Dear me

-- 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

like dirt.

just plain.

regular really.

-- 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

and that

I never will be

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

You paint such a pretty picture

with those lemon eyes

but little do I know

they are just a sweet disguise

a second of rapture

a moment on the lips

till I’m stuck forever

wrapped round those fingertips

I’m tired

Actually, no

I just always seem to say I am

it seems I'm always tired

I’m not even sure why.

Actually, no

I know why I'm tired

Sometimes it’s the yelling

as the words pierce me through and through -

quiet daggers

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

Telling me

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

Is tired.

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.