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.