
Watching your body just-“
Your hands mimic me
Skipping across the floor.
You laugh.
You’re very funny.
I chuckle and retort.
It seems the easiest,
The least likely
To spark a whole
Debate of whether
I’m overreacting.
Im not, am I?
I am, aren’t I?
You’ve said these things before.
You’ve mimicked my body
Being strewn upside down
Being pushed into a dumpster.
You’ve mimicked watching me suffocate.
Your hands 12 inches from my throat.
You’d never. And that’s the truth.
To you, it is truly funny.
The women around you
Being nags and nuisances
Imprisoning you in a world
Not of only your own making.
You win anyway.
Why must we be the villains?
You get your way.
You ‘can’t do anything without me’
I fix for you
Innumerable times a day.
I read your mind
Half the time.
But you’d like to deck me.
Not for pain.
But for pleasure.
I am fiercer
Than I ever imagined.
Piercing gaze
And fixed tenacity.
Pushing, pulling
Striving, facing…
I am capable of so much more.
Today, I hope for you that you can sit in all of the nuance of this life… the stunning grayscale scape of intricate decision making, delicate and complex people, labyrinthine opinions to be formed, and shaded mistakes with so much grace to cover them. There is so much more than simply bold lines and broad strokes, and I hope you find all of the refracted beams of your life… with so much gentleness and care.
The Puffin
——
I know it’s bad
Because I am not wearing my shoes.
I’ve blamed it on the aching back,
The work demands of the day,
The convenience,
(Or passing smirking remarks about)
The depression…
But I’ve kept coming back to my heels…
At least sometimes-
An addiction that doesn’t break
Too easily…
My comfort shoe
My best “fake it til you make it”
My favorite quirk
That kept people talking
And my posture erect.
I know it’s bad
Because my shoes still call to me
And my mind now tells me
I don’t deserve them.
They used to work
With my “pretty girl” aesthetic
That I didn’t fully believe,
But was at least
A plausible pretense.
They used to make the facade
More believable,
Even to my own eyes
Instilling confidence and relief.
I know it’s bad
Because now they feel like a cruel joke.
Too far gone
For the masquerade.
A monster in heels
In still just a monster.
A puffin among penguins,
Or something equally as out of place
(My mind should be inventive enough
To come up with better)…
I don’t want to be
So stunningly devoid
Of self awareness
That I make myself apparent as
The fraud,
The monster,
The puffin…
…but I miss my shoes…
If I said how I really think
How much bourbon I drink
How incapable of growth and change…
The baggage I carry
Isn’t fun or novel
And I’m not handling it well…
It would only be a matter of time.
You’d realize
How worthless I really am.
I can’t fool the world forever.
You don’t understand
This is not a passing fancy
A hobby, or a selfish
Flaunting of my “dramatic” flair…
I’m not a child,
Fighting to field my emotions
Or playing at statements
Above my pay grade…
I am an artist. An actor.
A professional.
Paid for my work-
Praised by the people I respect.
Fighting infinite imposter syndrome
And convinced of utter worthlessness….
But this need I have…
This thrill, this craving, this…
Desperate imperative
That has been placed on my life….
It is all-encompassing,
Obsessive, unwavering…
It is… involuntary.
Painful. Like a disease
That grabs hold and grips,
Unbidden, uninhibited,
Visceral. Real. Unmistakable.
The fingerprint of God on me?….
Who I am.
Who I was made to be.