fate's musings & poetry

[fatedwritings]

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for." - John Keating, Dead Poets Society (1989)

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[fatedwritings]

A single line formed, emptiness surrounding it. I collapsed on the bathroom floor and wept for the unfairness of it all.

[fatedwritings]

Tired is no longer a strong enough word to describe the deep aches in my bones. Weary is too poetic to capture the tolls I carry—for hours? Days? Nay. For years, my shoulders have not rested nor known a lack of weight upon them. Exhaustion is perhaps the only fitting word to describe my condition, but even that hardly feels like enough.

This vessel was not designed for living. Perhaps it was once, but life is currently an afterthought for a boat with no wind in its holey sails. Comprised of broken parts too expensive to fix—a rotting mast with a bowing deck below, and a rudder only capable of steering into rocks—I have not been seaworthy for some time. Any strength I have comes from the occasional breeze, and yet I know I should be grateful. I am still above water.

For how much longer, I do not know. Far too many times, I considered jumping into the sea and letting the waves consume me to save me the time of figuring that out.

After all, no one is coming to save me.

[fatedwritings]

Rest is not for the weary, but for the children who broke their legs and were told to keep walking.

[fatedwritings]

I don't talk anymore. Every person I meet, I sit, and I listen in silence. Their words become datapoints I learn to connect. Somewhere, there will be a mistake. Sooner or later, those datapoints will spell out lies in coded ciphers I learned to decode. I have become a machine, cold as it smiles at new friends, old friends, acquaintances, the cashier at the gas station. I scan their eye movement, note the slight tonal inflections, and listen to footsteps like it is normal. It is normal, yes? That is what my readings say. "All systems normal." da Vinci's flying masterpiece rendered into your walking wind-up doll.

[fatedwritings]

"It doesn't count." The metal of the nail clippers are cold in my trembling hand. "It doesn't count." No footsteps descend down the stairs to interrupt me as I sit in the dark. "It doesn't count." As the blade rests against my skin, the debate starts: above or below a freckle? "It doesn't count." The blade dug into my thigh, and I hoped I would feel it later. "It doesn't count." Idly, I wondered if I could nick my femoral artery and bleed out on my living room floor. "It doesn't count." No mark. Not this time. Does that mean it doesn't count? I didn't relapse. I don't want it to count.

[fatedwritings]

My discordant cries echoed off the iron bars of my prison, the one you made just to house this small, ruffled mess. That was when you noticed me. You cooed, "I love you," while telling me to pluck out my feathers and leave them on the floor of my cage. I didn't mishear you, did I? You said those words, smiling as you admired my bald patches and strangled warbles. It hurt to pull out my pretty, royal blue feathers, but what choice did I have? I couldn't bear to see myself, but it hardly mattered when you said you loved me. I had to hate myself so loudly for you to love me And therein lied the tragedy.

[fatedwritings]

The girl of my dreams was the summer. Her lips against mine were the ocean meeting the shore, crashing into carefully crafted sandcastles that crumbled in her wake. Our clothes fell with the shells that washed ashore from the rising and falling waves. Every breath of salt air, I yearned for her to steal. The breeze of her caresses warmed wherever she touched. I only hoped mine were the same. I craved her. I longed to drown in her. As I sank to her ocean floor, the pearls in my teeth glistened. Alas, the only memory I have of her as I wake next to him, shivering from the winter snow, is the salt on my reddened cheeks.

[fatedwritings]

I kept my garden small: black pansies and white marigolds. It looked like everyone else's, but the flowers didn't grow. The pink and purple orchids paired well with the delphinium I secretly planted next to not garner attention. Foolishly, I let them die. Again, I planted the black pansies along with silver ragwort, white poppies, and purple irises, and for years, this garden flourished. But, I missed the smell of the pink orchids, and the rich blue petals of the delphiniums. Curious if they would grow, I replanted them both and added yellow tulips between them, rearranging the pansies, ragwort, poppies, and irises as well. I can't be sure if this will be my final garden. They say sexuality is fluid, so I'll water my flowers and see what grows.

[fatedwritings]

I did not realize I was caged until I tried to leave. I did not recognize these iron bars, nor the lock on the door. When was I put in a cage? I do not understand. Even more, I couldn't move my wings. I could not move my wings. I. Could not. Move. My. Wings. When were my wings clipped? I do not understand. Alas, I do the only thing I know how: I cry for help. All I hear in return is silence. When was I trapped here? Forsaken in a dusty cage with rusting bars I cannot bend because my wings are clipped? I do not understand. My throat hurts from screeching, a once melodic voice regaled for singing rendered raw. Beautiful feathers—royal blue, reddish brown, and white—fell around me. Had I not been happy once? With joyful trills? Able to soar on a daytime breeze? Only then, as my throat bled, and I lied at the bottom of this cage, did I realize that was why you captured me in the first place.

[fatedwritings]

My body is a museum of diseases and ailments and illnesses. All of them tried to kill me at one point or another with their poison and slingshots and arrows. The bricks of my museum are still standing. But, every day, I wonder, what will happen when I start hearing gunshots?

[fatedwritings]

I'm being better, or at least trying, for that child who only knew anger in two forms. One was loud, footsteps from work boots as they stomped up the stairs, yells that reeked of Sam Adams or Corona, and punches thrown in the yard. The other was a silence over a cup of coffee, a glare cold enough to freeze me in place, and I shrank into the floor. I refuse to let that child think there are only two forms, and I refuse to let that child not be safe. I'm being better for them. I will be safe for them.

[fatedwritings]

Brown hair tied in a ponytail, the child sat on their unmade bed. Door closed, clothes scattered on worn, carpet floor, toys strewn about--none of it mattered. The child sat frozen in place, dad's yells echoing like war drums in their head. They didn't rebut--why would they? Silence was better than the threat of bruises. Or worse. No, they couldn't be angry, not if they wanted to live. Did they? At least until tomorrow. After that? Maybe the war drums would stop. If only.

[fatedwritings]

I admired the girls with hair like California. Strong as Redwood trees, never a strand out of place, and the same every day. Mine lacked that beauty basking in the sunshine. It never did as it was told, temperamental as the ocean off the Cape. Thin as the coast of New Hampshire, but wild like the forests of Maine and jagged like the mountains of Vermont. A chickadee's nest next to luscious, pin-straight locks, I was as small as Rhode Island and forgotten like Connecticut. What was I to do but make my hair like theirs? More and more heat to forget the winters and tame the wild, I pretended I was one of them. I had to be. Sometimes, I wonder if anyone ever figured it out.

[fatedwritings]

We turn our noses up at the crows eating carrion on the side of the road. Yet, are we not the ones who gave the murder their meal?

[fatedwritings]

The monsters aren't hiding under the bed. They're in your head, telling you to die. Funny thing, those monsters--they sound just like you.

[fatedwritings]

I can open a book and exist in peace amongst elves, dwarves, aliens, dragons, and more. Yet, in reality, the world I live in, breathe in, exist in--no, my existence is wrong. Church bells do not ring for people like me, or so I'm told. Therefore, my rosary beads collect dust while I read books that dare to mention me by name, dare to tell me I can be happy. My existence is not meant for hellfire, burned like the witches before me. When reality decides I too have rights, freedoms, and a place that isn't a stake, noose, or Hell, I'll come back. For now, I'll rest within the pages that welcome me as if I've always been there.