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

The Way I Am

Sometimes I’m a trickster

Whose eyes are filled with glee

Sometimes I’m a beggar

Asking for anything to be

Sometimes your heart is mine

And sometimes I am yours

Sometimes I jump through windows

Because I can’t get through closed doors

Sometimes I’m so ugly I hate mirrors

Because they reflect my goblin face

Sometimes I just grimace at my reflection

Because I think I have no taste

I can carry the world on my shoulders

But one more person, and I might break

I shout random things that hurt others

Then cry for self-pity’s sake

Sometimes I want to sleep for days

Then get up only to live through one more

Sometimes I’m wealthy

And other times I’m poor

Sometimes I marry a murderer

And sometimes you’re my princess bride

Sometimes I create things

To help the others hide

I’m a girl to society

And a person to myself

I can break a wrist in seconds

But will always cry for help

I write words on my skin until the pen bleeds

Only to have them disappear tomorrow

Sometimes it hurts to breathe

Because my heart’s so full of sorrow

But I know that no matter what I am

Whether goblin god or tree

You’ll always smile

And stay beside me

***

Apologies and a bag of chips to all who noticed I didn’t post this Friday! My schedule has kept me busy and I haven’t gotten a good paragraph of writing for ages. This is an older poem, a more intense poem, but it still makes sense poem. Overall, it has a sweet message. I promise to get something out once I enter the eye of the hurricane that wasn’t written ages ago.

Categories
short stories

Opal Eyes

“You may not know me, but I know you. I know your smiles, your laughter, your tears, your anguish. I know every strand of hair that falls across your beautiful face, and I am jealous of every coat that’s ever kept you warm and every glove that’s touched your hand. I spend my mornings waking to the ghost of your voice from my dreams, and my nights recalling. My life is spent in your hands, and all I ask is that you do with me what you truly wish,” I whispered. The ripest tomatoes couldn’t rival the shade of red my face took upon my confession. You looked down from your throne and smiled, and it made my heart soar through my ignominious confession. A smile, just for me and me alone. When you slowly stood and approached, however, I shrunk back. I couldn’t fool myself, not truly. There wasn’t a creature on this world who tolerated goblins, and a goblin I was. Hesitantly, as my last peace offer, I held out the flower I picked from the gardener’s land. If he caught me with it, he would thrash me later. How loud I would scream all depended on if I could escape to a memory of true bliss or a memory of deepest sorrow. Your laugh surprised me, and I gasped when you plucked the marigold from my fingers. We were a wonderful contrast, you and I, with hands of finery and splendor and the softest skin brushing against knots and wrinkles and dried mud from the lake. It was your laugh that almost undid me, and a sob escaped my throat when you pressed the petals to your lips.

“Ah, my little love, how can you possibly lay such a precious life down at my feet, as if it is a gift to be discarded upon whim?” you asked, and a few tears trickled down my cheeks. They were lost in the folds and gnarls of my skin, yet your hand dispelled the few left. I held my breath as you cupped my face in your palms, the intoxicating scent of the marigold wafting around us. When your lips touched my forehead, I crumpled. You helped me up when I tried to grovel at your feet and wouldn’t hear a word of my apologies or sincerest thanks. As you bent over to look me in the eye, I felt the smile I kept buried beneath my heart’s surface for the first time in years. There was no one else in the kingdom with eyes like yours, white as opals and shining just as brilliantly. “Although I may never see your face, or your smile, or your laughter, I know them just as well as I do my own. I know every joke you tell, every song you’ve sung, every jest you’ve made in good fun. I know every time you’ve cried, every shout of rage, and every time you wished out loud you were something else, and I wouldn’t change any of it for the world.”

It was my first real hug. You embraced me tightly, kneeling before as if I were the ruler of our lands. I felt the marigold petals crushed against my neck, yet I didn’t care that they fell to the marble floors. I hugged you back just as fiercely, with tears spilling down my cheeks for a different reason than ever before. “I truly wish for you, and your companionship. That’s all I’ve ever wished for,” you whispered, and more tears dripped onto the floors. Our laughter echoed throughout the grand halls, like a new melody never before sung yet immediately treasured.

A monarch, a partner, a lover, and a friend. These nine words engraved into your tombstone do you no justice. As I sit near my pond, where I spent years sneering at my reflection and woefully scaring anyone who came near, I now guard your final resting place. Unfortunately, humans last much longer than goblins. However, I feel my time is near. Your body is gone, but I think you stayed with me in spirit. After all, how can one remember so much about their soulmate after they’ve already passed if they aren’t there? How can I still recall your laughter and your opal eyes? The sun begins to set overhead, casting her pink glow against the marigolds that bloom every summer around your grave. I pluck one and twirl its stem in my fingers, then rest against the grass near where your head should be. “You now know me, and I knew you. We spent years and years treasuring and nurturing and laughing and dancing. I am no longer jealous of your gloves because you held my hands as often as I wished, yet I still wish that I could’ve held them one last time. It is no matter, anyway. Soon enough, we’ll be together once more. Soon enough, my love.” The marigolds dropped from my fingers.

***

Ha! I did it! Take that, Father Time! I have an update, and a short story at that. Please enjoy this perfectly sad and fantastical tale about a goblin and their love. The best part about writing in the forbidden you-and-I perspective is the freedom of character. This is a product of maddeningly rattling of ideas towards the wee hours of the night, and I hope that whoever reads this enjoys its elaboration.

Categories
poetry

The Countdown

One step in

Two inches down

Three times I wished

To just let myself drown

Four lines written

Five lines said

Six people screaming

And emphasizing my dread

At seven the apathy sets in

At eight it takes its fill

Nine times I felt strong

Strong enough to kill

Ten ways I can say I love it

Nine times it heard it wrong

At eight, it heard it right

And now it’s long gone

Seven days of feeling empty

And six of missing you

Sometimes I hug my pillow

Just hoping to get through

Five more months of never touching

Four more weeks of wearing masks

Three more days until it resets

So maybe we can sit at a table for two

But that’s just one estimate

***

I have an obsession with number-based poetry, whether consecutively written or just dealing with math. Perhaps this explains my affinity for Harry Baker and simple melodies, because their numbers are always what I can count on. Plus, it combines the childlike yet methodical counting method with bitterness, much like Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience. Ah, one hopes for the density of the population to decrease, both in numbers and minds. Perhaps this poem wouldn’t exist if such a thing occurred.

Categories
poetry

The Orchestra

It started with a single note

A single glance

A single step in the right direction

The wrong direction

It was a quirk of lips

A spasm of the brow

Which just jumbled up the melodies

Until we became an awkward duet

Not entirely unpleasant

The flat tones of the bass rang out

The flutes began to trill warning signals

I was already long gone

It continued with a text

Another measure

Another line

Another rest

The violin’s concerto still rips my soul

As I waited for the little black notes to begin again

As I waited for the rest to end

The silence to end

After that, it was the brass

And the winds

Shrieking

Warning

Sliding up and down scales

As my mind slid up and down

Up and down

Up and down

Until the cymbal crash sounded

And I thought it finished

Three measures later

Two octaves lower

The bass began anew

I can still hear it sometimes

Even when the broken flute chimed

I still listened

Even when the trumpet took the flute’s place

I still stayed

Beethoven wallowed

Mozart shrieked

Tchaikovsky and Shostakovich ranted

But I burned

What went from three melodies became four

Then six

Then twelve

Until I couldn’t keep up

Until every measure of silence stole breath

Until I couldn’t speak

The music never came to an abrupt stop

The cymbals didn’t crash again

The ending melody wasn’t raised an octave then lowered respectively

The music came to an end when the broken flute uttered one last line

With the musician out of breath

And the notes wavering like a whisper

And only one of us survived the finale

Only one of us remained in our seats

And it wasn’t me

***

A longer poem, but it’s a longer story. It feels stupid to continue to pull memories from this time, but my creativity knew no bounds more than a year ago. And I can’t express my utter surprise when I had my time epiphany. To think! A year ago this orchestra played and half of that time later I left that symphonic concert. Ah, well. There are better concertos out there.

Categories
poetry

A Million Things

I’ve been told that my mouth will get me into trouble

That my attitude will leave me wanting

That my words will leave me lonely

And my smile makes me too smart for my own good

I’ve been told that my heart will leave me friendless

My body will leave me jobless

And my choices will leave me optionless

Unless I take the path they expect

My fists make me crazy

My mind makes me intimidating

My eyes make me pretty

But the rest of me makes up for that last one

I’ve been told a million things

About how wicked this world is to people like me

But if I can see you smile when I share my mind

Or my mouth

Or my heart

Then the rest of the world won’t mean a thing

***

I am terribly sorry to my readers for the deterioration of my poetry and my lack of creativity streak. As many a writer and artist would know, when the muse doesn’t hit, the creation isn’t formed. However, I bring you a sweet little love poem laced with some unintentional bitterness about my little goblin. I immensely enjoy this writing scheme, and hope when lovely Inspiration peaks her head out again from the darkness, she’ll grace me with a couple more verses.

Categories
poetry

Coney Island

Soft sand and bleak land

Is where I want to be

But seagull cries as someone dies

Often confused me

I’d stand there with my little love

Holding out hope that from the above

They’d get their heart and soul

And I’d collect mine back

From the same shadow that leaves a muddy track

On the steps of my front door

Forefront in my mind

Sometimes I’ll slow dance

If the music’s right

Flute plays on grey days

Without bright light

And he stands miles away

Minutes from my eyes

And watches the couple

As one cries

The other stands closer

Bare feet with rare pace

Soul and heart marked with empty grace

And in his face, I see a sorrow

One I’ll think about tomorrow

Because for now, I’m dancing

Two by two

Both of us without shoe

And the ocean’s blue

As I whisper a song into your ear

“I wish you were here”

***

The title, a reference to both a Death Cab for Cutie song and an obscure novel. The song in the poem, a reference to a Pink Floyd ditty. There’s a special place in my mind that holds this little fantasy, and sometimes it makes me smile to think that it may come to fruition, absent of the onlookers, of course. Who doesn’t love a good alternative rock reference?

Categories
poetry

I Never Loved You

I never loved you
I’m sorry I said otherwise
I’m sorry I entangled myself
In this bed of lies

I fell in love with your idea
With your kindness and fair gaze
What I didn’t love was how you didn’t respond
For days and days and days

When I dream of you, you were always warm
But in reality you’re very cold
You’re eyes looked so young in the mirror
But now you seem so old

Your ghost still lingers
In every word that I write
I fell in love with my muse
But my gut still twists at the sight

At night I shamed myself for loving you
I never knew why
But after I lost count
Of the times you made me cry
I forgot about your virtues
There wasn’t many to name
Tried to count your vices
That gave me a lot of pain

Every time you approach me
I want to shrink far away
Yet my heart starts to stutter
And spikes when you say, “hey”

When you say my name I flinch
The word seems like slander when you speak
I also hate how insecure I feel
How you make me become so weak

I never loved you
I hope you feel the same
So we can stop this torture
And put an end to our mind game

***

I wrote this poem a while ago and had the audacity to send it to the subject. It’s rather comical how dense people can be sometimes when it’s about them. This was a darker part of my short existence, and still tastes bitterly. However, doesn’t such strong emotion make for such good poetry?

Categories
poetry

**

We existed in the space between asterisks

The breath in the crevice of a message

A smile at the fleeting thought

Our words poured from our mind and lips like water down a hillside

Pet name after nickname after game

And game of holding hands

And sharing kisses

And little embraces

All within the space of a couple of words

And two black stars

***

A love poem dedicated to the little goblin that inspires me. The reader can speculate if the goblin was borne out of fictitious desire or to portray who rests in my heart. Although it’s shorter, I couldn’t bear to add anything on to it. To write more would’ve desecrated its simple beauty. Enjoy the time with your loved ones, folks, even if it’s a hundred miles away and in between the space of messages.

Categories
poetry

Imagine

I imagine us on a Sunday

With nothing to do

I imagine us with our instruments

Playing a song or two

I imagine you dressing my wounds

While I steal your sweater

I imagine you kissing my knuckles

To make me feel better

I imagine driving downtown with you

Or to the big city, if you want

I imagine blasting the radio

To ignore society’s taunt

I imagine you wearing my jacket

As we pull up to the bookshop

As we sit and browse for hours

Neither of us can stop

I imagine a future with you

And I think it’s coming soon

I imagine laying with you on the hood of my car

Under a full, bright moon

I imagine you in my arms

Whispering how you’re here to stay

But for now, we can’t see each other

And you feel so far away

***

A poem written on a whim, yet the rhyme scheme was good enough to post. Recent events have put me far away from the rest of humanity, as I’m sure it’s done to almost everyone. While this is a love poem, an undercurrent of bitterness permeates the blissful and longing words. However, as with most my writings, it is merely a work of fiction.