-- I’m sorry that your nose is too big
with it’s large bump
that goes all the way down
to the lack of bone
-- I’m sorry that your stomach is too round
with little rolls that poke out
in all the wrong places
when you sit incorrectly
or let your back slump forward
so that the tears may fall to the ground
-- I’m sorry that your eyes are too brown
-- I’m sorry that the jagged lightning running down
your soft legs
doesn’t please your distempered eyes
and that the muscle thatgrips your thighs
is too much too much too much
-- I’m sorry that I’m not good enough
to fit your EXPECTATIONS
I never will be
Life has a nasty habit of disappearing
So I accepted the car ride. Even though I knew he had been drinking. After all, I could taste the sour liquor on his breath as I kissed him. As he shoved his slimy tongue down my throat, so deep I thought it would lick my heart. But I didn’t care. I knew I should, but I had wanted this for so long. Imagined him, imagined this. So I got in the car. And I watched, with a quiet combination of interest and fear as we careened towards the pole, the icy road slipping out from under our desperate wheels.
How could this be done?
By such a smiling sweetheart
It started out with a kiss
How did it end up like this?
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss
And I'd been doing just fine
But now I gotta gotta be down
Because I want it all
Oh, your sweet and pretty face
In such an ugly way
Something so beautiful
But every time I look inside
I know that she knows that I'm not fond of asking
True or false, it may be
She's still out to get me
I may say it was your fault
'Cause I know you could have done more
Now she's going to bed
And my stomach is sick
And it's all in my head
But she's touching his chest now
He takes off her dress now
Please don't let me go
And I just can't look, it's killing me
But it's just the price I pay
For opening up my eager eyes
Oh, I'm so naive,
'Cause I'm Mr. Brightside
"Naive" by The Kooks
"Mr. Brightside" by The Killers
I just always seem to say I am
it seems I'm always tired
I’m not even sure why.
I know why I'm tired
Sometimes it’s the yelling
as the words pierce me through and through -
Sometimes it’s the tears
gushing down in an endless torrent
Sometimes it’s the silence
the tension palpable,
As we sit there, waiting for the other to speak
Sometimes it’s the fear
Whispers of worry crawling to my ears
gripping my throat
with scaly hands
That I’m not good enough
That I’ll never succeed
That I don’t deserve anything.
The tired seeps in my bones
Through my muscles
Into my brain
It permeates my skin
Until all I am
So there I was ... staring into your bright blue beautiful eyes as we drove down the desserted highway. The bitter taste of my betrayal seeping deeper and deeper into my skin with every breath shared in the cramped interior. But you keep driving, eyes staring down the dark path, unaware of the battle being raged beneath my paper-thin skin.
beyond or above the range of normal or merely physical human experience
I guess I just like the idea that there is stuff beyond me.
Objects and beings and beauty that I cannot begin to comprehend.
My mind, limited by its humanity.
I like the way it rolls of the tongue
and off the corners of my consciousness.
I like the way it makes my toes grow cold
as my mind careens forward, trying to catch up
to something, anything, that I will never know
Oddly, I like how it makes me competitive
I like how it makes me want to leave my mark
despite how small this world might be
despite how insignificant I am, despite, despite, despite
Maybe I just like the way it makes me hope
for new sciences to be discovered,
new solutions for the pain and sadness that consume our
brief little lives.
I don’t have much experience when it comes to death. My grandfather on my father’s side died before I was born. Funny, isn’t it. He lived through a war, through battles, through heartbreaks, through pain and joy and anger, only to be brought down by his own body.
For my grandfather it was his heart that gave him away. The treachery of his own organ was his inevitable undoing. He had the first attack at 49. Far too young, far too early. But he survived. It was the second one that took him. 69. 20 years later. Long enough to watch my dad grow up, to watch him begin to take shape into the semblence of a human being. My dad was 20 years old when he lost his father.
Sometimes, when I was little, my dad would tell me stories about my grandfather. Stories that made me giggle till my chest ached, stories that made me want to cry, stories that made me long to know this man, this man whose’s blood courses through my veins.
My dad says he would have liked me. Me, my headstrong, stubborn, frustrating self. He says I would have liked him too.
My dad had a heart attack at 53. The betrayal, as it turns out, was not due to the smoking, or high blood pressure, or multitude of unhealthy habits my grandfather had. No. Genetics, their own DNA was the cause. Undone by the essence of their being. But he survived.
And they pump him full of pills and treatments and strategies and appointments. But he is still my dad. But for me, the thing that changed most is what I fear. I fear history. I fear DNA. And I wonder if I will have 20 more years with him.
So, how would I like to die? I think the answer is obvious. I don’t want to. I don’t want my heart to stop beating. I don’t want to lie, cold, silent, unmoving on a metal tray. Blue lips, grey skin, decaying body.
I want to live! I want to see the Northern lights and travel to Greece and climb a mountain and swim the depths of the ocean. I want to live!
Inevitably, I’m going to die. One day. One day I will stop running and singing and jumping and writing. But until then, until my life is taken from me, I’m going to close my fingers tight around every moment of existence. And death be damned, I choose to live.