I'll Never Be The Same (No. 10)

My boy loves me.

My boy loves me.

I'm sorry I keep talking about it.  I just feel like if I stop, I won't ever figure it out.

He loves me, he does.

I guess I resign to never seeing that side of life.  I resign to all those things we shoved aside.  The ones we put in the dresser drawer at night, saying we'd bring them out again when the time is right.  Then he locked it tight and put the key in the medicine cabinet.  Right where I'd never see it.

My boy…

He told me small lies and grand truths and I called that love.  He gave me reality and cynicism and I called that chivalry.  He threw everything I knew into a jar and shook it up and when I got it back, I couldn't tell the difference between heaven and the word "up."  I put my hands on the floor and walked on the ceiling and claimed I was just doing what I was supposed to do.

He loves me.

I got tired of saying it.  Of reminding myself.  It became the only thing I knew to be true.

He loves me.  My boy, he loves me.

After the river incident of June 2013, I was worse than ever.  I was trying to erase imprints of his thumbs on my forearms.  I was trying to sever the ties he had roped around my ankles.  I had cowered in his shadow for so long that I was afraid of my own.  I was expecting 6 more weeks of winter.  Turtlenecks, tights, and gloves in 90 degree weather.

He hated himself, he hated what he thought about, and he despised what he became.  He left little notes on the floor, and cleaned out my bedroom closet, and never once questioned the things I had collected over the years.  He made me breakfast.  The eggs were cold.  But the bacon was perfect.

The eggs were cold, but the bacon was perfect.  The days were fine, but the evenings were fragile.  The parties were long, but the walks home were lonely.  And I'll never forget the day he left drunk and I had to carry his shoes.  He never asked me once what I believed in.  He always assumed that I would leave him.  He was right to worry.  He was wrong to believe it.  No, I was too afraid.

My boy.  

I have no doubt.  

My boy will always love me.

Existentialism (No. 9)

(I like this video way too much.

If you watch the whole thing:

marry me?)

_______________________________

Here lies a hiccup, a hunger, a love.  

I wanted to do something that deserves to be talked about.  Because I'm a bad sister and a bad lover and a bad student and writing was the only thing I thought would redeem me.  It's my last plea for guidance, my last second chance.

I'm afraid that my lack of a past is a sign that I don't really exist.  My mind is plagued by snapshot images of nights in front of the television and folding laundry with my mom.  Movies and car rides and sunset colored walks through trees.  The haunted playhouse and Hilary Duff.  I'm afraid that I made it all up.  Because I can't hear anyone, and I can't remember what they look like.  I can't see more than 5 seconds.  I can't find what I should have never forgotten.

I'm afraid that you'll tell me the truth about everything, and I won't be me anymore.  I'm afraid of waking up one day and looking 60 years old and not knowing how I got there.  Not knowing why I can't run as fast as I used to and why I never had any kids.  

I'm afraid that you'll forget all about me, like I have forgotten you.  So easily.  So shamelessly.  

I think that even if I do end up with my handprints in the sidewalk, I'll still feel this way.  No matter how many vague metaphors I make or how many songs I listen to.  Even if I do end up making that movie about the girl who doesn't fall in love in the end.  Even if I do end up giving that acceptance speech.  I'm not ever going to move on.  I'm not ever going to be satisfied.

What I'm trying to say is that I wanted to be fixed.  I wanted to be able to get up and out and not stress about making small talk.  I wanted to make you laugh.  And I wanted to exist.  

But I guess writing is better than existing.

You get to pretend to exist.  

All About Gardening (This Is Not About Gardening)

"Sometimes I feel like something is missing, like my backpack or a shoe, then I realize my spirit is just hungry.  So I pray, and I feel better." 

--Haley, an 8 year old.

I used to sit with her on my lap, and I'd tell her about July and the way it feels when someone wants to ride the tilt-a-whirl with you.  I'd tell her it's strange, but also the best feeling.

She used to ask me about high school and what boys think of girls who wear braids.  She used to tell me that my stories made her want to grow up.  And that being a kid wasn't as fun as being ready.

If I could look Haley in the eyes and say one thing to her right now, I'd say that you'll never really be ready.

I wish I could tell you what it's like to leave.  But I can't.  It's a strange mixture of hope and relentless fear, a distorted beauty, a fractured expectation.  It's lonely, but also endlessly crowded, and there are people who will want you to fail.  And people who will want you to succeed.  And people who really just don't care about any of it.  There are no bedtimes and no dietary restrictions.  There are no punishments.  And no rewards.  You feel twelve, you look 20, and you act like both.  You have to make your own phone calls to the DMV and you don't have to go to the dentist anymore.  Except you probably have like, four cavities that need to be taken care of.

I used to be just like Haley.  I used to think I'd only be happy when I grew up.  But now I know that the only time I ever was happy was when I was a kid.  I'm torn between wanting change and feeling nostalgic for my past.  

Because I know things will never be the same.  

And I'll never be able to put my head on my mom's lap and tell her that I've never loved before, and that it sounds wonderful.  I'll never be able to undo what's been done.  But I know that somewhere out in the world there's a little eight year old girl wondering about love and beauty, and not hesitating to pray.  She's smarter than me, and bigger in heart.  

And I know that not all is lost.

The Truth About Me

This one is different.  Because it's late, and I can't sleep, and I'm afraid if I do, I'll forget the way I feel right now, in this moment, when my shoulders hurt and my head is heavy.

I really should be asleep right now.  I've got to wake up in 5 hours for church, and I can't afford to not listen anymore.  I'm trying this new thing where I'm good at church.  So far, there have been no immediate results.  

I have to say some things I cannot say out loud.  Please don't think of me as cheap.  I am not looking for pity or justification.  I really just want to sleep.

1. My first memory is of me telling a lie.  It was the beginning of the nasty habit I still have today.

2. My older sister is the reason I am the way I am.  I didn't want to be like her.  I wanted to be better.  I wanted to not be made fun of.  She's the reason I do not speak.  She's the reason I am insecure.  But she's also the reason I've always loved God. 

3. I've learned some things about my father that I cannot say.  Just know that my heart weeps for him, and because of him.  He is equal parts magnificent and broken.  And I just don't know what to think anymore.

4. The day we lost our house was the day I figured out that some things are better off lost.  And what you want most is the thing you will never know.

5. My life of moving has not made me an outgoing person--it's done quite the opposite.  I can no longer connect to people. 

6. My roommate is unhappy because I'm not enough.

7. I once was a good writer.  I'm not anymore.

8. The people I thought would never leave or forget me have done just that.  And even though I'm used to the feeling, it still sucks.  Being familiar with something is not the same as being okay with it. 

9. I'm pretty sure the reason I can't remember a lot of my childhood is because my mind blocked most of it out.  The reason for this is something only my past knows.   

10. The boy I thought would save me instead broke me down.  And he left a scar on my leg to prove it.

11. I am overly sentimental because nothing in my life is permanent.  Except the disappointment.

12. I will someday be very rich, because I can't stand the fact that my mom wakes up every morning at 4:30 to answer phones.  

13. A part of me will always wait for him.

14. I think I'm losing my mind.

(Pictures from Donald Glover's Instagram)

The Letter I Threw Away

My dearest,

Something exciting ends today.  

The rocks and the salt and the sea and the fresh air end today.

Snow's falling down pretty quick now, and the fishermen are drawing their nets in.  I wonder where you're going for the holidays.

Something really upsetting starts today, and I can only imagine the worst.  These days were once my grace, so now I'm wondering where the mercy went.  

I'll meet you there someday,
Where the sea meets the sun.  

When the guns and the bible don't mean anything to no one. 

My dearest, something terrible will happen today, and I just wish you were here to see it.

Here's Too Forgetting

                                          

I fell for a boy and it was the worst thing I could have done. 

He brushed my hair and then let me down easy, and I think that’s when I knew that I was just like all the other girls.  I was just another misunderstanding.

We were perfect strangers with an incomplete love, yet I still marvel at how we fit together like sprockets and gears.

But someone else was cranking that wheel that made it all burn, someone else was watching and waiting and wondering how it would all work out in the end.  And I’m here to say that it didn’t, because I still see teeth marks on the glass cups in the dining room.  I still hear the ground move. 

And every day I spray the windows and I scrub the already clean dishes, and think about when he used to take my hands and study the bends and lines in them like he was about to take a test. 

I needed you more than you allowed.  Were you even upset at all?  Do you ever think about the tap dancing lessons or the bottom of the sink after you spilled the champagne?  Do you ever listen to that song we both hate, and think about how it’s not as bad when you’re alone?

I do.

And I think that if you gave me the chance, I’d let you take me to Denver.  I’d let you ask me about the scar on my leg, and this time I’d tell you the truth.  

The Blame's On Me

He was interested, and that's why I let him hold me.

Yesterday I spent most of the day running away from lunch tables and leaving fingerprints everywhere.  She told me to smile.  I told her I was.  She told me to smile harder.  

Well, I guess this is it.  This is where we forget the color of each other's eyes.  This is where you stop clinging to my elbow, and telling me that the woman across from us looks just like that girl from Saved By The Bell.  This is where I throw away that one sock you spilled grape juice on.  This is where you and I become you.  And I.

Now, we're those two people that occasionally like each other's Facebook statuses.

And I want to know why he keeps putting his arm around me, like I'm his childhood stuffed in a dress.  Why does he tell me his secrets and his strengths, like I'm not counting down the steps until we reach my front porch.  Like the curls on my head are bouncing just for him.

I want to know why you've left me with nothing but a violin and an empty jar.  I want to know how you could look me in the eyes and forgive me for being rash, forgive me for letting you down, and then tell me that five states is not enough space.

I'll give you five states, in fact, I'll give you the globe.  I'll give you as much as it takes to stop seeing that girl from Saved By The Bell on street corners and in coffee shops.  To stop seeing my own miserable migraine induced delusions plastered across the sides of all the buses in New York City.  I'm tired of that sound my bed makes when it feels the weight of just me.  

It's just me.

And I know I shouldn't still believe in plus signs and ampersands.  And I shouldn't wait around for the train to arrive.  

But your reasons for taking my picture down are all too familiar.

So that's my cue to leave.

Thanks For Listening

I'm sorry it wasn't good enough.

But tomorrow, we'll make our beds and wipe off the counter tops as if nothing has ever happened.
And we'll ignore the constant clicking of our bedside worries.
And our arms will brush aimlessly against the next,

in a detached
and passive way.

And our mothers will cry
and our best friends will not.

And the red light bulb will flash, and we will weep for the memories that eat at our hands.

I will miss your stories and your kindness, and the way you slur your words when you're tired.  I will miss Paris, and the lights.  And the old man who counts the number of people that pass every hour.

I'm sorry this wasn't good enough.  The paths of reality and desire run parallel to each other, but sadly they do not cross.  And that's not anywhere near the apology you deserve, but I don't have a better one to offer.  So this one will have to suffice.

I'm sorry I can't fix you.

I guess I just can't equate.

Who Says We Can't Have It All?

If there's one thing I've learned from high school, it's that the best way to have success in life is to fill your head with apathy.

I can do that.

Walking In High Heels And Not Tripping

I don't recognize a lot of things about my house anymore, not even the easy things like shapes and sounds.  And so many pieces of my room seem to be missing, like the bedside table.  I can't find the grainy surface beneath the unopened bank statements and illegible post-it notes.  Neither can I see the old nail polish stain on the carpet, or the dozens of tiny holes in the wall from countless attempts at filling that enclosing white space.  I feel sorry for doctors, and new homeowners.  The white space can drive you mad.

They expect me to not be so childish anymore.

"Come, Charlotte," they say, "tell us about how the enchiladas turned out.  Tell us about your choice of interesting fabric for these interesting pillows.  Tell us about how much fiber is in your cereal."

To which I'll reply, "Well, from time to time, I really enjoy a big bowl of Fruity Pebbles."

"Oh, I love Fiber One."

They're only waiting for their turn to talk.

What's worse is I cannot remember that beautiful phrase I came upon in that book I finished last week.  I wrote it down, and then accidentally set it on fire while trying to light a candle.  And when I search my mind for any recollection of it, I only come up with a list of the deposits I have yet to pay for my apartment, and all the things I still need to buy before I move out.

And the strangest part is:
The white space no longer bothers me.

"What a fine young woman you've become.
Such a fine woman."

Mr. Brown, You've Disappointed Me Once Again

He said his time was unspent, his promises un-sung.  He told me he was waiting for the winds to change, to lift his trodden feet off the dirt and carry him away to a different state.  Someplace where the street corners are crooked and the gutters are empty.  He wanted a new building to look at every day on his way to get his morning coffee.  He wanted less alcohol and his mom to stop calling him.  He said all her phone calls ended the same: a broken plate and a mark on his forehead.

He said that he saves $30 from each of his pay checks, but he doesn't know what for.  He just saves it.  

He said he loves Tennessee in the winter.  

He said that he would call me when he figures out how to stop seeing rain everywhere.  

I still haven't heard back.

Concerto For Piano And Violin In C Minor

You must think me mad.

Well I have no reason to reason with you.  Because you never did learn to get to know me, and you never did learn to let me be.

But I will still claim to love you, now and for forever.  You don't deserve that at all, but I give it freely.  I understand the things we never speak of.  I understand the things you cannot see.

But you did always say that I was going to suffer.

And you always did say I was at fault.

You told me once that I was no better than the soil, 

and that I'd always be plain and dull and small.

What To Expect From Me For The Next Five Years:

-A lot of missed phone calls

-A lot of canceled weekend trips

-Short days

-Long nights

-Cookies (apologies)

-Music

-Half-finished craft projects

-3:00 am research papers

-Stained notebooks

-Unopened stationary

-About 4 really long hugs

-A lot of back aches

-Trash runs in the middle of the night

-Insecurity

-Carefully planned bedsheets

-Morning breath

-A half-present mind

-Paris themed walls

-Too many blog posts

-One sided conversations about how I think my legs are getting  really chubby

-No eye contact

-A box in my closet full of crap memories
-Matthew Broderick movie marathons

-Spice scented candles

-Unused ice skates

-An unfinished screenplay for a zombie movie

-A really long bucket list

-Exhausted use of the word awesome

-Fake laughing

-Awkward moments

-Ignored questions

-3200 used matches

-Hours of listening to classical music set to funky drum beats*

-Hipster jokes

-Glee: The Music - Volumes 2,3, and 5

-Duct tape pens

-Christmas sweaters

-Unwashed dishes
-Empty shelves
-Empty promises

*

My Indian Nose

"You have your grandmother's eyes, you have your father's nose."

They picked a little white girl to play Cinderella in my third grade play.  And I didn't think much of it, really.  But when they picked a blue eyed girl to play Rapunzel a few years after, I realized I'd never be that kind of princess.

I knew he was Indian when I turned 11.  That was the year my little sister asked him what tigers looked like.  That was the year I got glasses.  That was the year he ripped a chunk of hair out of my doll's head.  I knew it like I knew that yellow was just a color, and green was not.  Yes, that was the year his own mother died, and I recalled the day I met her years before and we didn't speak at all because neither of us knew how.  But I remember the tears on her face when we left.  She must have loved me, I just never heard it for myself.  

But he was Indian to me for the first time that year, and I can't say why.  I noticed that his skin looked darker and his grammar was poor, and his head had started balding, and his arms were more hairy.  I thought it was strange.  I never thought about what that made me until I was 15, and someone asked me if I had a feather or a dot*.  

They say that discovering yourself is like waking up.  And now I know why.  It took me 18 years, but I now understand the story of the lines on my hands and the curve of my nose.  I understand why my fingers bend backwards, as if there is no bone.  I understand the thick, dark hairs on my arms and my almond shaped eyes.  I know why my irises hide my pupils.  I know why my skin scars too easily and why sun screen was never necessary.  I get it.  I'm made for the sun and for the colors.  I'm made for rain and dust and heart.

I've fallen in love with the people and the country that I come from.  They are loud and nosy and stubborn, but they love with a love that matches God's.  They feel with their mouths and hear with their eyes.  And while many of them live with nothing, they are without a doubt the happiest people I know. And I love them and all that they stand for.  

Tradition, honor, family, and love.

నేను నా కుటుంబం మరియు నా సంస్కృతి ప్రేమ. నేను భారత రక్త కలిగి గర్వపడుతున్నాను. నేను లోపాలు కలిగి, మరియు నేను విచారం కలిగి, కానీ నేను వాటిని నాకు వదిలి కలిగి అనుకుంటున్నారా ఎప్పుడూ. వారు నా పూర్వీకులు నాకు కనెక్ట్ విషయాలు ఉన్నాయి. వారు నన్ను ఇంటికి తీసుకురావడానికి.

My aunt Margret, me, and my father

*The answer to that, by the way, is neither.

No one cares about the promises you keep.

Snow In August

There's a cold hallway in my building that leads to the roof.  Dish washer empty, curtains pulled together, I wonder where to hide the key.  That cold hallway will still be there tomorrow morning, but I'll stand in the middle of it until my neighbor's light goes off.

I figure one day I'll have somewhere to be on nights like this.  Maybe you'll invite me to go for Chinese.  Maybe we'll finally go to Moab.  Maybe that carnival will still be open, and maybe your plans will fall through.  Maybe we'll ride the ferris wheel, twice.  And maybe I won't get sick.  But maybe if I do, you'll buy me ice cream to calm my stomach.  And maybe you won't think that's lame.

There's a girl in my building who passes me every Sunday on her way up to the top.  I can hear her calling out into the open sometimes.  "My days are empty, every day."  And I believe it's true.  Because it's our collective truth.  She'll be the framework and I'll be the floor, and he'll be the walls, and you'll be the roof.  We'll be the box, and everything will just be expected.  Cream paint with complementing shades of beige.  Pottery barn furnished.  And a pug.  Christmas will always be on December 25th, and school will always start in August.  Mondays will be long and Fridays will be fast and the living room still needs to be vacuumed, I asked you to do that two weeks ago. And that picture you drew in Preschool has been on the fridge for twenty years because you haven't yet made something better to replace it, not because your mom likes it there.

Maybe it'll snow this August, and they'll cancel school.

Or maybe it'll be just the same as it's always been, and you won't offer to carry my books.

And maybe someday I'll figure out how to open that door at the end of that cold hallway that leads up to the roof.  And I'll find that girl that passes me every Sunday.  And I'll ask her why she hasn't jumped yet.  And she'll say, "I thought you'd never ask."

That's when she jumps.

Quiero Tus Manos En Mis Ojos

Darling, I'm not the same person I was when I awoke this morning.  I don't know what it was, but I no longer want those things I so desperately settled for the night before yesterday.  Instead, I want your chiseled knees bumping into mine underneath the table, and your morning breath.  I want your eye lids to only close halfway when you look at me.  I want your broken fountain pens and your empty journals.  I want your temper tantrums and your bitter comments and your cold cup of tea.  I want your jar of strawberry jam to be my jar of strawberry jam.

Our strawberry jam.

And darling, I'll take your soaking silence over your finger tips any day.

I just want to be able to tell you that your eyes match the mountains and all the uncharted seas.  That the lights on the hillside are all yours to keep, and that the clocks that think they're needed don't count down the time for you.

Darling, you make me wonder why hearts aren't shaped like hearts, and why that matters to me so much.  You're peaches and red gingham table cloths and daffodils.  You're wind chimes in June.  You're Saturday's sunrise.  You're violins.

And I love you, just because.