Day to Day Poetry, poetry

#8 Dust

Every time we fight I get just a little bit smaller,
every word you say becomes a question mark
carved inside of me – an incision of doubt made permanently.
My voice, once explosive and strong, has been reduced to
a desperate whisper in a world full of noise;
and when zoomed in to our private universe, I am just static –
a snow of blurry, white dots against a background of black
that you don’t pay attention to.

I am frantic and pervasive, against your calm and apathy,
fantastical and furious, against your logic and invariability.
I don’t know how to love you. This battle has hardened me.
The ground we used to stand on is shaking;
the earth beneath us has become the jagged, yellow teeth of
a monster designed to swallow me whole,
while you sit on the precipice of what has become broken,
rigid and unchanged, stable and unhindered,
as if the chaos of the apocalypse isn’t enough
to make a dent in that armour of yours.

There’s a part of you I can’t reach,
no matter how far I stretch myself.
A gulf I keep trying to cross, on my hands and knees,
bruised to the point of collapse –
I scream for you one last time:
and
nothing.

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Day to Day Poetry, Day to Day Writing

Day to Day Poetry #34

It crawls into my skin
like little parasites
that dig under my veins
and settles into the crevices of my chest
and pounds and pounds —
until the only thing that can stop
my sporadic bursts of breath
is the pain that electrifies my nerves
whenever I clench my fists
to dig my nails into my palms,
tiny cuts of red
that grounds me back to reality.

Because loving you was a decision
I set heavily in stone
with as much relentless and vehemence
as a naive 10-year-old would –
taking every minuscule sign as proof of your love,
justifying your hesitations and radio silence
biting back my lip to prevent my heart from breaking
sitting alone on a thirty-minute cab ride
refusing to cry.

Because you are thunder, the tiniest of all tempests
The persuasion and conviction of my soul
Within forty-two hours you owned me
And rendered me speechless in prisms of crimson and catatonic ecstasy
As you swing me back and forth in an euphoria induced coma
Until the sunlight of the early morning doesn’t scare me anymore
For we have, gathered in our hands,
The laughter that will keep us calm even in the break of sobriety
The serotonin that will keep us sane and going
And the stories that will tide us over until the next bitter year.

Yesterday, my love, you held me on Danforth avenue,
Tonight, dear stranger, I stand alone.

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Day to Day Writing, Uncategorized

Day to Day Writing # 32

Hello honey.

I caught you in the train the other day, did you notice me? Isn’t it funny how an ordinary, mediocre commute with a world full of strangers can suddenly feel so estranged, so serendipitous, all because of a single, familiar curved back and that gait of yours I used to know so well? Gait. That distinctive walk unique to each person, that becomes so telling of personality — a word I learned from you; I learned so many things from you.

Immediately Toronto felt too small, and the places we visited on that one winter we spent together suddenly became vivid – suddenly took form and collapsed into one another until this city became only the places we have been together – in the short time we spent together – oh what a tiny city Toronto became in that second, in that moment I realized it was you walking up the stairs in front of me.

Each step closer brought me back to the past we shared together. That time you sneaked away from our friends and smoked a cigarette in the cold, and I followed you, like a devout fan, like the fiercely loyal lover that showed too much, too fast. That empty wine glass squeezed in between the cushions of your couch, the one my back was pressed against, as you leaned in close, suffocating me with a kiss. That leather chair you swiveled in while writing, as you watched your late night shows. That blue blanket I wrapped myself in, forming an enclosed, tight space of comfort and familiarity, because I had the same blanket back at my place, because I thought it brought us closer together. Seemingly ordinary things that now hold so much meaning, markers of our relationship of our time together, which probably holds more meaning and significance than it ever did in yours.

I’ve written about you a thousand times. And to think that I all I ever wanted from you was to be your muse, the one you wrote about in metaphors and alliterations, the one you immortalized in poetry and prose — so that I wouldn’t have to live in the harsh reality of my own world, so that I could escape in the most romantic of ways, so that someone else could somehow write me out of existence.

Even if this quick reconnaissance of each other’s bodies didn’t mean much to you as it did to me, I’ll be brave for once and tell you this: this event spurred a string of decisions and choices that are beyond your control. You made your mark as I did mine, and whether or not you plan to bury this in denial or be the foundation for all the lovers you experience since, is for you, and only you, to decide.

I wonder if you will ever sit down on that chair of yours, and think about the nights we talked ‘till 4 in the morning, and realize we were both deluding ourselves into thinking we found the perfect means of escape within each other. I wonder if you will indeed leave this country and go back to your homeland, and continue writing about that blonde bombshell who won awards for her essay writing and so couldn’t spend time with you. I wonder if you will ever deny that you are the subject of this story, if someone managed to piece the clues together and find out it was you.

I wonder if you ever did feel sorry, or miserable when you walked away.

Not that it matters now.

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Day to Day Writing, Epiphanies

Day to Day Writing #25

When I was sixteen, I spent all night alone in my room, in the dark, listening to Ashlee Simpson from my laptop, and crying in agreement every time she said “Good bye”. I was crying because my best friend stopped calling me as much as she used to, and the difference caught me by surprise, because I wasn’t quite ready for our relationship to end yet. It was very obvious to me what I was sad about, and it didn’t bother me whether or not my reaction to my situation was appropriate. All I knew was that I was sad, and that was enough to legitimate the Ashlee Simpson music and the tantrum that followed for hours afterward.

Now that I’m older, I look back at this memory fondly. It is an anecdote I remember with nostalgia because of its simplicity and clarity. I wish I could be sad without judgement – without looking at myself in anger, because I often believe that I am sad over things I shouldn’t be sad about – as if there was a hierarchy in pain that I should always put first, instead of my emotions. I wish I could easily pinpoint the source of my sadness as eloquently and as easily as I did when I was sixteen, because I had no shame nor regret over the decisions I made, because I wasn’t trying to justify anything to myself. I wish I could let myself be simply sad for one day and not hate myself for it, because when I was sixteen, I was so ready to accept that people have good and bad days – and time wasn’t something that could go to waste if you allowed yourself to have one sad, bad day — or a couple. Because there was always time to be happy, to move on.

Now that I’m older, I am so aware of time and the minutes I waste being sad. This search for happiness has consumed my life to the point that I have stopped allowing myself to feel the way I actually feel. As if only certain problems have legitimacy, as if tears can only be justified within certain situations.

I wish I could be irrational, and show my emotions to anyone who would listen, without being judged nor put to shame, and still be considered an adult.

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Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry # 24

There’s a cricket living in my heater.
I feed him leaves through the dusty grate and listen to his chirping at night.

A few days ago I tried my best to lead him out,
And created a path for escape through my living room window —
But he stayed in his spot and chirped,
and forced us
to co-exist.

Every morning I check my heater
only to see the path I created for him remain
untraveled.

His chirps lull me through my nightmares,
on evenings when I leave my window open,
the cold sneaking in and settling deep within
my bones.

I paint my old heater forest-green
To make him feel at home.

A small thank you for his nightly song,
the one that holds my hand
and leads me through a yellow field,
an endless sea of stars burning bright above us —
and the songs of crickets and cicadas
surrounds us.

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