Day to Day Writing, Short Fiction, Uncategorized

#2 Epistolary

My love,

When I was young, my mother bought me a dress to wear to church. She thought it was beautiful. I hated it with passion. When we got home, I ran to our backyard, tore the thing off in half, made it into a cape, climbed the roof, yelled that I was Superman and jumped.

I think even then, deep inside, I knew that my self-made cape would not keep me afloat, but I jumped anyway – because I felt invincible – because I felt hopeful – because I was so sure, as sure as I knew that I would hit the ground – that the pain that would come from that fall, would be worth it.

For a while, that’s what you made me feel. That feeling of hope and invincibility that I thought was long extinguished inside me, suddenly came back full force – it clouded my vision, diluted my mind, stormed on my defenses. Liquefied – I was liquid with you, malleable, absorbent, transparent and destructible.

We once talked about superpowers. You didn’t know what yours was.

Remember when I asked you to tell me a story from your youth? You were always so convinced that the stories we tell are random and meaningless – that anecdotes from our childhoods bear no significance nor mark in our lives. But we tell the stories we do for a reason – and this was yours:

You said that when you were young, while you were in the scouts, you saw your father baking treats for the other members of your group. You asked if you could have one. And your father vehemently refused. No matter the tantrum you threw, your father  remained steadfast in his decision of not giving you a treat. It was the first time, you said, that you realized, your parents do not exist solely to please you.

In shock, I asked, “How old were you when that happened?”

You replied, calmly, “About ten. Eleven.”

I could barely keep the awe from my voice when the words slipped out of my mouth uncontrollably: “You’re very lucky to have held on to that idea for so so long, to not have realized otherwise until you were 11 years old.”

And you held me closer to you and said, words that melted my heart, “Well, it doesn’t matter now – you have me – and that’s how I can exist for you.”

Here’s a gift, from me to you – a lesson you can keep in your pocket when there’s nothing else worth taking.

Your superpower is your narcissism. It keeps you optimistic, hopeful and invincible. There are those who can only feel this indestructibility in very rare moments in their lives, if at all. Most of us are terrified, every hour of our day, every second. We feel vulnerable .We feel defeated. When we meet someone like you we feel elated. We feel protected just by being around you. We feel content, we feel stronger.

Because of your overflowing confidence, because of your optimism that things will always work out for you, things do work out for you – maybe not for us, not those around you who either figure in your life as accessories, or automatons – things you can use to fill gaps in your time, in your identity. But that’s the power of a narcissist – that you can turn people into weapons, and sidekicks. Always secondary to you. The upside of not feeling empathy, is the limitless ability to keep self-preserving.

Good luck my friend. And a fair warning to use your power responsibly. A string of broken hearts lined across the paths you’ve taken doesn’t make for a relatable, nor sympathetic superhero.

Before I go, let me give you one last story:

Throughout my high school years I collected rocks. Every place I went where I felt happy, I took a rock home with me to commemorate that day. My room slowly transformed into a room full of dirty, strangely-shaped rocks to anyone that entered it. No one knew the meaning behind them but me – but that was enough, it was all that mattered. I had grand delusions of becoming the world’s largest rock collector and surround myself with memories of happiness wherever I go.

But one day, I came home from school and saw that they were gone. It was all thrown away – just like that.

I cried for days – sadness that paralyzed me. I felt every part of my body slowly being destroyed. How can something be once there, and then be gone? How can something you love so much be taken away from you without your say?

How do we forgive ourselves for the things we did not become?

 

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Day to Day Poetry, poetry

#61

I carry my sins like nails in my palms,
Buried deep within me, unified inside my flesh and blood,
Transforming the rest of my life as the Eucharist for my mistakes,
Perpetually confessing to faceless strangers for a night,
Different versions of Soma and Wilkinson classics.

When you constantly run on empty fuel,
You eventually start yearning for companionship.
So I call them to join me, knee-deep in fish nets and salt water,
And pepper them with promises of fulfillment and bottomless wine,
Of reincarnations and resurrections,
You too can be Lazarus —
You can leave this cadaverous flesh,
I can spark your lifeless days with sprinkles of euphoria and chemical highs.
Welcome to the simulacra, my sweets,
These sweet streets all over you now, my dear.

A pilgrimage to hunt that who can forgive,
The Canterbury tales of the lost and the damned.
Flights of the homeless, fights of the brave,
Mindlessly seeking comfort from that which is destroying you,
Knowing that it is either you make this thing inside you last,
Or forever climb, frazzled, jarred, exhausted and depleted,
Giving it all for one, short glimpse of the horizon,
Diminishing returns until we reach the point of
Absolute zero.

Judases, all of them.
Thirty silver pieces for all of who I am.
This is what it feels to live on borrowed time, my love,
Borrowed time is all I have.

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Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry #35

I had a dream
that I had an infinite amount
of these round little pills
that forced us to dance
the crazy dance
of laconic conversations
for six hours straight
going up and then down
and then flinging our souls
away from the helpless
hopelessness of sobriety
until a tremble in the corner

of our dilated eyes
exploded
and rendered us
into colours
that couldn’t exist

while a rabid, quivering whisper

told us we held

the secret to life

that whatever it is that people

questioned, studied, searched and journeyed for

the golden truth, the elliptical bud

has been found—

but before we could

ask why
it died

before we could hear

 

anything.
 

 

 

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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 Poetry, poetry

Day to Day Poetry#33

Her fingers can type 120 words per minute,
from cataclysmic to chaotic to climactic–
she can process words in her mind like shape-shifting entities,
each adjective and euphemism creating their own existence,
playing out a plot in the crevices of her mind in which she’s the star–
and though fully aware this kind of escapism is futile,
she will ride the subway from kennedy to kipling anyway,
on her most manic of days, buried in white headphones and scarves,
because it’s better than staying at home.

 

 

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