Tag: friendship

Categories
poetry

Sick

I don’t think I would mind

If I got sick from you

Because I’ve never seen you so happy

And I don’t know what to do

Your laugh almost put me to a stop

And the temple punch you struck

You always seemed so incredibly bitter

And just down on all your luck

So hearing you laugh in a way I’ve never heard

Even with your greatest friend

Made a small realization grow in my heart

That I don’t have the heart to see to the end

Because you hate college and “all that school”

But academia is my life

I think we’re both too proud to be good friends

Too much just taken in strife

But I think we could be glorious for a little

“Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy” comes to mind

So I don’t think I’d care if you got me sick

I wouldn’t complain about being behind

Not one word about a sniffle or cough

Not one moan from an aching head

Even if your illness made me sluggish

Or confined me to my bed

Because I could rest back on the pillows and smile

Thinking about this strange little love

Of fighting, blood, friendship, and intensity

Wrapped in boxing gloves

***

A poem about friendship.

Categories
poetry

The Monologue

I love you.

Maybe you don’t believe this. Maybe this is something you will overlook or fly past or scoff at but I don’t care because I absolutely adore you. Your hair your eyes your smile your laugh is so contagious that even thinking of it makes me smile and it is you who makes me grin! It is you who allows me to get up in the morning. You are the reason I pull back my covers you are the reason I sing! Poorly, but you still make me want to sing and dance and laugh because I love you. I love you so much that I want to thrust my arms out and enveloped the world. I want to take on the world and show everyone I’ve ever met your face so that they too may know true happiness. And yes, I can’t touch you. I can’t touch you because it makes my skin crawl. My own skin makes me crawl sometimes. I cannot rest my head against your shoulder, I cannot hug you tight and whisper all the reasons I love you into your ear, I cannot kiss your face. Hell, I can’t even hold your hand! But that is OK. That is OK because I will show you my love through this infinite, vast, endless sonnet of demote devotion. I will hold out my arms and bask in your warmth and let you know that you are the reason I am happy today. You are the reason I got up today. And today, you are the reason that I feel and I know that I am OK and not touching you is OK and my lack of want for societally shown physical intimacy is OK. And today, I love you.

***

Written in the wee small hours of the morning, high on lack of sleep and love for a dear friend. This is one of my favorite pieces, neither traditional poem nor short story, but a strange mix of both. I couldn’t think of a fitting title, so I just called it what it was: the monologue. One of my only platonic pieces, but one of my best I think.

Categories
poetry

Touchable

I once told everyone that I wanted to be untouchable

That I wanted to reach for the skies

And brush fingers with the stars

But now

Standing in a room where everyone is touching

Brushing shoulders

Fingers

Legs

And lips

I begin to wonder

Was it worth it?

Were the hours of effort

And tears

And toil worth this prestige?

Is it even prestige if I need a paper to prove it?

Is it honor if a number negates my process

Is it dignity if I don’t want it?

Because I know that if I try to brush fingers

I will flex my hands until the feeling of my skin against someone else’s goes away

I will lay wide awake at night and wonder

Why I can’t touch other people

Why I can’t get my body to take that next step

Why skin feels like rubbing a snake the wrong way

Not remembering closeness and intimacy

But I can remember everything I did to get myself here

I can remember shaving my head

And cutting my nails

And scarring my hands

And wearing a frown

And in this room full of people

I still wonder

If untouchable means unapproachable

Unreachable

Or unlovable

***

I have had several revelations in the past couple of months; one of which being the discovery of touch aversion. In a society where touch is everything in a relationship, this epiphany has brought me to a conflict as well. The poem itself is Part 2 to Untouchable, yet the focus shifts slightly. From ambition to connection. I don’t know what I will do with this discovery yet, but I do hope it’s for the better.

Categories
poetry

Brown-Haired Tragedy

Brown eyed tragedy, meet brown haired girl

You both speak soft from the same world

Of pain and malice and hate and fight

Yet both paint stars in my black night

The latter is soft and kind and sweet

The former is often the best to greet

And you both share a place in the back of my mind

Asking me to join you, to leave all else behind

But I do not have your world in my view

And I know that I cannot join you

So you sit in my head and you cry in my heart

Reminding me of what the world does to tear us apart

So brown eyed tragedy meet brown haired girl

Both different parts of this crazy, sad world

***

A sad poem, I know, but also a continuation of another poem. To be fair, that poem is even sadder than this one, yet also has a bit of a bitter element. I met a girl awhile back who confessed things to me in the wee hours of the morning that I will never tell others, yet kindled a fire in me that has only kindled once before. It is dangerous, and if I leave it alone, it will extinguish. This poem marks the beginning and the end of its flickering.

Categories
short stories

Imaginary Friendship

When you came home, I once again felt whole. Some people might say it’s selfish of me to want to keep you here, stuck in the middle of last week’s laundry and yesterday’s pizza, but your presence is what keeps me alive. Unlike the usual sigh of relief you give after being forced to interact with the public, there’s a small, triumphant smile on your face. “I made the appointment,” you say. I grin.

“What’s wonderful! I’m very proud of you,” I answer. You smile and hug me tightly when I approach. “We’re one step to getting better.” The words are soft against your ear, and I can feel your smile widen against my neck. When we pull away, you immediately set down your keys and flop onto the couch. Although there’s victory behind your actions today, I know they’ve still drained you.

“When’s the appointment?” I ask.

“Tomorrow at noon. I wanted to get it scheduled before I lost my nerve,” you admit. I chuckle and sit next to you. We spend the rest of the night watching movies and scrounging through the fridge’s meager inventory for something new to eat.

The next morning, I help motivate you out of bed and into the shower. Although the mornings are always the hardest for us, lately, they’ve become easier. You come out smelling clean for the first time in a week with a glimmer in your eyes I missed. “How do I look?” you asked. My grin stretches from ear to ear.

“Perfect. Eat something before you go,” I encourage. You snatch one of the granola bars strewn about the kitchen counter before picking up your keys and grabbing the door handle. “Have fun!”

I can still hear your laughter as you closed the door. That door only opened once more.

When you come back, you are quiet. There is a look of determination etched into your features, and I can feel that something changed over that simple conversation. Without a word, you hang your keys up and begin to scoop piles of trash into garbage bags. “How’d it go?” I ask tentatively. You ignore me and continue your mad cleaning spree.

Hours pass, all silent except for the crinkle of plastic bags and the spritz of cleaning spray bottles. Once you finish restoring the apartment to its original shine, something I haven’t witnessed in years, you sit down. Anxious, I sit next to you. Silence hangs thick in the air, nearly suffocating me, until you ask softly, “when did I first meet you?” Inappropriate laughter bubbles up, too loud and too brash for the quiet seriousness the room adopts.

“Don’t you remember, we were uh… I was…” the words die on my throat before they even fully form. We both remember how we met; I showed up literally out of nowhere on one of the worst days of your life. The timing was so perfect, that we both suspected from the very beginning that it wasn’t coincidental. Years later, we both figured it out. The realization never seemed as sad as it does now. You stand up, and in a moment of panic, I reach for your hand. My fingers slip right through and a hollowness fills me.

“Please, don’t go,” I whisper. You just stare at me, as if this is the first time you realize I’m not real. I can feel the world fade around the edges like a forgotten memory as you continue to stare. Finally, when my vision is almost black, you kneel by my side.

“I’m getting better. Don’t you want that?” you ask. Tears muddy the rest of my vision, but I think I see you cry as well.

“I don’t want you to go,” I sob, trying to grab onto anything. “Please—” Before I can finish the sentence, my entire world goes dark. No more sound permeates my ears, and I wonder if this is the end. Even though I can’t see, I know I’m still crying. I hope wherever you are, you truly are better. I hope that I never have to see you again, even if it kills me to admit it. And I hope, out of everything I dare to want, that no one ever feels the need to call out for someone like me ever again.

***

Another prompt, another piece. This was good practice for me writing in present-tense, and I believe it helped convey the emotion of the story more. Although it isn’t much of a twist, I do hope that it surprised some readers.

Categories
short stories

Never Fall in Love

“You will be my last love.” I glanced over and laughed at the ridiculous statement. We’d been dating for little under three months, and I certainly think it was too early to declare any sort of eternal connection. “You mistake me. You will be my last love, even after we terminate.” Part of me is flattered by your words, yet another becomes concerned. What do you plan to do if I am your last love? If I am the last person who you kiss and hold and cherish? Where will your heart go while the rest of us have ours broken and mended and soaring? However, when I rest a hand on your shoulder, I see no pain in your eyes. You seem almost… content, as if this is an epiphany you’ve denied yourself for so long that you almost forgot it existed.

“What happens when your heart finds another, even if your head keeps the vow?” I ask. You throw your head back and laugh, but there is something bittersweet about the sound.

“It shan’t. I’ll lock myself in a cave or rewind my memories. Perhaps I’ll make myself so ugly that no one else could love me. Whatever I do, I will not have my heart broken again,” you explain. I glance at your scars. No, you are not beautiful in the traditional sense. I see no defined cheekbones, bright eyes, or shiny hair. However, I do see your intricate tattoos and your cropped hair, and I see the smiles that stretch from ear to ear and your strong hands. Although I may not see physical beauty, I see internal.

“Making yourself ugly won’t do anything,” I contradict.

“You mistake me again. Ugliness is found on both the inside and the outside,” you respond, and bitterness continues to lace your words. I chuckle, and it’s your turn to glance gaze incredulously at me.

“You can’t make yourself ugly, no more than the sun can stop shining or the birds stop singing. Beauty and ugliness, from within, are inherit. Even if we become hard or selfish or cruel, we still hold our nature in our hearts,” I comment. You stare at me, and then a small smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

“And that’s why you will be my last love,” you say, and the words seem even sadder than before.

I can’t remember what happened to you. One year later, we broke up because I moved to the U.K while you stayed in the States. Years passed and seasons changed as the people did. Some I spent alone, others with lovers and friends and family. Work kept me busy, but travel allowed me to meet people from everywhere. There were days where I saw movies that made me think of you and rainy nights where I could hear your voice. However, you were only a chapter in the story of my life, and I have many others.

I traveled back to the States for a road-trip one year. When I passed through Georgia, I thought I saw you sitting on a bench. In New York, I thought I saw you standing on the corner. In Washington D.C., you sat near the monument and stared into the water. It wasn’t until I made my way to Portland, Oregon that I truly saw you.

Blue

10/17/1962-12/4/2000

That seemed too damn young to me.

***

Consider my two weeks of absence a hiatus of sorts. I apologize for no notice, but my outside duties took up more of my time and resources than normal. I am very tentative about this story, because its plot isn’t definitive and it exists as little more than a word splurge. I will disclose that this story was based off a very real conversation, and one that I don’t think I’ll forget until my brain rots. Do tell me what you think.

Categories
poetry

Off

A little project of mine. Digital mixed media.

My portrait’s kinda crooked

I tried to tilt it back

But then it slid off the wall

And I lost my track

My records started to scratch

The song sounded lame

And my head was pounding

Because the song had no name

I sat in my room

And felt utterly alone

One moment I was melting

And the other cold to the bone

The walls breathe and whisper

When they think I don’t hear

But where they’re gone

It’s the silence I really fear

My head’s a little displaced

I don’t have room to complain

Because I have a papercut

Compared to other’s pain

My skin feels backwards

But I can’t turn it around

Not when my birds are watching

Otherwise their fuss will make a sound

I find I kinda miss you

And everyone I’ve hurt

But now you’re all in the clouds

And I’m crawling in the dirt

I feel stupid sick and foolish

But at least I look okay

Maybe this week got started all wrong

Tomorrow’s a new day

Tomorrow I’ll stop missing you

And go outside the home

Maybe then, it’ll stop being “if” not “when”

I start to feel alone

You’ll never read a word I write

I’ll never give you that chance

But when we’re old and shrewd

I’ll meet you back in France

***

A rather sarcastically whimsical poem about a once dear friend of mine. We had a wonderful time together over the course of about one or two years, then dissolved into a bitter acquaintance. I wrote this poem a while ago, long after we stopped speaking but near enough to the present that I can still feel my frustration from his words. Give me a nice little comment if you ever get your hands on this, won’t you, Zockales?

Categories
short stories

Hollow Boy and Fire Girl

I waited for you. Hour after hour, day after day. We spent more time together than this. Usually. Finally, I heard a knock on my door. Relief, then trepidation. Tentatively, I turned the brass knob and opened it. Relief again. “Hello,” you said. The door flung open. A tight hug. A joke. A smile. Shutting the door behind me, we walked from the porch and the street and the civilization towards the ocean.

She calmed me. Her waves, her color, her tides. You sat on the sand, as gray as the sky yet still as tragically beautiful as ever. With a hand clenching the earth below you, and teeth barred into a smile, you said, “life’s a little too gray for me today”. I laughed.

That was my first mistake.

We returned and watched the sunset through my dirty kitchen windows. You said goodbye. I smiled and waved until the door closed. After a few minutes of starting at the spot where you used to stand, I went to bed. Said my goodnight to the moon and her stars. Buried my head in dreams and today’s memories. Your words were left on my nightstand. Alone. Forgotten.

The sun rose. A new day. I grabbed for the phone, dialed your number by heart. It rang. One. Twice. Three times. Your voice clicked, but it was nothing more than a recording. I frowned but carried on.

That was my second mistake.

The day came, the day went. Business kept me from calling, as more and more responsibilities dropped onto my heavy shoulders. No worries. I burned through them all, for I was a fire girl. You were my hollow boy. We were an unlikely pair. Sometimes my flames charred your flesh. Sometimes you extinguished my blaze. Most days, we found a balance. A thin wire we walked on precariously, together.

Another night passed, and this time my dreams were tinged with your grimace and the smell of the salty ocean brine. When I awoke, there were no new messages. Concern gnawed at my edges, distorting my disposition. I called you. No answer. Again. No answer. Again. Again. Again. Finally, in a final act of desperation, your mother. She hadn’t heard from you either. With dread looming over my head and licking at my flames, I took a day off and walked to your home.

It was a little dinky suburb, just like mine. Same paint, same cookie-cutter format. I jumped up the steps, two by two. Knocked twice. Waited for five minutes. No answer. Finally, I sunk down onto your welcome mat – the bristles tickled my legs – and I waited.

Hours passed.

Days.

A week.

A month.

I went out, every morning, and waited for you. Some days, I slept on the old wood made of fireflies and questions and music. Others, I glanced at your home before traveling to work. Every day, I called you. One. Two. Occasionally eight times. Once, two days ago, twenty times. The same voicemail, every time. “Hello. I’m not home right now. Leave a message.” Eventually, I stopped calling and just waited. It’s okay. Despite my fire, I was patient. There wasn’t anyone else I’d rather wait for.

That was my third, and final, mistake.

Finally, someone came. Relief, then trepidation. I looked up. Disappointment. Two men, two blue uniforms, two badges. “Ma’am? Do you know this residence?” one asked. Slowly, shaking, I stood. The dread that sat in my stomach for the last thirty-three days still ate at my mind. My flames burned blue, simmering instead of their usual passionate red. Blue as the police uniform.

“What happened?” I asked, and one gave me a gaze full of unwanted pity. I didn’t need comfort, or reassurance. I just wanted to know what happened. Where were you? It had been too long. Were you hurt? Vacationing in a far-off land? Taken? Pulling a joke? Despite your hollow inside, you still loved humor. And the sea. Almost as much as me.

“I’m sorry,” one of the officers said. His mouth continued to move, but I didn’t hear him. I couldn’t. My knees buckled and I collapsed onto the welcome mat, one that you would never wipe your feet against again. The two officers stood over me, two giants. Two reapers, with only useless words and condolences.

Your funeral was small. Me, your parents, your little brother. Everyone else wanted nothing to do with it. They said they found the gun in a different place. Of course you couldn’t do it here, I thought. Not with all the memories. Not with me around. I thought of the last time I saw you, on the beach, one hand clenching the sand while your face contorted into a smile unnaturally. “Life’s a little too gray today.” My first indication, and with every second I felt your death haunt me. The body in the casket wasn’t yours. It was a husked out shell, a hollow boy more hollow than you. You still whispered those words in my ear, over and over, until I wanted to scream.

I waited at your porch again. Lied against the welcome mat. The bristles no longer hurt because there was nothing to feel. Once my cheek pressed against the worn wooden door, I cried. Cried for your absence. For my absence. For your family. Most of all, I cried because your heart was broken and you never told me. Now, you would never tell me anything again. A small verse came from my lips, words I must’ve muttered before or scratched into my journal or the neighbor’s tree.

“You are my hollow boy

And I am your fire girl

Together, we’re broken

Inside a tiny fragile world.”

The words repeated over and over, raking its claws in my heart and picking up every buried emotion with it. You are my hollow boy and I am your fire girl together we’re broken inside a tiny fragile world. You are my hollow boy and I am your fire girl together we’re broken inside a tiny fragile world. Hollow boy fire girl broken fragile world. Boy girl broken world. Boy girl broken world.

My fire roared for the first time in months. It destroyed everything around it. Devoured your home. Our home. Our memories. Our lifetime. Charred the welcome mat. Blackened the wooden door. Melted the brass doorknob. Finally, it burnt out. And so did I.

“You were my hollow boy

And I was your fire girl

Life was a little too gray today

So we both left this world.”

***

This is the tragic story of two friends who couldn’t live without the other, a realization made only after the death of one. I’ve never experienced such loss, but it’s always been a great fear of mine that someone I loved should decide that their life wasn’t worth living. I hoped to capture this fear, and its reality, in the most artistic way possible while still writing a short story. For anyone who may relate to this story, whether they’ve been the fire girl or survived being the hollow boy, you have my condolences.

Categories
poetry

My Broken Temple

It all started with what you drew

Lines on paper, that went up and through

An image beautiful and harrowing and hollow too

That’s when I knew there was something haunting you

Your smile was contagious

Your humor outrageous

I remember you on the stage

Just right

Every night

You took off in flight

Saying lines to the light

Persistently proving your amorous ambition for acting and its high

How sad it was when you decided to say goodbye

You woke up on the wrong side of your mind

Decided that you were a little behind

Slipped into shoes old and ragged

Smoothed out your edges, rough and jagged

Ran your fingers through your wild hair

Put on a careless and relaxed air

Ignored the monster under the stair

And lofted about on a blue, ancient chair

I looked at your art again and again

A curious case of a curious new friend

Piecing together the puzzle and trying to comprehend

Why your aura was cold and desolate and blue

Why you shut down when the focus wasn’t on you

Why your knuckles were scarred and bruised

Yet nothing affected your upright attitude

We talked more and more

Months and months went by

I eventually found out

And it made me cry

Your past was dark and jaded

Any determination you had faded

Depression loomed over you and waited

Anxiety eating at you on a day-to-day basis

Yet you gave me the understatement

Blew it off and tried to be patient

You carry a world of hurt on your shoulders

It gets larger and larger as you grow older

You keep your distance, but refuse to grow colder

But you’ve also sacrificed other things

Your drive disappeared

You seem to live in fear

Your focus isn’t even here

What do you love or hold dear?

This puzzle is only half-done

I don’t know if this is just some

Theory of a question that will never see completion

Or perhaps… you’re an artist who’s just begun

***

A dear friend of mine asked for a perspective, to see what I thought of him. Hours later, after a burst of creativity and consideration, I created this poem and showed it to him. To accommodate for brutal words, I crossed out lines and phrases, but the poem itself still demonstrated the good and bad of his character in my eyes. Days later, he gifted me with a picture of his perspective. There was no malice in the image, no hint of my vices (which are plentiful). It remains one of my favorite illustrations. Still, guilt gnaws at me. While my apology may never see fruition, I do regret my coarse and brutal nature as much as I regret befriending his patience and kindness.

Categories
poetry

You and I

You and I are pieces of glass

Made from colors and sands that surpass

The normal square that a cube usually makes

Because we take on our own, jagged shapes

When I think of us, I think of the ocean

Of dreams and laughter in motion

Of toes in the sand and my head in the clouds

Or of closing curtains and dark denim shrouds

If we were vases, I’d be small and you’d be tall

Stretching shadows far off the wall

Yet never shining that much at all

I’d be blue, and you’d be gold

With some black veins that made you look old

“Antique” is the name given

The name you live in

It’s the tide you sit in

When the ocean’s coming back from its first wave

Your black veins would show a darker inside

How you’re afraid and hide yet try to coincide

With this difficult existent

Please

I’m at your side

Sometimes there’ll be days when you stand

Smile like a jaunty marching band

Playing your song across the sand

Yet refusing to let the heat be fanned

Please

Just take my hand

The world if full of people who cheat and lie

People smiling and simpering with soft sly shines

Slipping through soles of silk

Sipping on sumptuous secrets and snakes

The loft of my shop

However

Is never at stake

So we slide into our comfortable silence

Keep the quiet

Hide inside it

Just you and I

Toes in the sand

No more marching band

But still

Please

Just take my hand

***

There is nothing more frustrating than trying to help someone who refuses to believe they can be fixed. People build connections and bonds over shared memories and secrets, from actions we both remember and don’t. Every relationship comes with tears, laughter, and love. A friend of mine inspired this poem, and he’s been a constant muse for a while. Some of the greatest inspiration comes out of relationships, whether we write in sadness or joy.