Cinnamon Spoons

"For I have known them all already, known them all; Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? " -T.S. Eliot Name's Yara Alexandrian (basically that's the only label that doesn't make me anxious) Feel free to send any thoughts my way!

[cinnamon-spoons]

Anger

I cover my love with trickles of fire graze her skin bleach me dry my mama is guilt my mama is sadness and I cover myself with you in frustration

[cinnamon-spoons]

All the aforementioned ways you echoed through me

get caught up in the stings of numbness

the scent of cinnamon

wrapping itself around our lips

and I cant reach you

I am losing myself

In the ruins

of the last time

I felt something

the last times I echoed through you

and my skin is elsewhere

trapped between the muffled beats

of a hollowed chest

of the faintness

that touch left behind

And I feel older than I am

my skin falling off my bones

and my jaw is contesting

pulled down by invisible

hooks

weighed down by the dreariness

that not feeling left behind

where are you

come to me

slowly

lest the ambivalence

creeps from behind you

I cant see you anymore

“Are you here?”

Am I?

[cinnamon-spoons]

Letter to Sadness

Sometimes I would like to hold your 

intensities 

bind 

the stinging 

ripples of distress

bottle down your gesticulating

fierceness

sometimes I wander into 

the edges of your 

clenched fists

and I want to jump

crease away the sharpness 

but it takes hold

of tongue

chest

stifles my bones

and shoulders

slant in all the 

broken ways 

it cuts through 

layers of skin

covers up 

the boiling 

sadness 

pulsating veins

steering 

pressing the blood

inward

outward 

trapped words

[cinnamon-spoons]

[cinnamon-spoons]

My body is tingling again, not the nice kind of tingling, but the prickly sensation that flows across the sheets of skin. The pin prickles of breath, the antagonism of the next moment, the next thought. Sometimes its hard to find me... to sync all the concoctions of being together, the wanting, the not wanting, the indifference, the shouting, the silence.

Everything echoes with intensity. I can only hold the farther ends of spectrums, the paradox of antonyms... and I break my falls just barely, just enough to move away from one end to the other.

[cinnamon-spoons]

Trying to make sense of the world as it unfolds around me, of my ailing contradictions.. of the attachments and detachments. What of those patterns I can trace.. patterns that default the labels they marked me with.. or I marked myself. I wake up haunted by ghosts, of what was and what could have been, of the swoosh sound of loss, of the motion sickness of the past. What am I doing here?

[cinnamon-spoons]

[cinnamon-spoons]

[cinnamon-spoons]

Maybe she is just behind the veil, maybe its not that hard, not that impossible, not that scary. Maybe she is somewhere the noise isn’t as gut wrenching, where the silence isn’t as deafening. Maybe somewhere things are different.

[cinnamon-spoons]

Grabbling with living in non-gravitational space stuck at the borders in oarless boats pretending to govern our modes of survival

[cinnamon-spoons]

Sometimes after I write a word, I forget what it meant. I feel very distant from my writing at those moments. This doesn't sound like me! As if "me" is a graspable entity that I can identify. As if there are parts that are genuine and parts that slip, parts that fall short somehow. As if the words forgot where they were from, where they were supposed to go, how they were supposed to stand and when to curve. I think the same thing happens with my relationship with the world, or with how I see it. Sometimes it seem like I can't read it, like it's written in a language that I am supposed to know but it has slipped my mind somehow. It got lost in the interstices. The gap keeps widening, and I feel disconnected from it, its jumble of characters and the splotches of ink read like gibberish... I take notes in the margins of the parts I don't understand, till the words bear on my back, and dictionaries stack themselves neatly over my head... what does it all mean? The gap just keeps widening and meanings are clipped one after the other.. words fall and forget themselves...

[cinnamon-spoons]

I don't think I have been listening well at all. There is no " healthy" way of being here.

The cat meows, and the blanks begin again...

[cinnamon-spoons]

The world is vomiting nonsense and somehow we are expected to move on. Sterilize yourself from feelings, swallow the headlines and do just that

[cinnamon-spoons]

I am having a hard time crying now or writing ... i keep saying maybe its because I am not used to death.. do people get used to death? Maybe its coz am having a hard time understanding how you cant be here.. even if this here wore you out.. maybe its selfishness .. wanting everything to be neat and tidy and your thoughts of dying to remain thoughts and just that.. not actualized .. not nothingness.. coz it feels like nothingness.. it feels like a huge hole has been created in the world .. or maybe my world.. or our world.. and whats left is a gap .. just that.. a gap.. I get angry at people who keep saying.. she is in a better place .. though i would like to think that.. but it just sounds hollow to me .. sounds one of those things that we like telling ourselves. Sounds like we are settling.. is it because I want to believe that there is something more? Something that we can do.. That the world is fucking insane and we need to talk about it..we need to fix something.. I dont know.. maybe I am projecting.. maybe I am selfish.. and want you to have wanted to be here.. even though I most of the time would rather not be... Sometimes i feel like this pain is not mine.. like am stealing it from somewhere .. like I have no right to be so sad.. because other people spent more time with you.. talked more to you.. you left marks all over them.. it feels like am violating some sacred space that belongs to others. I cry and then nothing...

[cinnamon-spoons]

Silence

The waves of her hair ripple and leave a loud bang in my heart.Then silence.

What do we do when the silence is barely audible,

or when its too loud?

[cinnamon-spoons]

Maybe one day I will write without stuttering

[cinnamon-spoons]

We were taught that our bodies are shameful The tingling warmth of your touch sent goosebumps of guilt across my skin  but I was too eager to slacken  the numbness tying up my body so I spent my days conjuring the image of you  exploring the depth of your scent the unearthly rhythms of your breath

We were told that the world will topple  at the sight of us  I tried to ignore  the rising waves of discomfort  as they permeated our relationship guilt marking its territory  in between our kisses our hand holding  the way you look at me 

We thought that our love confessions were sins Every time you told me you loved me I could see a battle ensuing binding your heart tensing up your bones And hesitation dampened our combined breath 

We are neither victims nor heros There is no stand ovation no victories no losses I have cremated the guilt at least the bulk of it stored it in caskets of glass buried them in the abyss of my being marched across the planes of my imagination to a world where explaining myself to myself seizes to be a necessity