There is the heart that you are born with, which is replaced by the heart that you make. I have aimed irresponsibly, in my attempt to shoot at conflicting opinions. I run from beasts, in nightmares. I run from beasts, when I am awake.
I am not going to say that my Mexican shoes should have pointed forward. No one knows how I have struggled to make sense. And I have a teddy bear, you see. It had ten names, and now it has none. It sits in neglect, but I love it in my own way. Like me, it lost its eyes long ago, in some war that was important at the time, but changed nothing.
If I am a reflection of all that has ever existed, why am I not a pleasure to look upon? Why is every minute with me so heavy?
Once, I did something brave. Once, I did aim with precision at a specific target. Down went my panic disorder. It was impossible to know how well it had served me, until I felt its absolute and deafening absence. With the world coming in clearly, I understood the development and necessity of what seemed to harm me, but was actually protecting me. It shielded me from a reality that was much more difficult to process than a rapid heartbeat, or shaking hands, or a series of funny thoughts.
Once, I did something stupid.
I continue to view the relationship I had with Cory, as a severe lapse in judgment. To recall the feel of his body next to mine, on top of mine, is to invite nauseating revulsion. I fault him for so much, that it is difficult to pry reasons apart, and evaluate their validity.
I loathe that we will always share Margaret. This will define who I am, in the eyes of many. Some will turn away from a future we could share, because of the decision Cory and I made together. But only I am supposed to carry the burden and the shame of an abortion.
I do not regret terminating my pregnancy. What I cannot forgive myself for, is that I conceived at all.
The memories fade, but the hurt lingers. I don’t know how to release this. Its power is too potent. Its life, without end.
This girl is small, drawing life in squiggly lines. This girl likes the snow, and owns only thin sweaters. And all my socks still have holes in them.
Oh, baby, hush. Let the ball drop down. Just move in time, so that it does not crush your spine. It is Monday here, but Tuesday somewhere. It is the grey of Hong Kong’s smog-filled skies. As long as a dream can still descend safely, it is fine to rest your head.
All walls will soon feel a tomb. A pharaoh’s treasure only serves a thief well. You would have expected more out of a Summer evening, and for that, there is an uninterrupted longing. And your bed has become an icebox confessional. And your movement is robotic.
The marvelous disappearing act of the gentleman, in the new age. You watched the show, eager to learn something, with a slingshot in your back pocket, and Henry Miller’s wit resting on your tongue.
What things are shared between two strangers, meeting in that sore spot in the center of each other.
Stay. Stay out of desire, not exhaustion. Do not be afraid to embrace the embrace. Exist, so that I may speak with you. Finally.
I do not have my head in the clouds; my entire body rests on one. I feel uneasy, with my swirling thoughts. Raspberry ah-choo, and blueberry bless you. All small loves are just mild illnesses. One can recover without antibiotics. Just a bit of rest, and plenty of fluids.
Ghosts are always wearing what they died in, but they want so much not to be their last memory. They want so much to no longer exist alone.
Today, my Frankie turns five. Next year, it will be on another day. Close to this one, but different. I change his birthday often, eager to celebrate him sooner.
I know myself through him. We have braved three in the morning through dense fog together. We have stood up to men who have taken liberties with my body together. We have cried out the demons together.
Our little bones fold into each other, when I hold him, and we become king under the dark moon’s influence. Our flag on every mountaintop. Our breath in every tornado. We are the hunters, we are the gatherers. Four eyes, sharing one vision. We are the sweet nectar, and the tender meat. We are Rome in its rise. We are the holy shrine.
I want the children to be smart. Let them be smart. Let them be of the forest and the sea and the mountains. Let them be moved by pianos and poetry. Let them know how to balance their cake and their body, on one aching toe. Let them speak the words that they mean. Let them be warriors.
The strangest thing has occurred. It seems a man I have never met, refused an offer I did not make, or not sincerely. And if I tried to explain it any further, I would be unsuccessful. Because failure does not scare me at the moment, I will make an attempt.
Often, Jackie finds herself bored, and invents games to pass the time. She makes a sport out of toying with the emotions of others. On many occasions, she has invited me to participate.
Though I would like to say that I have declined, based on moral objection, this is not the case. For many months now, I have feigned an affection for a man, I know through pictures alone. We communicate infrequently, but I always make sure to throw out an amorous word. Yesterday, I sent not just a word, but an entire letter. Not just any letter, but the one I had written for Matthew. He, Cody, thanked me. His exact words being, “I am very greateful for every word you said this morning.”
Misspelled, insincere gratitude!
Soon after, I swear I heard crickets chirping in Jerusalem. I heard a woman in France laugh at a bad joke. But from him, there was nothing. My counterfeit love was turned away. And just why does this injure me so?