Subordination doesn’t mean not

standing up for oneself

does it?

it can’t

making oneself understood

is an art form

i never mastered and

if I did, it was in

another lifetime

I vaguely remember. The

ashes surround me, they

tickle my nose and

everyone can see how

dusty they’ve made me

I bathe in them daily. the

abuse and the

magic that helped me

dissociate long enough to

survive

consume me

alive

What would I do if I had a place to place my thoughts?

if an ear would hear me out, what would I say?

if a shoulder were to shoulder all my worries, would I share?

the truth is that I’m dying to engage

I’m dying but not desperate

I’m dying because I’m not desperate

because I’d rather die than share in vain

because desperation is vain

if you haven’t seen it and don’t understand it, there’s really no way to explain it

I’ll find what I’m dreaming of some way, somehow

the platform escapes me for now

it’s so close, I can taste, but maybe the time isn’t right

My mind always races and if I let it convince me, I get ahead of myself and that’s what gets me into trouble

but not this time

my only resolution this time is to be patient

and if I never find it, my thoughts are to die with me

one by one

like the Ella Wheeler Wilcox poem

one by one

I used to have so many conversations with you in my head because I felt I couldn’t speak to you

that stopped the day I let you go

the conversations turned into reflections of the last two decades

I sang “If I could turn back time” so many times that I believe I actually did

and now that time is convoluted, I find myself reflecting at times and other times, I’m having those conversations with you again

but not the same ones

not the ones about how I feel about your apathy

no, now it’s just wishing I could share the mundane events of my life with you

then I remember the last time that happened and I can’t help but feel that maybe time is running out

time has always been running out

but maybe we’re closer to the end than we can imagine

it’s happened to me twice before and I didn’t know what it meant

third time’s the charm, but unlike a few months ago, I don’t want to turn back time anymore

now all that comes to mind is, “What a wicked game to play to make me feel this way,

what a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you…”

I miss my 12th grade English teacher

most of all, I miss feeling like the future was wide open

like the world was my oyster

because as soon as I graduated

i was just another number

nothing was special about me anymore

and I’ve never recovered from that fall from grace

the pain has merely turned to numbness

I’ll be gone for at least a year. This is me. You’ll know if it’s not me if you don’t hear from me in a year. Until then, there’s no use worrying, so don’t. I’m off to do the thing everyone always mockingly said I would do while not-so-subtly implying that I never would and it doesn’t involve literal suicide, so don’t worry about that, really. Since I promise to stay alive, promise me you’ll do the same at least for a year. I grace you with a farewell and you owe me as much. But enough. Be well. Be happy. Be good. Till soon.

Love,

Your Eternal Disappointment

I was part of her beginning

one of the first sets of eyes on the most intimate of her thoughts

but I always knew I was doomed to be a nobody

no matter what she said or how she tried to reassure me

her words towards me always felt empty compared to the ones I saw her bleed

I was right, of course.

I watch from the shadows as she shines bright in the spotlight and I’m at peace because all is as it should be