Letter Never Sent

Don't leave me feeling beautiful.
Don't kiss me one last time.
Turn away as we cut these strings,
give me a silent end; a last goodbye.

Remind me of the good times,
scare away the bad.
But don't leave me here waiting,
hoping you weren't the best I've had.

Your clock moves forward,
the seconds ticking down.
But me, I'm standing, stuck and lost
wishing you'll be there when I'm found.

Don't leave me feeling beautiful.
Don't smile and wish the best.
Cut the ties, say your goodbyes.
Don't worry, I'll burn the rest.

What's Left

Two to three years.

That’s our expiration.

I see the date stamped in the corner.

A ticking  clock, counting down to the end of life vacation.

28, maybe 29.

That’s the oldest I will be.

So much growing up left to do.

So much me that you’ll never see.

I wish I hadn’t asked.

I wish I didn’t know.

Didn’t have this number hanging over head,

A fucked-up mistletoe.

But that is all I know now.

That is all I think.

As I watch you disappear,

Water washing away ink.

We still have time, I hear.

I’ll carry on, push through.

I must, to create memories,

I will carry on for you.

Can I Explain?

If I could write a song, a prayer, a letter

To tell you all my hopes and fears- would it be enough.

Would it be enough to write every thought I have

Just so you would see a glimmer, begin to understand?

I could try. I could write for days.

But it would never quite explain.

The thoughts that haunt me, the nightmares I live,

The baggage I claim.

Jude

Don’t we all

Dream to fly.

Put our arms out,

Hug the sky.

Long to float,

Drift through space.

Tethered to nothing,

Tied to no place.

You felt weightless

Hung free.

But you were tied,

Stuck completely.

Circles never end,

Continue, on and on.

You’ll live in my head,

A faded memory, never gone.

Lost forever,

Our little boy.

Taken in darkness,

Our light and joy.

Live on in us,

Who remember you.

You’re always here,

Our lovely Jude.

Life's Flame

There’s less heat to the fire,

The sparks are diminishing.

And though the laughter still leads to coughing

And the jokes still come, but stumbled, there’s a missing piece.

The light still shines and is warm.

The joy is overwhelming and comforts.

But if you stare too long into the flame you can see it.

The bare bones are there, not providing the same heat they did once.

Now the sticks are thin and warn.

They lean on one another, attempting to keep up.

But they crumble, and they fall.

The flames consumed them quickly,

And though the spirit is alive and well – the vessel,

Is frail.

Stare into the fire.

Absorb the heat while it is still warm and bright.

Welcome it to feed your soul and nourish what sparks still light.

Carry it with you, for as long as it is there, a fire continuing to fight –

You can postpone the ever-looming night.

Dead Ends

The truth is, sometimes I start in one place with a strong idea, but then a tidal wave of emotions takes over and I lose all logical patterns and just write. In college, this would be critiqued. Write your work in a logical manner, make sure it ties together. But tell me, what is logical about this life I'm living? What is logical about everything I have experienced...not just within these last few years, but my whole life. If you find the logic within my last 25 years, if you find the purpose, the why - then I will write it. Until then, this is what you get. My thoughts. My ramblings. My search for order in the hoarder life my brain and emotions are living. This is me, trying to find an exit to the maze I live, only to find dead ends.

It’s funny. In preparation for graduation I bought a gown. Black, synthetic material, a little too long because I’m oddly proportioned like that, and yet the only gown a remember is the one I lent you.

Do you remember that? Showing up to my apartment door in only a slip, with confused shirt slightly covering you, and yet somehow you were bare? Perhaps that’s when I should have questioned. But that day was meant to be mine. Instead of reflecting, I laughed and praised fate that I procrastinated packing…I didn’t even question that you could no longer dress yourself.

And now I see pictures. Girls with their mothers, smiling with their tassels high. They will hold onto those memories for so long, but mine. Mine is a memory of pulling my family together one more time. Making sure everything ran smoothly. Keeping the world from falling apart so I could have one day.

One day. That’s too much to ask for now isn’t it. I can’t have one day where our life is normal. I can’t have one day when you remember my stories, you don’t interrupt my explanation only to ask the question again. One day where I can focus on who I am and show her to you, because I am too busy trying to help you find the pieces of who you were, and understanding them in the mess we are.

We are.  We are not one person. And yet it is our life. Our life that fell apart that day in March. Our life that continues to spiral. Too long has my life not been my own. I was 16 when I learned to be my own parent. Twelve when I learned to care for myself. Seven when I took care of myself after nightmares and sickness. There I am taking care of me. That’s when you and I became we. You needed me to take care of you. You needed him, he wouldn’t give, so there I was to provide you both with comfort.

Comfort that she would be alright on her own. Comfort that she was strong enough, mature, a force all on her own. At six, I was deciding my life for myself. At nine, I found comfort in a friend. At eighteen, I was older than many people are at forty. And at twenty-five I find myself exhausted. Every memory is reflected in a mirror smudged and broken. I see the cracks as they were, not the perfect collage of glass I always believed them to be. But ragged edges, meant to cut and hurt me. There is comfort in the reflection, but there is truth in the image that I never wanted to touch. There is pain I never wanted to be real.

Reality is, I can’t clean the mess until I acknowledge the existence. I can’t change, can’t build, until I realize it was broken. I try. I try to remember and pretend it was perfect. But the mirror isn’t what’s cracked. It’s me. It’s my life that is broken. And it’s not my job to fill in the blanks. But to pull my pieces together. Separate, I can still see you. Separate I can question and not fall apart. Separate I can give myself one day.

Rose's Turn pt. 2

I’m the audience to your life.

Commentary, useless background noise.

I get it now.

So that’s what I’ll be.

An aw here, and oh no! when things go wrong.

But I won’t provide a face.

I won’t offer words of advice or attempt to burden you with me.

When you ask, you’ll get an off-stage “great” and I’ll go back to cuing the lights.

Making sure you are center stage, that’s my job with you.

Making sure that everyone stays around you.

I’ll be background for your life.

But you’re sure as hell not going to star in mine.

Good luck pushing through the chorus.

Break a leg trying to enter my spot.

This world, the one I’m living in, doesn’t have room for you and your ego of two.

Your world, I will support.

In mine, I’m the lead.

And you can bet, I’m not backing down from this one woman show.

You can bet that I’m taking the bows that I owe.

You can bet that this time it’s all coming up me.

So, yea, I’ll give you your laugh track.

 But that’s all your getting…

yours is a role that aint’ coming back.