This is what happens when a previous mess tries to better themselves and then just turns into a bigger mess trying to fix all the shit they couldn't before. Have some poetry I should have written last summer. It's better now that my head is clearer....
I drink words
instead of water.
My breakfast is simply
poison and I drown it
at lunch with more.
The day starts at 1,
self loathing at noon.
Poison and poison,
sliding down
as if I’d allowed it.
You see my skin
bubble up goose bumps,
my reaction to veins
ready to pop.
Tears are a symptom,
a side effect of
“nutrition…”
I drink words
and let them spread,
my brain is told
while my body
reminded.
Forgetting a meal
or two,
going hungry for a
night so maybe
in the morning
itchy pores would
let their puffy
crimson die down
a little more.
So stinging
eyes could catch a
break,
no longer draining venom
my throat had spewed
across my sheets
while I tried to count
my sheep.
Though it never
worked,
my half asleep gluttony
devouring a sentence
before my brain
could comprehend.
A growling stomach drowning out
growling thoughts,
so I ate them.
But my fat only
brought shivers instead
of warmth.
And maybe it was
the chilled words
I was drink-
no,
guzzling,
but I felt
cold and sick.
I drink words instead
of water, and it
scares me how
fast I can
drown.
Sometimes I miss you.
I miss frantic phone calls
and keyboard smashing texts.
And sometimes I don’t.
Simple as that.
Sometimes conversations just seem
forced.
And I don’t miss you.
I can’t miss you.
But sometimes all I want
is to see your pretty face,
plant kisses in your cheeks
until they grow into more,
until beautiful flowers
blossom as conversation starters.
Until it’s impossible not to
miss you.
Sometimes I beg and
pray that you’ll give up,
wait until the sun returns and
there’s more about you to
miss.
There’s more to you when
time has passed,
more you haven’t said and told
and so much more to
keyboard smash.
Sometimes, honey,
you’re all I think about.
All my mind can
bear to believe.
A giddy smile,
a giddier laugh.
Disgusting faces
pulled for lock screen’s
memory.
A stupid gesture
passed out to me
to prove that I should miss you.
You, my dear, deserve roses deep inside your
pores.
Breaking nature to grow
thick and sturdy roots,
so when spring blooms
and gardeners groom, your
fragrant aroma
can seduce a room of
drooling suiters somehow
far greater than I.
Sometimes,
I feel fit to give it all,
miss you more than
enough to pass on
love through flowers.
But sometimes,
you
won’t
miss me.
Simple as that.
She looked sloppy.
Like the kind of girl who wasn’t
edging for scars.
She looked like the kind of mistake-maker
that made decisions from the way it felt
and not the outcome.
She looked sloppy,
and so did her chopped up
wrists.
Like the scabs weren’t there
for picking and
the fading was
intentional.
She looked sloppy
and unpredictable.
As if maybe those scars were intentional
or maybe they weren’t.
Maybe the sloppy placement
was from her general instability,
or she liked the look.
I live with the city,
glorying its colored lights
and lively day activities.
And like childhood friends,
we hold hands.
Show one another our favorite
places as we both love them with purpose.
I feel safe in its arms,
though sometimes I still need
the reassurance of blood relatives
when I find myself
alone.
I've grown with the city,
molded it with my own hands on the spots which require extra care.
It is my own, just as I belong to it.
Somehow,
I require buildings and lights to guide my way. To see the
windows glimmer on drives home
late at night,
when I’m ready for another few
hours of sleep but the place I’ve grown
up surrounded has other,
better ideas.
I live with the city,
a home where opportunities arise
and disappear with
the snap of a finger. Where
businesses start
and end without a single bat
of an eye.
I live with the city, let it hold me like the
child I wish to be.
We sit and watch the people
fade,
watch them cry just to recover
and forget one more time.
With the city,
we watch like a game and laugh
when other people make harmless mistakes,
just as our other,
less known inhabitants have done the same
for me.
We learned together,
bettered ourselves and the others we speak
while years passed us by.
We were emotional,
dependant on each other to live
and thrive.
The city grew up with me,
and neither would be the same with
one part absence,
and one part memory.
At thirteen, everything was confusing. My mind was abuzz with hormones and thoughts and homework. Hands wandering as minds did too. A blind sighted moment where death glares were just another expression and soon enough my palms were straight on the ass of my best friend. Her disappointment and my painful apathy lead to an awkward twenty seconds of eye contact while my hands stayed firmly where they were.
That evening, I told my girlfriend about it and she wouldn’t stop laughing despite my pleas for her to stop.
Thirteen was an awkward time of sexual exploration. In my bedroom. Alone. At three in the morning, when the only other person awake was my sister, cackling evilly from far down the hall. When the glow of my computer screen kept me company, I scrolled through fowl tags of smut on tumblr, sometimes transferring to AO3 before I could shout at my slimy fingers to stop typing. I took notes on what was the hottest. Lazy role plays on my favorite website always playing it’s role.
And through most of my summer break, I learned a few things. Terrified myself with “Go Fish” and learned how to touch. Gained my fascination with skin. During cold hours of the night, I would let my fingertips drag over everything. Smoothing down bed covers with magically calloused hands, imagining a warm character’s clean ski instead, where I could touch every inch, show love with fingerprints admiring fiery flory and soft chubby stomachs. My dream was sensual and sweet, with dim lighting like shitty romantic movies.
But I hated being touched. At thirteen, I was sensitive and ticklish. A nightmare meant someone’s fingers grazing over my skin, causing goosebumps all over me. Yet I still dreamed of running my hands over pale and dark arms, cupping their cheeks as our lips just barely brush against each other’s. I was so scared of being touched, but all I wished to do was touch. And at thirteen, I didn’t dare tell my girlfriend of 2,000 miles away. Her love of bondage drowning out my wish for oddly passionate one-sided feeling up. Though, at thirteen, her role play kink sparked the interest of my disassociation, suddenly making my self-loathing easy to bypass.
though, at thirteen, with no money or means of transportation, 2,000 miles was about 1,999 miles too far to satisfy my need for validation. Though if I had a plane ticket to Seattle, my emotionless heart would feel more than ever. A willingness to travel that I didn’t have before would suddenly appear. Even at thirteen, when I struggled to have feelings, I longed for someone to tell me that everything about me was okay. Without touching me.
I was still sensitive. Sensitive of everything. From what they all said to the way they all touched me. They had to ask first before even wrapping an arm around my shoulders. A hug could be off limits at any point, but before thirteen, that didn’t seem to be the case. Childhood friends would approach and lay their hands upon my skin before I had the chance to tell them not to. At thirteen, I wanted to throw the same kind of fits I would as a child about my belongings being confiscated. It felt violating, unconsensual, even with the most platonic touch to my arm. I just couldn’t do it. Something had snapped at Summer’s turn, and it hurt. Because at thirteen, all I wanted to do was touch.
As if I didn’t feel like a hypocrite about enough things. Expecting so much from everyone and wondering why they got so disappointed when I fell short. Asking favors from friends but never giving any back. At thirteen, I was starting to realize how exactly I fit the definition of “asshole”. And immediately, at thirteen, I painted myself as the victim of my own actions.
Pretending as if I wasn’t causing harm while throwing insults left and right. At thirteen, so insecure about everything that a single word couldn’t escape my mouth without the room gasping nervously, as if my never intentional insults were bad enough to convince a handful of friends and acquaintances that it was their last breath. Trying so desperately to convince myself that I had some redeeming qualities despite a vaguely attractive face. In the process dragging motionless bodies down with me. A dropping self-esteem dwindling to a thread with the knowledge of the stupid friends jumping a grade ahead, despite her year on me. The pant to my heart given by the knowledge that I was no longer the highest of my peers.
It was hard to be supportive when it made me fall through. Difficult to congratulate success when I was painted as the victim of an innocent action. When a smiling best friend casually passed on the news, unaware of my formidable lump inhabiting my caved in stomach. It was my mob to make up for the previous months fuck ups, and I tried to by keeping my mouth shut. After her admitting to me the other horrible ways I was straining our friendship by letting my lips part and my vocal chords vibrate harmonically in my throat the way they were built to do. So for the rest of the evening, I tried to talk about other people’s boobs.
My anger fluctuated as the sky grew dim, and my heart pounded while fireworks blew in the night sky. I tried to keep my mouth shut, though it was difficult, because at thirteen all I wanted to do was talk, even while plummeting on rollercoasters. I’d be gone soon enough and I wouldn’t have to deal with the small amount of guilt I felt when telling her not to touch me. Thirteen-year-old me had to suppress the little emotion I had left when seeing her disappointed expression, and when I heard the exasperated sigh scrape her lungs.
It seemed I wasn’t the only one that needed to keep my mouth shut after all.
At thirteen, I could have used to calm down, but I could never seem to get a grip. Grasping onto false lifelines to try and save myself before the rope broke and I fell back into depression and disinterest, where writing scribbled on grid paper was no longer appealing. Where I never felt good enough because my vocabulary of expletives and common language always fell short, close behind the failure of staying in the technically correct grade with slippery C’s to follow suite. At thirteen, I was sensitive and couldn’t be touched.
So this thing is a work in progress story... Thing? I was deleting some things from my notes since it was a mess of things and I didn’t know what was what anymore before I stumbled across this. I only vaguely remember writing it, and the actual idea of it is slowly coming back to me. It needs editing and some planning but I think it’s honestly pretty good compared to most of my stuff. Idk. Feedback would be cool if anyone actually decided to read this. Anyway, here is some random thing that doesn’t make sense and has no context. Enjoy!
As he breathed, the air filled with a sour scent, like bitter licorice and beer. I didn’t react. It was normal. We had begun rubbing off on each other, which was apparent due to our lack of used tooth brushes. He didn’t try to hide it, but I kept a stash of mint gum everywhere I commonly visited. Always a pack in my pocket, the car, his car. Some stashed away in the cabinets of our apartment.
He continued driving, not noticing the smell. I cracked my window, letting it waft out while letting the humid city air in. I stuck one finger out the window, feeling the grime grow on my print. I grimaced, pulling my hand back into the warm interior of the car. It was December, where was the snow? So far, all we had was rain, rain and spring-like weather. I snickered, remembering how much of a fit I would have thrown as a child. Now it was a paradise.
“So… How’re you?”
“I could be better, it would help if I could avoid this pointless small talk, but it’s inevitable.”
“Oh, okay… Then, what do you want to talk about?”
“We don’t know each other that well, there’s plenty to discuss if you actually think about it.”
“What? We know don’t each other well? I’ve lived with you for over a year!”
“Doesn’t mean you know me.”
“What is up with you?”
“You’d know if you knew me.”
He sighed, tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel, trying to grab his composure back from wherever it had escaped to. I only smirked.
“Wow, aren’t you kind today?”
“Of course.”
“No need for sarcasm.”
“You started it, yet still yell when I retort?”
His teeth were grinding together. He exhaled through his nose. Good, no more sour licorice. “Stop.”
I shrugged. “I would prefer not, but I’m also aware of the fact that your persistence is insufferable, so to avoid both of our nonsense, you should probably switch on the radio.”
His hand flashed towards the dial on the dashboard, flipping it randomly to a station that we both suspected I would despise.
“Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell ro-“
I flipped it off.
“Wasn’t such a good idea, now was it?”
“At least I’m trying.”
He didn’t say anything. Back to the silence. The sky was glum, gray clouds covering the horizon in a blanket of dull. It looked like a thick smoke covering, but I knew better. The way the wind was whipping around the trees, it was just another storm. We had a couple hours before it would hit for sure, but I knew it was coming. The air was carrying every scent it passed by, the water trapping it in a bubble of moisture so that I had to close the window the rest of the way to avoid the smell of day old city fondue. He hadn’t seemed to notice. What a surprise.
“This is grueling.”
“You took the words right out of my brain.”
“Brain?”
“I wasn’t planning on saying it.”
“Oh.”
Silence.
“Remind me where you’re taking me?”
“Not telling.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“Because if I knew I wouldn’t have agreed to enter the car, and if you told me now I’d jump through the window in an attempt to escape your schemes?”
“Exactly.”
I grumbled slightly under my breath, a swear here and there as I slouched in the seat a little further. “Typical.”
“You’ll be fine once we get there.”
“Because family visits are exactly what I need when I don’t wish to be in a car with you.” He was the closest thing to family at this point, which even after a year I still hadn’t decided my opinion on.
“Never said I was taking you to see family.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“Again, exactly.”
“You bastard.” I whispered quietly, turning away to look through the window. It was an act of defiance, as well as an escape from beer breath. From what I was told, he hadn’t even taken a single sip of alcohol in his life, but his breath always told me a different story. I had long ago decided one was lying to me, though I never felt the need to learn which. Wouldn’t really help the beer breath if he never brushed his teeth to rid it of fermentation.
“Why would you take me to see family, anyway?”
“Because, you’re a shut in. They never see you, and I’m sure they miss you.”
“See? You don’t know me at all.”
“Then I guess it’s good I’m not taking you to see family.”
“Liar.”
“Oh my god, stop accusing me of lying!” He rolled his eyes as he spoke, reminding me the way I used to panic when my dad did the same, worried of his eyes escaping the road. Now I wouldn’t have minded if he crashed the car. He would, though. It was his new car. He has just made enough money to buy it. Or at least the part of it his parents weren’t paying for. He was spoiled.
I didn’t say anything in response. The part of me that felt the need to bother him was shrinking, there was no use left in antagonizing him. Now I was just sitting. Watching. Noticing the cars driving, and the tired people inhabiting them. I could relate to their lifeless stares, watching the road like a bored interrogator. They wouldn’t turn their head, or even give me a single glance. They were… focused, whether it be on the road or something else, I wasn’t entirely sure.
My head seemed kind of like a blur for a moment, thoughts whizzing by faster than I could tell what they were. Ideas, memories, lyrics of songs, all mixed together in a crock pot of bullshit. I switched my focus for a moment, trying to calm the storm inside me. Before I knew it, a tornado of something had strolled in, twisting my stomach into knots so quickly I almost spewed right there, all over his shiny black dashboard. I squoze my eyes shut, pulling my knees up to my chest with the added bonus of my muddy sneakers dirtying the leather seats. He didn’t notice. I held in a sigh which made my stomach do flips. I kept my eyes closed, resting my forehead on my knees and trying to pull my thoughts back somewhere pleasant. Abstract punishments weren’t really in that category, and yet memories of staple riddled bedroom carpets poked at my feet as if I were still there, still cutting through skin like it had whenever I did something to annoy. But that memory just brought on more. The burning hot tin roof in summer. My play house until I was confident enough to find my way down, burning my feet more than they had been already. Everything seemed to want to flood back. A backyard swimming pool always green with something we never remembered to clean. The way my lungs felt tight when I stayed under too long, and how I always wished instinct wasn’t there to pull my head above the water and force me to breathe aga-
“Nine,” he glanced at me, I could feel sharp blue eyes piercing my thoughts, “are you okay?”
My shoulders twitched, head jolting up to look at him. “Yup. Fine. Great. Fabulous, even.”
I can’t fight for musty-stairwells
covered with cinnamon air-fresheners.
There is a necessity in
forgetting hidden bedrooms
stashed behind metal showers and cold
bathroom tiles.
I can’t hold onto the feeling
of peeling white paint,
decorated with a bush of bleeding
hearts.
The repetition of a cracking soul
fills my nose with
nostalgic New York air before
I am allowed to drift to sleep.
Memories of bonding over
solder are just reminders
that it’ll be replaced by
pulling grandparents from wheelchairs.
The smell of stale urine
will mark family instead
of fresh blueberries and grilled corn.
There’s no use complaining about how
much I’ll miss the stiff wood swing,
the stone slab beneath
which was a source of tears when my head
dropped upon it.
No point in crying about sail-boat
wall paper in a room I barely
visited, or whining of how much
I already miss
billowy green curtains waving me
a soft “good morning” with coffee
wafting up small and
twisted steps.
A childhood of grassy field and
sad black barns being lost
to the selling of property
doesn’t deserve the tears it’s been given.
There’s no point in missing a glass case
of bells
collected by a grandmother I never met,
or wishing for the cabinet
never noticed by my child eyes
until a trophy of dead flies
decorated the in - need - of - painting
furniture the day the house
was emptied.
How could a kid not long
for the sounds of an
annoying HAM radio
echoing from the office of a
barn? Especially with
the voice of my elderly
grandfather traveling through
thin wooden walls and
sturdy metal doors.
I should simply push down
memories of antique pots and
pans
hanging from wooden
beems across the ceiling
of a cottage-like
kitchen.
How much supressing can it take
to forget my first
shower being in a pink tiled
bathroom that smelled
of cat litter and shoe polish?
I don’t see the point of crying
over a house already sold.
Wouldn’t it just be easier to admit that
a couple of horse farmers
are now the ones in charge
of my fondest memories?
That some unknown New Yorkers
now have reign over large ferns
behind a white house that
made for such a
sweet hiding place.
It’s a fact that my favorite home
is no longer mine,
and that empty,
dirty carpet is the last version
I’ll ever remember.
An underage child lost
within dark rooms and ever spinning
ceiling fans.
A provocative Miller lady
watches with a drink in hand
from her florescent perch
while some form of hero
fights for my sister’s existence
after my father’s word
proved nothing.
Half-drunk bikers cheer on
sound check before realizing first
song hand’t started yet.
Heart strings play along skilled
bass lines despite a
willingness not to, cheering
with the oblivious
as if it spawned the crowds.
And oh,
how thick thighs dance in small wooden confinements when
drums beat faster for the
audience to eat as starving animals.
Vocal chords hum along their
matching counterparts.
iPad’s light up, signaling the
recording.
Storage is lost to audio
and shoes fall to let
toes feel trumpeted vibration.
Ears are cleared for fatherly guitar solos
as every performance required.
Scribbled X’s on hands
only fly as knuckled tap on
polished and scratched
bar tables.
Adventures rose with summer’s
return.
Return of wonderment,
return of words painting African
braids and bear signs
that decorate musty brick walls.
What once made my child
self try and hide
behind too - thin - bathroom doors
was now only
grin worthy.
Intensive break time PDA
tried to ruin bar themed
chit-chat between
assumed college students.
Psychedelic nipple dancing was set
on hold so
band members could sip on frothed
up drinks and bite
away lettuce leaves from
hour old burgers.
Everyone tried not to
question thick and dark
lipstick and perkier - than - normal
breasts, but the sight
was quick to be spotted.
With eccentric trumpets
returned maracas,
now carried by a hesitant yet
overjoyed audience member.
Bass flew in, dums proceeding
like the backbone of all
cheering sounds.
Magenta dressed and displeased
tie dance tiredly on smoothed out
brick, Miller still watching idly
on her crescent moon top perch.
She seems as pleased as ever,
as though enjoying bass riff
vibrations as much as the rest.
Microphones pulled from the
depths of a shiny black computer
bag, catching every note
as child would fireflies.
Tattoo’d cook splays arms to
show a bird’s brain.
At some point my muse is
lost with the best of the
songs and I’m forced to put
my pencil down.
But simply,
you cannot resist,
thick painted bathroom walls
call back
graphite, filling fingertips with
stinging pain
for the sake of memories.
A stern beard begins to
grow tired, eyelids drooping
while remembering a one-in-the-morning
end and a
55 minute car trip after cleanup.
Does anyone truly know
what it feels like to drown?
To engulf your essence in
purity,
feel the under water waves
pull out breath
after breath
after breath,
until you know there’s not one
remaining, and your clock has
ticked three times too many
because you can never
seem to get away without sucking
in slat,
and soon enough the sweet
breezy air you’ve craved for too long.
Can anyone please,
please tell me how it feels
to lose each lung
in my rib cage
to blue oceans and
chlorine filled swimming pools?
Share with my naivety the suffrage
your desperate limbs felt as
your soul split and
left through your icy fingertips.
Has anyone else experienced a
sun filled season, so desperate
for an anti-existential moment that
wind pipes occupied by water
seemed a heavenly delight?
That liquidated torture seemed
a valid excuse to
get away?
Who else had a childhood
of icy swimming pools
reincarnated
as a simple acceptance,
as a hand holding onto
the colder railing of
metal ladders,
keeping your nose
underwater and acting as if you
had gills instead of lungs.
I couldn’t have been
the only kid to exchange
heartbeats for
happiness.
Couldn’t have been the
only one
walking along deep
sand to try and keep my
head under and
pipes filled with terrifying
green murk.
Does anyone truly know
what it feels like to drown?
Who won the battle against
instinct,
and why couldn’t it have been me?
The sound of love is the sound of music.
It’s the sound of drums
resonating through your heart
and Sam petting bass strings like he was
born with the instinct.
It’s the sound of dad
playing guitar with James
as his counterpart, the younger grinning
ear to ear.
Love looks like Boaku’s braids
flooding onto an enthusiastic drummer, and
seeing that viking helmet
bought from Vidler’s making it’s rounds
across the stage as the performers shared
that plastic wonder.
Jennifer’s sax could leave a man
jaw dropped, and the earring splayed
across her cheek to the piercing on her nose
was a fascinating movement
while she danced across pedal wires.
Love is watching a Pittsburgh sunset
on the skyline and knowing
a 5 hour car trip isn’t necessary
to go back home. Love is an experience,
best felt while watching a handful
of dancing strangers appreciate the moment.
That run down stage
in an unknown park
is a visual you crave, more than the glistening
of the sun on the lake down the hill,
or lush spring greenery on the way down.
A trip to the heavily eccentric Beehive and the sight
of colorful elephant graffiti
signed by “Dong”
are simply sweet landmarks you see
on the way to feeling something special.
Love is a one time thing,
requiring a sleepy lunch at Bob Evan’s
and four and a half hours of various music
on a mustache USB.
Love means getting home at four fifteen
in the morning and not feeling overwhelmed,
but simply knowing it was worth it.
We’re all still kids.
All still the children we
played as at age seven.
We’re fucked up but laugh off
our differences.
Same as we did then.
We cut ourselves
and stab each other.
Stalk old “bestie” when we feel
bad on ourselves.
Now we just see tragedies
through made up lenses.
Watch childhoods bleed out into
previously clean bath water,
a shitty reassuring note trying
to tell the worriers everything is “ok”.
All us kids,
the same kids from seven years prior,
grew up so fast.
Grew up fast enough that the word “kid”
is a memory instead of our
title.
We didn’t expect so many scars at twelve.
Privileged white children raised with
everything, how could we
know so much counseling?
We’re all still kids,
yet try desperately to drown in backyard swimming
pools with a
false smile painting blossom
colored cheeks.
There was no chance of a smiling
6 - year - old realizing
she’d lose so many friends,
and be betrayed by her own two
fists as many times as she was.
How could hand-in-hand
allies go down fighting as heart-broken
tweens the way their memories retell?
Since when do all us kids
feel so much pain?
We’re all still kids,
now so unknown to one another.
Familiar grins now
foreign pictures on our social media
feeds. We never talk
but we all know
she’s not been a virgin for awhile
We were all a fighting
group when we still had so
much more growing to do.
How did we become strangers
throwing daggers at the other strangers
with simple passing glances?
We’re all still kids,
still crying children looking for an
open shoulder,
using our new friends as tissues
to replace the ones we’d
thrown away.
We’re all still kids so lost we don’t
know how to break the pattern.
Love’s Melody…
Where strings pick at the pieces
of my heart, and
dance my eyelids down to listen.
Love’s Melody,
where it’s okay to sway in your seat
gently and curl your fingers
to the sweet and low music.
Love’s Melody,
where you know you aren’t sure
if what you’re feeling is infatuation or need,
so you instead let it creep
inside your ears, let it burrow happily
as your voice hums along without meaning.
Love’s Melody
is not your theme but your
lullaby instead. Your talent.
Your dreams. Your creativity transferred
to a piece of music
so sweet that a repeat button
is a functional masterpiece.
It’s a wordless
cheering squad. A loving pat on the back
without being condescending
or up-beat.
// This is actually about a song that I love to death. It’s Love’s Melody by Django Reinhardt
Grandma,
what were you like?
What did you wish for
as a little girl in Maine?
Why was Sylvia not good enough and Geraldine ok?
Was 3 children enough for you…
and do you miss me?
Do your ashes,
now scattered to the wind,
ever think about the granddaughter
that you never got to hold?
The one you never shared a bowl of ice cream with
and never worried of dropping?
Do my eccentricities remind you of yourself,
or did my mom only ever tell me you would
to give us a connection?
Grandma,
do you miss me?
Do you miss the opportunity
for a child to call you Grandma?
Would I have been too much for you?
Kept in the shadow of my sister?
Would I have been forgotten
for the one you had met?
Grandma,
do you watch as I call your husband’s second wife
the name I should have called you?
Do you ever get jealous
watching your offspring make May bonfires without you?
Were you just as sad as I
when Grandpa moved away from Lyndon,
or was I the only one that loved that place so fully?
Did you watch as your grandchildren
pushed each other off that wooden swing?
Laughed as we laughed
when I struggled to climb trees?
Did you cry the summer we ventured to visit,
but had to stay in the house
because of Miriam’s seizure?
Grandma,
would you have complimented my
childhood of notebooks filled with scribbles?
Would you have taken our handmade
thank you cards we accidentally glued shut?
Grandma,
do you ever wish you could have been
around to set me on your lap,
my 7-year-old self struggling to try and read to you?
Grandma,
do you miss me?
Because even now,
without ever having met you,
I know I miss you more than any tearful conversation could let on.
theartofmadeline
yousharknotpass
pixelskylines
annaxmalina
vaporwave