Mementos

As a kid I craved mentos.

While the generic fruit flavors were nice, mint was ideal.

I'd line them up along freezer shelves, balanced on top of ice cube trays,

only to forget them hours later.

But the best part was rediscovering them,

Unsticking their cold, smooth shells from the ice,

hesitating until my fingers went numb,

then finally tasting ice 

and that cold candy rush.

CO

Lying alone in my room with my iPod

Cord threaded up my arm, circling my throat

One phone in my ear, the other dangling off the bed

Spitting half of a song out into the stale air

The shapes dripping out, piling on the floor, unheard and forgotten.

All I see is the grey shadow cast by the fan on the ceiling,

Blades reaching out like crepuscular rays.

Crepuscular. That's your word of the day.

Look it up yourself. I don't feel like moving.

My apathy is too heavy,

Taking up too much space, 

Its chasms pushing against

Lungs barely expanding enough to allow new air inside.

Beneath the weight, deep in that dark, my heart is a canary,

Tiny ribcage gasping,

Lost in the black,

The song suffocated out of me.

Smoke and Mirrors

I'm so very grown up

Hair undone

Pumps on the table

Roll up lies between my fingers, and

Inhale, exhale.

"Don't you worry about me,

I'm fine,

Things just don't work out."

I can see the reflection of the smoke in your skeptic eyes

But you talk about the weather,

The neighbors,

The price of tea in China.

Inhale, exhale.

Sometimes I try to hold it in until my throat closes and my eyes water

and the sadness seeps from my skin.

'Cuz people don't want to breathe in that kind of secondhand smoke.

They'd much rather put me in glass boxes

And paint red X's over their doorways.

It's a social taboo,

Don't say a word,

Just hold your breath and smile.

My heart's beating too hard,

My lungs are breathing too loudly,

Rattling the tangled up sentences

Buried beneath an unfamiliar voice.

My smile is suffocating me.

But my lips are addicted

So who cares if the lipstick smudges?

Inhale, inhale, inhale

I need to get out,

I need to breathe,

I'm coughing up ash-stained memories that

Shake me,

Rip me,

Aching lungs sucking in unfamiliar air

Fingertips trembling as I light another match.

"Can't we just talk about it, baby?

Can't we figure this one out?"

You hand me another mask

And I breathe it in,

Inhale, exhale.

I watch the smoke reflected in your eyes.

Don't be so disappointed.

You tried even less than I did.

~effervescent laughter

Never forget

I twist the pieces of mirror in my hands, re-arranging them into different shapes 
I twist the memories in my mind, trying to paint them a different color
But you are always there,
You are always haunting the hallways
And tunnels
And locked up cupboards shoved between forbidden file cabinets
In the nightmarish mazes that twist upwards around my heart
And clench their fingers around my throat
Saying, “Never forget. Never forget.
You are nothing. You are forgotten.
I
Never forget.”
 
You know, you are different now
That you are gone.
You are thinner,
Lighter,
Like you could spread your wings and
Be blown away in the wind.
I try to catch you
To fly away
Wrapping the kite strings around my hands
Until my fingers turn blue.
“Never forget.”
The strings snap.
 
The world churns and rocks madly
Tossing the people inside it like waves
And we try to balance on the telephone wires
That cut our hands
And shock our feet.
I feel like my head is b r e a k i n g  o p e n
But everyone keeps walking and living and breathing.
They smile,
But all I see is your memory leering at me
Smirking your half grin
That once made my world make sense.

But when he smiles,

When he smiles,
You melt away

Forgotten

The fingers r e l e a s i n g
The voice gurgling and sputtering,
Until I can believe that
Maybe

I am worth something after all.

~effervescent laughter

Paris

  Paris was where I tasted newness again.

     When I first arrived, it was crowded, full of life and color and familiarity.  But it wasn't new, like I thought it would be.  It rained sometimes, and washed up mistakes would overflow out of the gutters.  The same nightmares, the same lifelessness, the same resistance had followed me.  My resistance, overused memories and monochromatic emotions, still lurked behind the colorful signs and the tourist destination spots. 

   So I decided to step off the beaten path.

   I wandered, turning right sometimes, turning left others, until I reached the end.

   I wouldn't know what else to call it, this place on the outskirts where Paris still somewhat existed.  But it was empty, quiet, blank. 

   I breathed out those old memories.  And began to write.

    It was refreshing.  It was awakening.  There was still resistance, don't misunderstand me, but I could combat it with an energy I didn't know I possessed.  I had access to those old memories that had sucked me in and confined me to the same emotions previously.  But now they were new tools, only used for writing if I felt like it.  And even though it rained every day, it was almost cleansing, washing away the mistakes.

    The place soon developed its own color, its own life, crowded with ideas and inspiration and untouched by tourists who take more than pictures and graffiti their opinions onto the walls.

   Then one day I found the plane ticket I had left in my sweater pockets, along with the crumpled peanut packages and loose change. The date: 1/13/2012.

    I packed my things, locked the door, and found my way back to the airport.  But the key still hangs around my neck. Paris hasn't left me just yet.

   That place--where it is left unwritten and open, waiting for you, where Paris really is--taught me to be original again, to push my mind's boundaries, to write myself where I've never been before.  And I hope that all those who travel there throw away the brochures and walk past the gift shops and find their own Paris.

~effervescent laughter

Me. Myself, and I

     I used to love questionaires as a kid.

     Favorite color. Height. Birthday.

     Is my favorite food me?

     I don't know.  I never really thought so.  Maybe I just didn't know myself.  Maybe I just don't know myself. 

     If you really knew me, would you think I was Indian food? Or the color blue? Or white water rafting?

     If you really knew me, you wouldn't have to answer.

     If you really knew me, you'd know that I don't wear matching socks. And that I can't eat just one pistachio. And that hearing my own voice makes me self conscious.  If you really knew me, you'd know that I like feeding ducks and flying kites and I think for things so cliche we don't do them enough.

     If you really knew me, you'd know that I don't like awkward howdoyoudos and I fail at small talk, usually avoiding it altogether.  You'd know that I'm really not that shy, just unsure what I could say that will make people listen.

     If you really knew me, you'd know I love to laugh.

     If you really knew me, you'd know I have more regrets than I can count. You'd know that I hate violence.  You'd know I don't believe in astrology, but I'm such a Libra.

     If you really knew me, you'd know that I found out I had synesthesia last year and it turned my world upside down.

     If you really knew me, you'd know that I stayed up all night last week to see a meteor shower.  You'd know that I love summer storms and seeing people's opinions.

     If you really knew me, you'd know that I love my memories, even the bad ones, and I'm afraid of forgetting when I'm old with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, that somehow I'll lose them before I make it to wherever we end up after we die, that somehow I'll forget who I really am.

     If you really knew me, you'd know that I'm still discovering myself.

 

My Journey

A piano.
A piano and a field.
A piano, a field, and the big open sky.
A piano, a field, the big open sky, and a girl.
A piano, a field, the big open sky, a girl, and sheet music.
A piano, a field, the big open sky, a girl, sheet music, and
Silence.

    Jacqueline is a lawyer for a small company in Florida. She is sent on a business trip to handle case in Wyoming for one of the manager's sons. He was accused of murder.  Jacqueline isn't a fan of traveling so far for so long, but she agrees to go after consulting her friend. She goes to Wyoming, meets the guy, and starts to get to know him. He tells her he is innocent, and she believes him.
   The family of the victim is sueing him, and she is able to win the case. Meanwhile, he shows her the sights and takes her to restaurants and such and she starts to fall in love with  him. However, she visits the scene of the crime and finds evidence linking him to the crime because of what she had been learning about him over the past few days.
   The day before the federal case, he takes her out into the middle of nowhere, where there are just fields and fields and open sky, and a piano. He tells her about the piano, how his dad took it out into the middle of nowhere to play a song for his mom when they were dating. She is torn, but finally confronts him about the evidence, and he drives off without her, leaving her stranded in the dust. She pulls out the number of the taxi from her coin purse he thought she left at the hotel, and calls it.
   The day of the trial arrives, and he had already hired a new lawyer to finish the case. To his surprise, she walks in, proves him guilty, and returns home.

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Gandhi

When will we own ourselves completely?

Some say when we stop judging others and being judged.

I was one of them.

But then a wise friend told me that 

"Judging doesn't make you a uniquely horrible person; it matters instead if you act on your judgments."

So. I judge people.

                                                                                                              

I pay attention to their actions and expressions.

I see their good intentions.

I admire their determination.

I never get tired of seeing the intricacies of human life,

Of feeling the weight of their soul in my hands, admiring their sparkling hopes and their powerful wings laced with veins of emotion.

To see the expanse of their potential

Is exhilarating to me,

To understand that this beautiful soul is owned by itself and nothing else.

I admire their uniqueness.

I keep forgetting faults are a bad thing.

It shows growth,

It shows humanity,

It shows a need for love and something better.

I respect their faults.

I get lost in the beauty of other people so often that

I keep forgetting to own myself.

I think we will own ourselves completely when we understand

This beautiful thing called humanity,

When we aren’t afraid to judge without acting on our judgments,

When we aren’t afraid to hold those fluttering crystalline souls in our hands

And see the light in each other’s eyes.

And though you may judge me for it,

Tonight is not the last time I’ll see the light.

Evelyn

            A little girl stood in front of a candy store, dressed in a bright green jacket and red rain boots, even though it was a bright summer day. She had recently received them as a gift from her father, and hadn’t taken them off since, much to the dismay of her mother. They made her feel special, standing in front of that candy store, as if she might actually be buying something.

“Evelyn!" her mother called from the sewing shop next door. She dumped bags of fabric into Evelyn's arms and pulled her down the sidewalk by the shoulder of her jacket.

Today, Evelyn thought sadly, was a very busy day.

“Today is a very busy day, and I can’t have you wandering off! We have to go to the hat shop, and then visit Ms. Grace, bless her heart, then take the laundry to..."

Evelyn balanced the fabric in her right arm as she pushed a few locks of golden red hair from her grey eyes. Her rain boots squeaked as she hurried to keep up with her mother, who was still listing off things she had to do.

"...Then your father asked that I would buy him some new gloves, that's the third pair this month! And on the way..."

Evelyn hadn't seen her father since she was four. He was in Scotland, doing something important. Actually Evelyn had no idea, but by the way her mother gave a disapproving look whenever he was mentioned, she guessed it had to be something exciting. Last week her mother had opened a letter from him asking that Evelyn would come visit. Evelyn had begged, and even promised to not wear her rain boots so often, but her mother refused.

           

"Then Mrs. Parsons insisted that we—”

The ground shook, cutting her sentence short. Evelyn stumbled and dropped the fabric, catching her fall with her hand.  The sidewalk was cracking, and suddenly was covered in shadow. Evelyn looked up at the sky, clutching her scraped hand with her other one.

Churning dark clouds came out of nowhere, blowing huge gusts of wind that all but blew Evelyn off of her feet. Her mother was holding onto her hat, bracing herself against the doorway of a shop. In the large glass window, Evelyn could see her reflection, her green jacket billowing in the wind, hitting against a tall man, whose reflected grey eyes pierced her to the core. She spun around.

He grinned. “Hello, Evie.”

~Who is this mysterious man?

~Why does Evelyn’s mother disapprove of her father?

~What does the storm mean for Evelyn?

My Story

In a painted room

On the corner of a street

Under a yellow sunflower bed

There is a shoebox.

Pull it out.

Blow off the dust.

Inside, you’ll find

Me.

A blue stuffed elephant

A broken bracelet

A brown feather.

There is a weather damaged book from when I was seven.

I ran away from home, but never left the front yard.

I accidentally left the book in the rain after I went back inside.

You can still find the rust from the paperclip bookmark

On page 28.

There is a picture,

I am standing in the sun

With a paintbrush in one hand

And a popsicle in the other.

I bet you can figure out for yourself

How easily it is

For a four year old to get them mixed up.

There is a jade dragon.

Neck curved back

Claw stretched out

Teeth grinning.

My little brother’s hands were hot

When he placed this jade dragon

In my hands,

A birthday present

And he gave me

Everything.

In the shoebox

You’ll find me.

But you’ll find him too.

The Eleventh Color

Ever wonder why we only see a total of ten basic colors, at most? I mean, there are in between colors, but why isn't there eleven? 

I sometimes wonder what it would look like, the eleventh color. I see more colors than I was meant to, flickering across pages and music.  But I can't help but feel I only have a taste.  

I think it would look like the feeling of raspberry ice cream falling off your cone to the grey pavement, only to be caught by someone you hadn't forgotten.  

Or maybe it would look the way a brand new pen feels sliding across someone's skin, writing a phone number.  

Sometimes, on rainy days, the eleventh color is like a broken goodbye, lodged in my throat. 

I wonder... 

what is your eleventh color? :)

~effervescent laughter