Unheard of, Again

27 in NYCwriting is a way to get rid of feelings, while keeping them too.

[unheardofagain]

now there's a group chat from the group trip;

she said, these are my people that you wouldn't get

[unheardofagain]

i tried to gaze forward, but your eyes got in the way.

you made me realize a nightmare, where i can't make anyone stay.

my smile was too wide to be a source of poetic mystery,

to ensnare you in a chase of artistic misery.

yet i loved you selfishly, given everything i couldn't say.

i loved you lonely on long train rides that only went one way.

[unheardofagain]

I either feel like I'm turned off and too groggy to "do", or on fire with burning chaos that I throw all around where it doesn't matter. And in both states, I'm simotaneously the most and least present person in the room.

[unheardofagain]

ADHD

i'm tired, sensitive, hyper

careful with feelings but clumsy with words.

and it's easy to hate myself;

i'll show you how.

standing there too meek and loud,

no conviction, mumbling, stuborn,

an uncomfortable soul to be around.

[unheardofagain]

I’m writing this because my therapist suggested that I do, and it’s hard to know if he meant it literally. And I’m writing this all here, because I’m tired of feeling this ie. shame.

Disclaimer: My circumstances were closer to the word “comfortable” than “catastrophe” in any dictionary. They were no commercially impressive hardships to overcome. Nothing in my life would make the news stories that  yield surprise tears in the inner corners of my eyes, just like the ones my mom would shed with a dramatic sob back when I’d tease her about it. Nothing like those news stories at all. But the thing is, small things can hurt. And the everyday little pain of others can hit my heart the hardest… because it can feel so present, so easy to understand, or perhaps because I feel I played a part in it by being there.

Flash back to the time we had a lunch potluck at work and someone brought a soup into the grey office that needed to be plugged in. The main table was far from the wall, so someone pointed to where it was placed in a far away corner where everyone forgot about it. They were not the loudest person in the room, so the person didn’t say much. It wasn’t until I finished my lunch, that I saw them unplugging the full contents, quietly and recalled it was there and that no one else remembered either.  And I wish that I had asked for one taste to this day or one other person had remembered. And I think about the time they spent making that soup and lugging that big pot all the way though the city with hope it would be tried...  All that to say, while my problems were not devastating, I think others might be able to understand the pain they could have caused.

Again, nothing profound was wrong, yet I lived in constant shame as though everything in my home life was something to hide. And it turns out, the sting of anxiety that my facade would be found out and the sinking sense that I was lesser than those around me, was worse than anything I really encountered.

And so I hope that by sharing my not-so-bad story, one less person worries about sharing their story, especially the elements they were born into and backdrops they couldn’t control. You have nothing to be ashamed of.

Xox 

[unheardofagain]

i’ve been living in these one-way mirror memories far too long.

[unheardofagain]

JC Penney’s in November

[unheardofagain]

i’m worried about us darling.

the way that a moment turns to icy hate.

the way we don’t share the things that make us smirk.

I’m worried about us darling. 

[unheardofagain]

[unheardofagain]

i have nothing of you, the way i once did. while she has all of you, the way i never did.

everywhere l look, there’s not a new piece of you. no leftover notes or comments to discover, no new signs of you or us. i used to take comfort in the ways that we found to steal a secret laugh or the sad rush i could have alone with pieces of our history. but now, they feel older as stale relics that won’t let me jump back in and reminisce. there’s nothing new in moment of stillness to hold. it’s just me here, in a bed you’ll never know. it’s lonely being a tourist of the past on a missing to exist in a a future that can’t unfold.

is stalking poetic if you do it by candlelight?

And did I create all of this on my own? Was there ever a thought of me or a whisper of us you’d hold?

xx 

[unheardofagain]

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writing prompt: “it had rained” in honor of didion

[unheardofagain]

i’ve been cheating in my sleep, and it aches

when my conscience wakes.

i linger to remember in the bed we make.

[unheardofagain]

still feel emo

does anyone else have a constant pressing in their chest? is this is anxiety, is this depression? when i breath in, my lungs press against a ribbed cage of loneliness and fear. when i breath in to deep, i feel the dull burning terror of not being understood--not being loved. i’m still 13 and laying on the floor with my door closed with nothing but a dinner on the horizon where i won’t eat. it’s a friday with nowhere to go and i feel terrible. my mom’s boyfriend is downstairs sweating on the computer, transfixed by the women that pop up in unclosed windows. they get underpaid and they taught me about sex. my mom’s lying on the filthy couch where she chooses to sleep. she never sleeps in her bed.

[unheardofagain]

I’m sick to my core,

‘cause Love Island is toxic,

And I watched more.

I woke up at 4,

Thinking of two great loves:

Archways and wood floor.

I hope we get what

We want. Just in time to

Want the next big thing.

What is it that your

Mind tells you when you pass

By a big mirror slowly  

Mine reminds me, my pores

are not getting smaller, but they’re

Freckle-like in photos

If you paint a plant

With your college brush and artsy friends

You will kill it.

It’s crazy that in adulthood

No one tells you to do it

You just do it.

Have you ever gone

To bed with everything done