this is for the wastebasket

this is for the wastebasket.

I don’t know where to start, what words to begin this chunk of my life, this long, dark, heavy chunk. It started with my stomach, rejection, fatigue. New rules were made and my mind hated it, and I clung to the comforts I once knew instead of finding new outlets. I holed myself up in my room. I had one solace, my heart, my crutch. After all the pain and all the tears she held me up and I leaned further and further into it, trusting the fall. My mind began to wander more than it had before, letting itself merge into boredom and finding entertainment in mindless games and endless music. Hate began to pore into the empty holes in my day, hate for the weather, hate for work, hate for school. I just wanted to be with my crutch, in my cave, I wanted forever. Nothing looked good, my body filling new voids, folding in more places, filling my jeans. My button popped off one day and I realized my face was covered with more red spots and swollen from sugar and from tears. I tried to grasp onto the last things I had, but nothing worked, they slipped from me, and I jumped onto my crutch, taping it together so it would stay, so worried it wouldn’t that I didn’t have a second to pray. I forgot, I forgot everything, I started to wander, I didn’t save my assignments, I started to lie. The lying, it was so easy.

And then came the days in the burning heat, the days I’ve pushed out of my head, the days I can’t write about. There’s so much to write that I haven’t written it, and my fingers hesitate to put them down because I don’t want to remember the pain. Every time I think about it my stomach turns over, my tongue retreating to hold back the tears, and I can’t. The fatigue and the boredom, the frustration, the confusion, clinging to my crutch, writhing in fear at night. I laid in my sleeping bag and held my eyes shut with tears sneaking out their corners, clenching my fists and holding my breath so that nothing would crawl into my insides. My heart leaped with fear constantly for the first month, and she pushed it off, didn’t understand. It attacked my stomach next, the tears coming easier now, the fear giving way to hunger, the emptiness eating me alive and continuing in the searing pain when I woke up. I laughed, but I laughed less, and I knew I was fading, and I knew she was leaving, and one day, everything fell apart. I started yelling, I started crying, I couldn’t feel, I couldn’t understand. Blinded by something that held me back, I called out to my crutch that seemed to prefer another and I couldn’t understand—YOU WERE MADE FOR ME, my body screamed, and I couldn’t separate the storms in my mind from the newfound weakness in my body. The hate I had bottled started to leak out into my veins, into my heart, and I saw out of a dirty film that plastered everything and everybody around me. The silent screams in my head ate me alive like termites in a rotten log, taking away my sanity and my humanity. I called out to an invisible God and I couldn’t form my thoughts, I couldn’t hear my sentences, and I thought PRESS ON! I MUST! but my feet collapsed under me and the lies continued in the promises, the promises that never ended, the promises that left empty, and the promises that couldn’t be kept. I sobbed when her fingers slipped away from me getting onto that plane, and I knew I had lost the one thing holding me up.

Getting my sickly self back into life never happened after that. My crutch broke in half. I was tormented by an unseemly power. Everything from the previous 20 months came beating down on me, and when I thought I was blinder than ever, my mind took a leave of absence. Through the countless fights and attacks, needles pinched my heart. The pain started small, in my neck, and began to spread into my chest, where I would feel knuckles grabbing at my heart, forcing me to misunderstand until I collapsed in sobs, heaving breaths of mania, panicking until my body would reject me completely and try to vomit the devil out. I couldn’t live. I chose death. I gave in, I chose death, and she left me. My solace, my most precious, my everything, my crutch, she ran. She ran to the thing which so irritated my swollen body and I imagined that it would kill me. It kills me to write this. I can’t write through my tears, and I regret it more than anything. My bones wish to reverse the past, everything in my body aches to have her in my arms again, to be the strong one, to be the one who can make everything better, to mend what’s been broken.

But as the laws of nature would have it, everything good must have its opposite, and karma must take its toll. My crutchless months threw me back and forth, tossing me like a rusty can that’s slipped out of the garbage bin, banging against every loose object and stone until it’s dented and cracked. And as I was forced to bandage myself up, licking my bleeding wounds, it seemed that they were re-opened so many times that I had to forget about my crutch and learn to limp. I don’t know if I’ll ever heal, but I’ve learned to limp, and meanwhile, the crutch lies without a purpose, broken from the whole ordeal. I love her, and I can’t live while she’s broken. My heart has been sanded, made smoother from a piece of raw sandpaper, brushed away in the erosion of the storm, but it’s been left raw and sore. It hurts from the past, it hurts from the pain, and I have no callouses anywhere. Pain everywhere.

So why write?
I’m doing this for me. I’m doing this for 2017, the year I fell, the year I lost the best thing that has ever happened to me. The year that pulled me back further than I’ve been before, the year that humbled me to my bones, the year that dragged away my hope and tainted my faith. For 365 days I’ve been tossed about like a bottle in the waves, but without a message and without precious cargo. I’ve felt worthless, I’ve felt hopeless, I’ve felt useless, and I’ve felt like a murderer. I’ve felt love greater than any love and hate darker than most, and I’ve been confused almost every one of these days. I’ve been tormented by a soul that isn’t my own, and that has tormented the ones I’ve cared about, and I’ve been replaced by someone I don’t know.
So this is for me, and this is for you 2017, you selfish thing.
I’m throwing you away.
I’m throwing away the pain,
and I’m throwing away the confusion.
All the anger, hate, the lies, and depression.
I’m throwing out the anxiety.
I’m throwing away my pride,

and I’m taking with me everything I’ve broken,
carrying it with me on my back,
holding it until it feels loved,
replacing parts if necessary.
I’m taking with me the love I’ve felt,
and I’m going to learn to spread it,
taking the humility,
and finding my Father.
I’m taking more than you took from me,
and I’m not letting anyone have it back.

And for the ones who stood by me, the ones who believed in me the most, I’m taking strength for you too, and I’m holding you close. I’m not strangling you anymore, but thanks for letting me piggyback and choke your necks for a while. Thanks to the ones who didn’t just stand on the shore, the ones who jumped straight into the ocean, into the riptide while I was carried away. Thanks to my leaders and thanks to the ones who loved me the most. Thanks to my crutch, the one who left but came back, the one who suffered the very most, who deserves more than the world, and who I don’t know if I can help. We’re all broken a little bit, but 2017 has been our greatest foe up until this point, and we’ve defeated it.

this is for the wastebasket.

i'm ready

after months, over 262,800 minutes,
of lashing and burning between the eyes of my own anger,
submitting to a searing headache,
bowing to the arms of a loveless master,
buckling under the pressure--

arms swinging from side to side,
hitting everything within the 5' 8" radius,
bruised but breaking everyone else,
everything hurting,
everything tearing me from side to side
from the inside out.

she thinks it's still there
the headache.

she thinks I can't help,
but I'm ready.

I've been fighting,
and I'm ready,
my arms are ready to hug instead of bruise,
to heal not blacken.
I'm ready to be there,
I'm ready to be patient.
I'm ready to open my heart,
I'm ready to let things go.
I'm ready to use the tools I've learned to protect myself,
and protect her, protect everyone.
I'm ready to become,
to inspire,
to connect,
I'm ready to be me.

virus

eating through the blood stream,
it started in my fingers, wrapping around my knuckles,
controlling my wrists,
working its way up my arms.
soon my legs felt the heat of the pain,
and my brain became tainted with its sting
my eyes flash between reality and its illusions
and now my lungs wilt under its influence,
and my heart,
my ever-beating heart,
fighting,
strong until recently
and now my fleshy heart
faces collapse, pushing outwards,
hoping for its second,
or third,
or fourth wind,
beating for me and holding tight to the person I once was,
but its corrosive elements wrap around it,
turning its red veins black,
eating it,
leaving me with nothing but
the salty taste on my tongue of despair
and the lingering scent of regret.

how to be a brick wall

Stand straight up. Maybe you're made of a lot, but most people will just see you as a whole, so be strong and hold together. Remember that when people look at you, if they do at all, they can't see your other side. Be tall. Whatever it is you're protecting, or hiding, whether it's important or private or ugly, be taller than that thing. Most of the time, people won't notice you, but try to remember that you're important. Stay in one place. There might be someone who needs you--maybe a little girl who cries against you. Her hair falls down her back and you look down at her big blue eyes, but she doesn't see your feeling. Hold tight, be supportive. She'll keep coming to you when she needs you, for a backrest, a cold friend. And every time she comes, stand still, and try to keep from getting too attached. Because, remember, if you need her, you can't move to her. She'll leave you and go about her everyday, and she'll come to you when her mother punishes her, or when she gets teased by the older girls at school. She'll take her Instagram photos up against you, and bring her favorite books to read next to you. Her first boyfriend will press her up against you and her children will skip hopscotch next to you, but you must be careful to remain discreet, because if you try to move towards her, you'll break. And when you do, when your bricks start to fall, she'll tear you down. She'll replace you with a newer, sturdier wall, one that will look better with grapevines or soak up the rain less. Your job is to watch, to be, to stay pieced together so that you'll be there for her when she needs you. And when she doesn't, she'll forget about you, and you can't be bothered, because if you are, she'll take you down and you'll stop existing altogether. 

she

drips of sunlight color her hair,
laughter ringing in her eyes
her smile promises love and life
beyond discretion

wait, her lungs cry out
oppressed by image
clear to everyone but herself
blurring her sweet eyes with fire

tears carve my heart out
eating like maggots at its flesh,
one two, one two
my arms reach to hold her

but she's not there,
her tiny fingers shaking,
her body stiff, eyes open but unseeing
dead, or wanting, I'm not certain

one two, one two

blue lights

it's the blue light,

glowing, haunting, 

undershadow of existence. 

the mind-numbing reality 

becoming, 

becoming, 

becoming,

until you grow into a pot of grey jelly

jiggling about with every move and 

every tremble in the floor

She holds it up and 

I'm emotionally blinded,

only for a moment,

and the sun-spot stays in my periphery 

until I can sleep on it, 

and sometimes it's still there when I wake up.

oh, to control,

to hold, to direct,

weaving and blending them together 

until they become an unreasonable plaid

with no distinctive colors

an army of tartan.

who's behind it all?
is it her? is it the light?
who's at the helm of this massive magnet?

blinking at me, shining into my chemistry 

and burning a hole in my trust. 

my mind is playing tricks on me

my mind is playing tricks on me
I thought I was so alone,
but her tiny hand sat in mine the whole time.
I threw it down, and it hung limply at her side until I picked it back up again,
throwing it down again,
and again,
and again,
picking it back up
until now her arm is bruised, broken,
arm pulled out of her socket,
she looks up at me with tears in her eyes,
pleading for me to keep those tiny fingers in mine,
pleading for me stay,
but my mind is playing tricks on me,
and I can't feel her hand anymore.
I realize it only later,
and I pick her arm up and hold it in mine,
apologizing, promising to never do it again,
my heart as broken as it feels now, and she
trusts me, puts her little hand in mine,
waits for it to heal,
and I, the demon, the villain,
slam it on the table once again,
and yell that she doesn't understand.
my mind is playing tricks on me.
I never wanted to hurt those tiny fingers,
I never wanted to bruise her ivory skin,
I thought she couldn't feel it,
I thought she was immune,
I was wrong.
I was so wrong, and this time, I see it.
I can see her arm, hanging limply without a cast,
without a wrap,
and I'm crying because it was me who did it to her,
the one who just wants to hold her tiny fingers,
the one who is begging for support,
but I've broken my support now,
and she's dying,
and I can't save her.

discovery

strangling beauty, treading lightly
on top of my tendons
breathing down my neck,
I'm perceiving closeness when the breath
is predatory.

the pupils that once grew larger
to see me,
to know me,
to feel me,
grow larger only now with hate,
seething,
I feel their coldness,
but the coldness draws me away from the heat of my anger.

fingertips familiar,
ridged tightly with the lines but no callous,
what is pain?
what is hurt?
cringing, bleeding--it's not what you think
love, reliance, support--took my fingertips from me,
gave all my insides.

the mind chuckles at me.
snickering at its playful game,
tossing my organs up like a pigskin.
falling up and down, catching my heart,
convincing me it isn't there.

clutching, pressing, where is it?
I can't find it. I'm frantic.
scratching, cutting, tearing,
searching.
the pupils.
they've taken it.

strings and balloons, and the sky.

I remember once, when I was a little girl--

at Maceys.

The balloon I so looked forward to at the cash was given to me with a smile and tied around my little wrist, a hopeful gesture that more smiles would be given in return.

My mom never liked those balloons.

I guess I could say that I've never been good with endings, with losing things--

beginnings I'm great at.
Lately less so, because beginnings mean endings, and I can't see past that.

But mostly, I'm good at beginnings.

Today, I'm staring an ending right in the eye,

death glare.

But it's looking back at me and punching me right in the gut,

bruising me, 

choking me,

forcing me to look the other way. 

I can't forget the happiness that was the beginning,

the promises of always and the promises of never. 

But now it is here, just like always, an ending.

Just like the balloon, tied onto my wrist but too uncomfortable for me to handle.

The tight rubbing of the string pestered me and I fidgeted with it, and my mom told me

"Don't do that, it will fly away."
But I couldn't stop.

And I guess that's how all my endings start. 

With fidgeting, discomfort, unending attentiveness. 

I can't forget one thing for longer than a moment, it is always rubbing against my skin,

making it red and itchy and soon, 

I forget all about the balloon and can't stop thinking about the string.

So I loosen it, digging my fingernails into the string, not thinking about anything but the discomfort,

the healing that will happen when I loosen it, the freedom I'll have, 

all the while forgetting that losing the string means losing the balloon.

And then it goes. I set it free and it floats away effortlessly and without a second thought, never wavering to say goodbye and never stopping to look at me. No matter how much I think I have a chance, no matter how many times I plead with it to come back, plead with God to come back, I watch the yellow blob float through the sky, crying from the cart in the parking lot. My mom says
"I told you so,"
and I cry, unable to reach it, unable to call it back, all the while hoping with all my heart that it will.

I've had so many balloons.

I've never been able to keep any of them.

I keep forgetting because of the string, I keep hoping I will be able to handle it when I get the balloon, I keep forgetting.

Sometimes I think that I'll never want a balloon again. Balloons seemed to have brought me nothing but misery, and I gave up on them.

I thought this time was different,

but I guess all balloons have to find their way back to their eternal homes,

and strings have to be cut loose. 

streaks

Streaks of green cover the canvas in a giant mess of clever finger-paints; I stare intently at it, giving it my full attention. I see leaves, I see water. I see a bridge. But it isn’t really a bridge, and it’s not really water, it’s paint, it’s emotion, it’s time. Maybe Monet calls himself an impressionist, as they say, because every toll his paintbrush took on the canvas was his impression of the current moment, a color change or movement. But maybe he took upon himself that name to prove a point or to impress his audience. The emotions he invoked with his seemingly insignificant streaks made a lasting impression.
At five, I started piano. I plunked out the keys of “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” and begged my mother for a real teacher. One key at a time, she taught me the names and sounds of the notes, the rhythms they could make, and how hard to press them. My skinny fingers seemed so small on the keys and I could never reach an octave. That was seemingly the pinnacle of my existence at the time: to reach an octave. I stretched my fingers for hours, watching as my skin between my forefinger and thumb webbed out further and further. I only dreamed of reaching an octave. My fingers only really reached over five notes.
I started on the black keys; I wasn’t allowed near the beautiful, fat, white keys. I felt I needed to play these keys, these clean, untouched keys, but I complied with the will of my teacher and stayed on the skinny blacks. I still remember the song I played on those blacks: Floating in the wa—ter, tender and sere—ne, such a touch of co—lor, in a sea of green. Water lilies quickly became my favorite place to play. It made me feel calm, and I kept playing it even when I graduated to the white keys. I can still play it today.
The first time I saw Monet’s “Water Lily Pond,” was in my third grade art class. I stared at the all-green painting while Mrs. Forbes explained to us the technique. The whole painting was constructed of tiny paint streaks—that if we got close enough to the painting, we would be able to see every tiny brush stroke. She said that he, Monet, didn’t use outlines. I wasn’t sure if I really understood what that meant, but it seemed hard. I loved the painting. I had already been obsessed with water lilies since I played my song on the piano, and loved their pink petals and their strange way of growing on top of the water. I pictured little frogs jumping on them, like in the cartoons. Mrs. Forbes explained to us that today was the day that we got to try our hand at impressionism, and that we were to copy Monet’s painting.
I spent that whole class hour and the next painting my tiny streaks. Of course, streaks can only be so tiny when you’re eight and you’re only working with a 8.5x11 paper and a relatively large paintbrush, but I was mesmerized by the different blues and greens. I still have the painting today, and, strangely enough, it isn’t quite as good as I saw it when I painted it. It looks nothing like Monet’s painting, and frankly, I didn’t remember what Monet’s painting actually looked like for years. I only pictured the deep teal of my third-grade painting, pink flowers, and little streaks. It made me feel something that stuck with me, my mind fixated on beauty from small things. This obsession never left me.
All I know is that beauty has always been something captivating to me, something that made me feel and love like nothing else. Each little ridge on the mountainside, the colors in a post-communist village, or even the little lines on my hands have always amazed me. I’m not trying to stand cheesy—I’m sitting here writing this and thinking that this is probably a bad idea for an essay. Usually I write about things that I’m sad about, writing in a frenzy of anxiety and depression. Whenever I try to write about beautiful things, my words never seem to match that beauty. I’m not trying to say that words aren’t beautiful; I get equally as emotional when I read poetry that somehow pieces words together in the most enticing way. But when we got this assignment to write about art, I didn’t know how I would do it. I just can’t explain how I feel when I see art. My mind is art, my thoughts are streaks, filling my life with color and with beauty. Things like words and music paint pictures in my mind, and are always correlated with art. When I hear Debussy I see Monet, and when I read things like George Orwell I can’t stop from seeing cubists who used perfect shapes to create imperfect situations. I can’t write about it and I don’t know why. Monet plays with my emotions, moving me into a deep sea of sadness or calm. It’s never excitement with Monet, but it’s appreciation and a kind of awe that I can’t describe. He can paint thirty minutes of sunlight onto one canvas and it’s overwhelming.
When our professor pulled Monet’s paintings up for us in class, my chest tightened and my stomach flew up into my throat. My eyes couldn’t open enough to take it all in, and he went through the slides too quickly. Every painting appealed to my senses in a different way. He never showed “Water Lily Pond.” I waited impatiently for the bridge to finally appear on the screen, to see that image that had stayed in my mind for so long, but he never did. Confused, I wondered why he wouldn’t show the painting that I assumed was the most popular from Monet. I fell in love with so many others—the London fog series, “Impression Sunrise,” and eventually, with Monet himself. Walking out of class, I googled the water lily painting. It was nothing like I imagined it.

okayokayokay

traffic with no signals,
rushing, crashing, slowing,
never coming to a stop but
never quite finding the right intersection.

Turn! the GPS commands,
stop! calls your backseat driver,
but you can't,
because your foot is tied to the pedal,
and your hands are heavy on the wheel

give a little; take a little,
that's what you hear,
but how much can you take
when you've given all you have

hiding has never been easy for me
I'm too big, too loud, too silly,
and I'm here, trying to hide behind the door,
but you can see my foot and
You've caught me.

Apologies, curses,
you're reading in front of the class,
and you've stopped suddenly,
eyes burning into you,
wondering,
wondering,
asking questions without words

and its tumbling further away
and you're eating more than you can hold,
holding more than you can handle,
handling more than you are allowed
Allowing more than they told you to

The end.