don’t forget! you’re here forever

don’t forget! you’re here forever

I forget, sometimes. That there are more pleasant things in the world than the self; there are more things to do than to love. I forget that there are taxes and people out to tell me that oh, you have to prepare for the real world, like the one we live in now is not really real, just a taste, just a sample.

I forget to tell myself to take my time, that I am human and humans were made to be beautiful and imperfect, though I know that’s been said many times before, in many ways. I forget to tell myself to slow down, and when I do, I forget to tell myself to move. I forget that balance is such a delicate thing, and I forget that you don’t always get what you want.

I forget to write, sometimes, to treat it like a job, because that’s what you must do to keep writing, or so they say. I forget to stop and smell the roses, even when everything everywhere is asphalt and concrete and skyscrapers. I forget to tell people I care. I forget to care altogether.

I forget that I write honestly. I forget to ignore things like geez, Sophia, you’re so dramatic and I forget to do the dishes or buy groceries. I forget to take the chicken out of the freezer so that it thaws before mom comes home. I forget to take it out again, the next time it happens, even when I’ve already promised to remember, and I forget to apologize to her this time, because I’m angry that she’s angry. She cooks supper and I forget I’m angry, too.

I forget deadlines; I forget to care about those. I forget that I have to live, too, because I’m not really skin and bones as much as I am a creature who survives solely on wonderfully mundane things like music and coffee and books. I forget to be smart. I forget that it’s okay to be a little bitter about things, sometimes, because better to feel now and move on, than to not, then wallow later.

I should write things down, so maybe I won’t forget.

to forgive someone who does not love you

to forgive someone who does not love you

I will begin with a truth: I loved you so much it tasted foul in my mouth.

It felt like bile rising up my throat. I loved you so much in so many ways in for so many reasons and I waited and I loved. I loved you like I knew what to do and I didn’t, still don’t know, still do love you, somehow.

 

I am thankful for it, in some way.
Loving you and not being loved back
makes a person do things,
makes them learn
how to write heartbreakingly real poetry about love and not loving
and fingers touching the small of backs
and hoping they’d stay there. They won’t.

They find the rest of me even when you don’t
and I will keep all of that forever, for the rest of my life.
I will find it stowed away on the bottom bedside drawer
beneath catalogs and receipts and I will remember
that I loved you and it will hurt all. over. again.

And god, I will never find it in myself to blame you;
I am not easy to love. I am not easy to see.
I forgive you, even if you didn’t do anything wrong.

Yes. I will love you again.

 

stage #1: denial

stage #1: denial

Stage #1: Denial.

I tell myself
To try out cigarettes
Because they are pretty
The way you tell yourself
To taste her lips
Because they seem sweet.

Like an impersonal brand of love,
Store-bought, handmade,
Smelling like the liquor your father drinks
On the nights your mom comes home late.

I understand, I will not beg.
I will not ask. I don’t need that,
Even though I wish I had
Because I’ve always been one
To talk about not needing a person to be in love.

Because there are other things
To fall in love with
Like sunsets and paintings
And the art of the written word
And the art of me.

PICK YOUR POISON

PICK YOUR POISON

“PICK YOUR POISON,”
my friends tell me.
They shout it from rooftops,
bellow from the heart, and when I ask
what the poisons are

They laugh, and tell me this:

The big city, and you
And home, and falling in love headfirst—
—the most dangerous kind, but the most beautiful too.

I ask them if it’s really poison,
because it does not seem like so.
It seems like a gift, to spend that with you.

They laugh, and tell me this:

The big city loving you,
And home becoming limbs and flesh—
—when it is meant to be stone and wooden framework.

I ask what the other poison is,
because I cannot stand the thought
that we are poison.

They laugh, and tell me this:

The other poison is to live,
but not truly live, only move and breathe
but with none of you.

And I decide the way to die
would be in your arms
than shattered glass and brick walls of a house, not a home,
So my poison will be you.

shakespeare

shakespeare

It begins like this; you and I and a seat between us and a flight delayed.
You are drinking coffee out of a takeout cup and I am reading Shakespeare
so that I can look smart to people who don’t know my name
and will never talk to me.

Hamlet? you say, and I nod, with something like an attempt at dignified
when all I am wearing is a worn out sweater
and frayed jeans.

I loved that. I have a copy at home.

Nice. I’ve always liked Shakespeare.

I grin and you smile
and we sit next to each other on the plane,
and I listen to you talk about poetry and smart things and I pretend to understand.
I think I fell in love with your mind,
because I hail a taxi while thinking of you
and when I get home I sit down and Google all the names
that I think you might have said.

I learn and I’m smarter now, and I can talk
about Romeo and Juliet without stuttering over their last names,
and I can quote The Raven to you,

but you are not here anymore.

I don’t know where I’m going with this
and what I’ll do with what I know,
but I’ll just wait for another delayed flight
and another coffee in a takeout cup
and someone who will listen when I lean over the empty space
and ask them if they are reading Hamlet.