ambiversion

writer / human https://onthisavenue.substack.com

[onthisavenue]

ancestry

i suck the desperation out of my teeth

and run my tongue over the lack.

i haven't called my father in months,

his loneliness aches in the pauses

in between his unsolicited advice

and i can't bear how much i recognize

the same silence in my marrow.

his mother, though he'd hardly call her that,

scours ancestral records, the news, and archives,

reeling in her half-life.

she talks to herself late in the night

praying someone else is listening

as if they could learn from her mistakes.

his brother, if his heart still beats,

roams arizona streets with little more

than poison coursed veins

while his son calls me with gritted teeth

as he rips open wounds that won't close,

asking, "but, how are you?"

i hungrily seek others' pain,

locking eyes with people slumped

in a grey chair,

in the streets,

in the rainy city,

in the hopes that i can suck the poison out of their mouths.

are we all running in circles around ourselves,

patching up each other's hurts while ignoring our own?

i'm a year and a half into

a lifetime of this,

will i ever believe ancestral wounds can heal?

will i ever come to terms with the lack?

maybe then i'll call

[primulaceas]

Mary Oliver, “Dogfish.” Dream Work

[expressions-of-nature]

Sunset after the Rain by Alexej Kokorin

[petaltexturedskies]

Sylvia Plath, The Letters of Sylvia Plath Vol.I: 1940-1956

[weltenwellen]

Erika L. Sánchez, from "Departure"

[adm-kng]

goldstream provincial park, bc | instagram

[lamignonette]

@heavensghost

[onthisavenue]

still

be still, i have often hummed to my heart. she has fluttered and bursted within my ribcage about a billion times, according to some godforsaken AI calculation.

the first night you laid next to me, you had your hand on my thigh as you felt my body's tremor - an autonomous response to prepare me for another soul wound. i breathed, i winced, and i laid next to you anyway.

but, your legs rested gently alongside mine, our breath slowly met in rhythmic tandem, and our hands found each other as we drifted delicately together. we woke to soft sighs and rustling cotton sheets and kneading paws and my heart felt unfamiliarly at ease.

in the days since you've left, lyrics have felt more potent. the sound of bass plucks my heartstrings; drums plant my feet in decaying leaves and beds of moss. my morning coffee rinses my veins, evening tea coats my throat with a caress. i've sang with crows, danced with trees, and greeted slugs. you tell me "it's okay" in my dreams underneath a purple and green sky.

my heart does not know stillness, but she is feeling a bit more at home within my flesh and bones. and i'm realizing i do not want my heart to go still - i want to hum with her as we take it all in.

[onthisavenue]

didn't i grow in that honeycomb?

i often hear quiet little footsteps parading throughout my home after i settle into bed. i've gotten into the habit of peeking into the cabinets, opening and closing closet doors, and triple checking the locks before bed. but when i shut out the lights and close my eyes, i hear the whisper of taps on vinyl flooring.

the home i've lived in for the last two years has watched love flow in and out of the entryway. here, i've sat on my knees and carved the absent's initials in the cabinet under the sink. i've watched torn seams patch themselves up while i felt other threads unravel here. i nursed heartache, tended to plants, and learned to nourish my body. i buried myself in books and cried to therapists in screens about the grief that i still feel within my eardrums. and through that same screen, i finished my degree and am moving across the country to learn how to listen and hold space for it all.

at twenty-eight, the lines on my forehead are deeper but the callouses i grew sound like they are starting to soften. my zip code will begin with 0 and my new home has blue walls and real wood floorboards and overlooks a yard of wildflowers. will the breeze smell different off this coast? will i wear sunscreen more often? will my eardrums still ache? will i love the future stranger that is myself?

a friend recently reminded me of the quote "everything i've ever let go of has claw marks on it." and i think the initials i carved into this apartment are dancing on the kitchen floor when i'm looking away. but i think i'll leave the cabinets, doors, and windows open when i leave.

[nevver]

[nevver]

Today, I only have eyes for you - Monja Gentschow

[expressions-of-nature]

Poppies in Antelope Valley, CA by brontis5

[lawrenceleemagnuson]

Jeremy Miranda, USA Landscape (Fireflies after a rain) 16 July, 2023

[pangeen]

“ Literarily, a “Treehouse” “ // Benedikt Eroness

[the-evil-clergyman]

"You demi-puppets that by moonshine do the green sour ringlets make", from Shakespeare's The Tempest by Edmund Dulac (1908)

[onthisavenue]

an ode to love

i think i was born with an ache i couldn’t put words to. and as i grew, i was able to put words to the feelings - like lonely, or wanting, or emptied, or worried. and as i’ve gotten older i’ve realized the words don’t heal the wound or cover the leak - i’m simply naming it like a pet i cradle. but the pang seems to throb less in the company of women who have their own injuries. like we find our selves pointing at one another’s hurt and say “i have one of those too, i’ve managed to soothe it by dancing at midnight and pouring my feelings out on paper.” and i think i’ve soothed my wounds by pouring my love out to every woman who’s ever expressed vulnerability. and for the women in my life that have, i want to hold you up, to let the sun worship you, to let you bathe in your own beauty and feel it. i hope you know that you’ve inspired generations of healing as you pursue your own. i hope you know that your bravery in confronting yourself, your past - and whether you met it in shame, or fury, or a wince - you have changed the world. the healing is in the bracelet you made or the home you built or the sweat you dripped on the pavement or the peace you carved out of a new house. and there’s so much raw beauty in it  and i’m honored to witness it. so here’s to the love of women, who heal without even meaning to. you are your own treasure and if my purpose it to remind you of that, i’m happy to be here. i’m lucky to love you.

[onthisavenue]

i sit on an axis and peer up at the glimmering world above me where my friends laugh and weep and i pray their tears are from joy. i blink and i see your wrinkled eyes swirl with pride and pain. i say out loud, i have so much to tell you, so much i want to ask you, will you lay with me on a blanket of stars and hold my hand while we talk and watch my friends grow? you nod and rub soothing circles onto my thumbs.

i think i see a shooting star above us, i point to show you and i realize it’s the light catching someone’s red hair; i recognize her and she looks at me and laughs. i walk towards her on a path of stardust that slowly becomes sea-glass and sand. i light her cigarette and mine, holding a glass of red wine on a patio with a sea kissed breeze. im grinning as we cackle and doodle on each others arms. And i turn towards the stars to show you how beautiful she is but only the faint smell of your peach scented lotion remains.

i’m pushed into a path of asphalt flanked by wild grass - I can’t see you, i can’t hear her laugh anymore and your hair has stopped growing. i can’t backtrack the map that lead me to the walkway of stars or the path of sea-glass but i see skyscrapers and choking ivy. i didn’t get to tell you i didn’t want you to go.

These days, on my patio i am met by streetlights peering into my apartment that muffle the stars above. i’m an hour away from a beach. i miss your brown eyes and gentle hands, i miss her long hair and toothy smile. i am in awe watching my friends grow; honored to weep and laugh with them even if the tears aren’t always from joy. and sometimes i am able to look to the sky or wind and trace the maps that help me come back to you.

[onthisavenue]

i think it’s easy to forget that we have been fucking up left and right since the day we were born. we learn how to swallow, to burp, to dance, to say “this hurts,” to jump anyway, to read, to listen, to make friends, to cook, to study, to swim, to feel - all through infinite mistakes and bruises and disagreements and burns and uncertainty. and i wonder if the mark of “growing up” is when the mistakes are no longer light-hearted - when we view them as faults of our own, and not a process in itself. as if those formative years of blubbering and splashing and spinning were the better years anyway. because now i have grown up and have to do everything that is brand new to me perfectly on the first try or i am simply not valuable. as if i have forgotten how important those light-hearted mistakes were and somehow find myself so afraid of the mistakes in my next step.

i have learned (or, am actively always learning) how to be myself, how to show love and be loved, how to write my feelings into pieces that make sense. i have gained countless wisdom and insight and yet i am always surprised by the fact that i am afraid of the next plunge. i have proven to myself time and time again that i truly can start from scratch and make magic - and right on queue, just before it is time to dive, the little voice in the back of my head says with tiny might “oh, are you sure you can do this?” and some days the voice of tiny might is quieted by the sunny voice of confidence. and she reminds me that i won’t let myself down because that is not who i am. but other days, that voice of tiny might grows; and he perches along my shoulder, holds a megaphone up to my ear and screeches. and i think next time i hear his shrieking, i’d like to sit on the ground and let him throw his tantrum until he is too tired to continue shouting.

i don’t have the (imagine a magazine headline) “ten steps to defeat the negative self talk and live your best life TODAY” spiel. but i do think our “best” life is in the moments when we remember not to take it all so seriously, to laugh at our burps, to sit with our self-doubt, to say fuck the made-up-concept of growing up and to hell with perfection, to remember how we tumbled and laughed it off and to believe that there is so much joy in having none of it figured out.