writing-ish

diary blog i guess

[inksplace]

could you pretend to love me?

maybe just for today?

could you pretend to be proud of me?

maybe just this once?

could you pretend to enjoy my company?

maybe just for tonight?

maybe if we could both pretend long enough

that it didn’t hurt

that i didn’t try my hardest

maybe then it could be okay

[inksplace]

i could go with you

to the grocery store (even though the lights are too bright and the music is too loud)

i could go with you

in a car across the country (even though i get motion sickness)

i could go with you

to a house we call a home (even though i hate to share)

i could go with you

to the past (even though it is full of sadness and regret)

i could go with you

to the future (even though it terrifies me to think of it)

i could go with you

to the end of the earth (even though i don’t know what will be there)

i could go with you

through this life and into the next (and i hope there is a next)

[inksplace]

why would you place me up so high

where i have no choice but to fall

i thought you said you loved me?

[inksplace]

i hope you come back

i never said how i wished you wouldn’t leave

and you never said if you even wanted to stay

but still one day

i hope you come back

[inksplace]

i always sit in an aisle seat on planes because i’m afraid of getting sucked out the window. and sometimes when i’m sitting there, like tonight, i think about what it would feel like. it would be so cold and so fast. but it might feel free and light. tonight we’re flying over a storm so i can see the lightning strikes through the clouds. i would fall through the rain and maybe i would think it’s beautiful. if it didn’t happen so fast.

i didn’t think i would make it this far. i think that’s the problem.

i used to sit by the window and daydream about what would come next. and now it is next. and nothing came.

i finished everything i had planned. and i ditched the plans i couldn’t finish. and i’m only 27 but i think what’s left?

i don’t really wish to go back do i? i just don’t wish to go forward, or to be right now.

why don’t i sit in the window seat? just to see?

[inksplace]

my therapist asked me if i ever cry, because it’s good to release emotions. i said not on purpose. i think i don’t know how to cry. i know how to explode. all over the room. with tears and snot all over the walls. it takes days to clean it all up. sometimes i think if i started just crying i wouldn’t ever stop. like everything i’ve ever felt since i was five years old would seep and bleed out. ruin my couch. my face would be like one of those caricatured halloween masks. and people would have to sigh when they passed.

she said that’s no way to live.

i said i know.

[inksplace]

he breaks me down and rebuilds me in his image. how do i look? i say, as if i am only trying on a new outfit. is this what you were hoping for? am i perfect yet? but he shakes his head, ever the frustrated artist. and he shatters me across the floor once again.

we start over.

my bones a fine powder, mixing with my deep red blood and macerated tissues to form a malleable clay. my torn ligaments, soon to be tied to my wrists, sit in a pile next to him as he ponders how best to mix his colors to get the stain on my cheeks just right. how to form my lips so they stay closed and innocent, yet still functional when he has a job for them. what contours to give my new body so it is admired by all and desired by none but him.

the process continues.

in the end, he creates quite the beautiful piece. after all great art comes from great pain doesn’t it? i see his accomplishment when i look in the mirror, even though i don’t recognize her. perfect girl, perfect wife. no one would dispute his genius, it’s not easy to achieve such a thing. it requires patience and attention to detail. it requires inspiration and the ability to see potential in broken things. but as i analyze his work, i think that no one could accuse him of creativity. yet he is lauded for his original take. praised and revered.

and i am displayed.

[inksplace]

she looked at me and said, “you did it. you got out.”

we don’t often have serious conversations, and when we do they’re short, but they always cut so deep.

“it’s not the way i would have done it, definitely not the choices i would have made, but you did it.”

we don’t often look at each other either, but that night she looked at me.

i tried to play it as a joke like i always do, “i’m not sure i would make these choices again anyways.”

but i mean it. like i always do.

we went back to finishing our makeup and choosing shoes for the night out. watching queer eye when we got back and tearing up over the firefighters.

she was the only one who ever visited me there.

now it’s six years later and she got out too. i mean she really got out.

she lives in a beautiful state in a beautiful house with beautiful dogs and a beautiful boyfriend.

and i don’t think i got out anymore. i don’t think i ever got out. not really.

i live in a hot state in a cheap apartment. but i have a beautiful dog too.

we don’t often see each other. but when we do, we are still 19 and i still have hope.

i don’t often think i can get out, but when i do, it’s because of her. and what she said. and how she said it.

maybe one day she will say it again. and i’ll look at her.

[inksplace]

i don’t like oranges. i’ve tried them countless times. but i just don’t like them.

when my mom used to buy five pound bags of clementines from costco and pile them into a bowl on the counter, i always took one. they smelled better than anything. i would peel it carefully and select a section. but when i would pop it in my mouth, i hated it.

i don’t like the texture. i don’t like the flavor.

when my friend offered me half of her navel orange at lunch, the juice dripping down her fingers, i would accept it. and take a giant bite. and i would try my best not to spit it onto the cafeteria floor.

i want to like oranges. more than anything. they’re bright. they’re beautiful.

when a boy carefully sliced a deep red orange for a cake topping and handed me a piece, i would open my palm. let him set it gently down, after which i would tear it open. i would lift it to my mouth and throw it away when he turned his attention back to baking.

but i don’t even like the juice.

at my best friend’s wedding, she handed me a glass. because she loves oranges. and their juice. and i drank the whole thing, grimace on my face and all.

i pass them in the grocery store. some weeks i don’t see them. but some weeks it’s like someone has thrown one right at my chest.

i keep tasting them. once every few years. or once every few months when things aren’t so easy on me.

and still i can’t stomach an orange.