Grief Written

When someone apologized I'd always say,"It's okay." It wasn't until my mother sat me down, looked me in the eyes, and said "No it's not." That I realized she was right. "Never tell someone it's okay that they hurt you, because it's not. Hurting others is never okay. Thank them for their apology and be done with it." I'm still working on it...but I'm learning that it's not okay for others to hurt me. One day other people will learn it too.

"I broke myself trying to fix you"  -a seven word story

My love for you blossomed into daisies, white petals and green vines wrapping around my heart. I collected them and gave them to you in a blooming bouquet. You ground the soft petals beneath your heel as you walked away. I gathered my torn petals with my heart exposed as you told me you'd prefer a rose.

Dear Little Human, Welcome to the world, I hope you enjoy your stay. It's a big, bright, loud, crazy, fast, overwhelming world but it's the one only one we have so we make the best of it. You haven't been here long, only a couple of hours. Your eyes haven't even begun to see what surrounds you. But  you have so many years to experience the world. Dear Little Human, when you first entered the world you cried, screamed, and inhaled your first breath of air. Remember to continue to do all these things. It's okay to cry. Don't let anyone ever tell you to quit your tears, because your tears just show that you're human and that you're alive. You can cry all you want, just let me wipe the tears away when you're done. You can scream. Scream for joy, scream in anger, just scream. If something makes you so happy and excited that you cannot contain it, let it bubble over and come out in a scream. If you're so mad and frustrated that you cannot keep it bac...

I told you that you could never see yourself clearly in me. I said I was broken, Your reflection  would be cracked. I warned you not to cut yourself on my shattered parts.   You smiled tenderly "You're not a mirror, you're a stain glass window. The cuts and colored panes are what make you beautiful. They're what let the light in." You saw beauty in my broken state. You took a step back and saw that the cracks form something other than a broken girl.  And because of that I'll always love you.

This is not going to be lyrical. This is not going to be poetic. This IS going to be blunt. And to be honest I don't care if you disagree or don't like what I have to say. Because someone has to say something. To the gentleman in the hallway, I wear skirts, almost everyday. I wear them because I like the way they make me feel. I do not on any grounds wear them for attention. I absolutely do not wear them for anyone's pleasure but my own. I do not wear them so your eyes can travel up and down my body. I do not wear them so you can leer at me and tell me "Hey I like your skirt" followed by the noticeably softer comment of "and your legs." My dear gentleman, you may think this is okay. My dear reader, you may also think this okay. I mean, he's complimenting me right? Just trying to be nice to a girl passing in the hallway. Our culture will have you believe that this behavior is absolutely, on all levels, alright and okay and everybody is just ...

I didn't write this but it needs to be shared. Also, dear anonymous, it's okay to be scared "I wrote something. I want to share it. Too nervous to take credit. It just needs to be out there. Over Life. I get scared. A lot. Not over scary movies or haunted houses. Over life. It's scary. A grandpa. The best man I've known. Loses everything because of someone else's lie.  He's diagnosed with cancer. He's getting better. The suspense is building. It's scary. A boy. A player. I'm playing with fire. I know it. But every time he touches me my body goes haywire.  I'm falling. It's scary. A brother. 22. Single. Living at home. Gets joy out of people's pain. I love him so much. He doesn't understand that love.  I just want my brother. It's scary. A job. Lost over a year ago. The new one is a work in progress. Can't pay my school fees. Mom is scared. Dad feels like a failure sometimes. It's scary. Love. We give it. A piece of ou...

She was a galaxy, Lit from the inside with stars. He loved the night sky, So he observed her from afar. But he was was only an astronomer,  And she was the endless night, So he sat with his telescope and waited until the time was right. He traced her constellations, He drew her crescent smile, But the astronomer never realized that even a galaxy can be fragile. She was constant, And so was he, The astronomer and the galaxy. So he found it surprising when he stepped out in the night, That the endless sky was devoid of any light. The astronomer fell to his knees and wept,  Her name fell from his lips in a desperate plea. He searched the grass for stardust, He looked for a flicker of her in the sky. Surrounded by darkness he realized, stars shine the brightest before they die.

"I want to be worth more than the silence on the other end." 13 words. 1 life story.

Holding your hand in mine was like placing my own destruction between your fingers.  With your hand in mine I wondered if you could feel my flickering pulse screaming that I'm human. My destruction was at your fingertips, as soon as you learned through my loose grip and my slightly damp hands that I was flesh and blood. My calm exterior was shattered, My concrete walls destroyed, Because as you held my hand you learned I wasn't the untouchable girl I pretended to be. I am human. I have a heart that beats unsteadily in my chest, I have blood that rushes to my cheeks, I am breakable. You can tear me apart, And I'm begging you not to. Because holding your hand feels like all I've ever lost coming back to me, But it also seems like all I ever had slipping through my fingers; Perhaps to be held by you or lost forever. I placed my own destruction between your fingers, A sensitive time grenade, Ringing out in slow rhythmic ticks how long we could possibly last. If you pull you...

I have the letter you wrote me hanging on the wall, I can't bring myself to take it down. I know I should,  because every time I look at it my heart aches and my eyes water. I trace the letters etched into the paper. Smooth away the crinkles like I could smooth away my hurt. I can't bring my fingers to grip the page and tug it down. To hear the page ripping like an echo of my heart. Because although the letter on the wall is making my heart ache it's holding me together. The letter on the wall reminds me that even if you may hate me now you loved me once. And that alone is the tape that holds the letter to the wall and the pieces of my heart together.

I woke up this morning, rolled over in my bed, And had a thought flit across my mind. As I stretched out in my empty bed,  I thought I would give up anything for you to be lying next to me. To trace your lips as they softly exhaled. To watch your eyes flutter as I snuggle closer. I would give anything to wake up to your smile and fall asleep to your laugh. If your voice woke me up every morning, I'd never sleep in again. My alarm clock would go neglected, gathering dust. Because instead of my hand slapping snooze every morning, it'd be smoothing your hair away, and tracing every crease and line in your face. I would kiss you awake each morning, and greet the sun with a smile.  Because another morning means another night was spent with your arms wrapped around my waist, and your lips on my forehead. As I rolled over this morning, I had a thought. That I'd give anything in the world, To roll over, And bump into you. 

Nia adjusted her skirt with a mischievous grin. "They call him Punch," she remarked offhandedly gesturing towards the figure lurking behind her. The three boys that were steadily advancing towards her staggered to a stop. "Yeah? Why's that?" asked one. There was a slight quiver in his voice, betraying his unease. The speaker was lanky, thin but strong like a wire. His eyes were a watery blue and he had a chip in his front tooth. His eyes traveled over Nia slowly and he sneered appreciatively. Rubbing his jaw he glanced back to appraise the threat in the shadows. "He doesn't look like much," he concluded coolly as he slithered closer. Punch stepped from the shadows and watched the group shift with unease and they took all of him in. As captain of the basketball team Punch was tall but strong. The muscles in his arms rippled as he casually draped an arm over Nia's petite frame and smiled. "Come on Nia, tell them why." Punch was hand...

I've always loved you. I'm the kind of girl who falls in love quickly. But the day I knew you loved me was the day we fought. I was driving. My knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel so hard and you were laughing. The fact that you were laughing only made me more angry. "Don't be mad" you grinned. "Shut up. I'm mad. This isn't funny."  "You'll get over it by the time you drop me off," you said good-naturedly ignoring the fact that I told you to shut up. Being the stubborn girl I am, I ignored you and glared at the road. That's when it happened. Your hand pulled mine from the wheel, interlacing our fingers. Still upset I yanked it back and gripped the wheel harder, "I need two hands to drive." "You haven't needed two before this. In fact you rarely drive with two," you countered. Grinding my teeth I muttered, "I've learned my mistake....

If I showed you my bruises settled beneath my skin, Would you stroke them lovingly and whisper words to ease the pain? Or would walk away? Because it's hard to love a girl  who's  been  stained .

She kissed him like she was drowning,  And his lips were the air. She held onto him like he was her life preserver, And she was lost at sea. Little did she know he was the water filling her lungs, And he was the tide pulling her under.   He wasn't saving her, he was killing her. But she didn't know the difference, between swimming and drowning. All her lovers taught her it was the same thing.

I wonder if in the future, When someone stops you on the street, and asks how I am, If you'll know the answer. If not, I wonder if you'll wonder  whether I still love watermelon gum and still insist on blowing bubbles. Whether I still bite my lip when I'm trying not to smile. Or if still I write poetry. Will you wonder if I still sing loudly as I get ready? And do I still stick my tongue out childishly? Am I still afraid of trusting? Do I still cry in my car? I wonder if in the future, When someone stops you on the street, and asks how I am, If you'll know how I am. And if you don't I hope you wonder about me, the way I wonder about you

You said, "He did so many things to hurt you, I don't understand how you can love him." And for once in my life, I had no words. My pen was stilled, the river of words that usually flow across my tongue ran dry. How could I explain it to you? How could I explain that I found it easier to love him as he hurt me. Like the cuts let the love in. And the bruises made me more sensitive to his touch. The bad times made the good times seem glorious. And that's something I'll never be able to explain to you, I can't even explain it to myself. But one of my favorite authors summed it up perfectly "we accept the love we think we deserve." And I'll never deserve you.

"How are you?" they ask. They always ask that. It's become a standard greeting, a standard question. It's lost its significance. No one really stops to think about what they're really asking. How are you? I usually give a standard response to the standard question. My lips shape the word, or my fingers type the four letter word. Okay. Because what else am I supposed to say? They don't really care how I am. They're just starting conversation. It's an unwritten rule that you must lie. You grit your teeth, hold back the tears, and give your standardized response.  I'm okay. I'm fine. I'm alright. These are the responses that are expected if you can't give an honest "I'm doing swell how about yourself?"  Because you can't let them know that you're falling apart. You can't let them know that your heart hurts, that your lungs ache, or that sometimes you just wish that you could disappear. Vanish. Poof. I can't le...

It was in that moment,  Sitting in my car, With the seat reclined all the way back, And sad music blaring in the background, That I wondered if this was my great destiny. If being so tragically sad, while attempting to be so happy, was the path etched out for me in the skyline before I took my first breath? In that moment, I wondered if the world was laughing at the irony of my life. The happy girl who was drowning in sadness. What I fool I must be to the world, reaching for something that was never destined to be mine. But the world has always loved tragic fools. They always make history. Brutus, Romeo and Juliet, Hercules, Hector. They have been painted in the stars,  memorialized. Remembered. Their stories last for centuries, inspring  tears from many with their tale of woe. All these heroes falling tragically to one fatal flaw. And I realized mine was caring a little too much. What a fool I am, insisting on ...

****This is just an excerpt of a story I'm working on**** The wind flirted with the skirt of her dress beckoning her to come and play. Goosebumps traveled along her arms as the bitter cold night kissed her skin and left its mark. Her toes began to turn purple like she was already dead. Taking a step closer she peered over the edge at the greedy waves. The sharp rocks cut and gripped her feet begging for her to stay but the waves were calling. The angry gray waves wanted her; it longed to wrap her up in its embrace and to carry her away to the bottom of its depths never to be hurt again. They screamed her name and reached out for her like no one else would. She knew the waves would consume and swallow her. The ocean would slice into her bruised and broken skin; it would steal her breath leaving her desperately trying to fill her battered lungs with the oxygen they so badly needed. Love often did that to a person. And she was hopelessly and totally in love with the ocean. Cadence...

Long live the generation of pills and plastered smiles The ones with their problems dripping red on the bathroom tiles. Monsters in their head, And braided ropes beneath their beds. They have loneliness in their veins, And sip regret like champagne, Self loathing stories flicker in their eyes, what kind of teenager wants to die? They self diagnose. They self medicate . They're tumbling down quickly into the churning ocean of "too late."  On the surface they seems fine, Yet they are ticking grenades running out of time. What went wrong? Where have they all gone? This is the generation that didn't live long.

"What's wrong?" "Are you okay?" "Did I do something?" "What can I do?" You can leave me alone, But don't leave me. And I know that doesn't make much sense. But please strive to understand  I want to be left alone but I don't want to be alone. Because the answer is  "I dont know, sometimes I can't seem to smile because my thoughts tug at the corner of my lips." "I'm okay I'm just a little sad.  "No, it's all my fault." "Just love me." And sometimes I can't construct these answers around the lump in my throat. Hold your questions and hold me. I want to be left alone But not in the way you think. I don't want to be alone In my room Sitting on my bed  Staring at the ceiling  Wondering why I want to be alone with you Sitting on my bed Staring at you Forgetting why Just leave me alone. But...

It was a curse and a blessing to feel things so deeply All she felt was the sting of diving into the unwelcoming depths that perhaps weren't even there, but she didn't mind. Because she didn't believe in the surface. It did not exist to her, she did not belong there. The surface was a place of empty words and superficiality.  But beneath the surface lied true beauty and pain and love and loss .  She devoted herself to the depths and expected others to do the same. She ached to ask things like what is your biggest fear?  What makes you cry?  What do you fill yourself up with when you feel empty?  But settled for common phrases such as " the weather is lovely " because people are afraid of depth There are danger in the depths Danger in opening yourself up, so completely v u l n e r a b l e. Once you dive into the depths, the surface seems so far. She dived into the depths not caring if she drowned in them, as lon...

You walk into the bakery Rich aromas fill your nose and you inhale deeply The bell rings behind you...soft and clear The baker looks up and directs "Take a number." Simple enough right? You reach over and pull the ticket. 5683. The significance? You've let yourself be assigned a number. How dehumanizing . You're now seen as a number, not a person. We were talking about the holocaust in history. We were learning how inhuman humanity can be.  How dark and clinical and detached we can become. My teacher gestured to a unaware student "You're now 5683. You're a number, you no longer have a name." To my shock he laughed. His friends laughed. The jokes flew. "Don't do that 5683." "5683 what are you doing after school?" "5683 is my best friend!" Then "5683" numbered his friends, 4283, 4475, 0000. They laughed and referred to each other by their numbers the rest of class. Their ignoran...

Someone once compared being sad to drowning in the ocean The waves crash over your head It fills your lungs Drags you under and no matter how hard you try you         cant                breathe .  But to me it's f l o a t i n g through space Nothing can touch you Nothing can ground you You're left alone  Spiraling through the never ending atmosphere of your sadness and thoughts. You        are             alone . And I think that's what scares me most.... I rather drown in an ocean of tears; for the waves drag me under and fill my lungs with briny salt water.                                                                         ungrounded Than f l o a t aimle...

a·stig·ma·tism noun 1 . a defect in the eye or in a lens caused by a deviation from spherical curvature, which results in distorted images, as light rays are prevented from meeting at a common focus . In the world we live in, everyone focuses on perfection. Perfect  skin. Perfect teeth. Perfect height. Perfect weight. Perfect everything. We've developed this, astigmatism of ourselves. Looking through the lens of society, we forget that the lens has a defect. What you see in the mirror is not what is actually there. Society shows you distorted images. The images tell you that you're worthless because you're not perfect. The astigmatism distorts the images and prevents rays of self love from meeting a common focus. Society clinically places the lens in your eye and stands detached as the lens causes them to water. The tears course down your cheeks as the lens distorts your view of not only yourself, but the world. But let m...

"I don't want that to go to your head, I want that to go to your heart." So I ticketed the phrase with a one way to my heart where it would get off... But you know how public transportations are. So risky and unreliable. The phrase experienced a delay, caught somewhere between my mind and heart. The conductor called out "We're experiencing some, uh, difficulties. Please bear with us." So the phrase shifted around nervously in it's seat and tried to look inconspicuous. Another passenger got up and walked to where the phrase sat, trying to remain unseen. "I'm doubt" it introduced itself settling next to the phrase, "where are you headed?" "The heart," muttered the phrase clutching it's ticket for reassurance. Doubt laughed and glanced the phrase over. "You don't belong there. You belong up top, where the mind is. Works great up there, very logical. You, of course, would need some revising. You j...

"I wish I didn't have to fix myself"  like who you are is a mistake ... an error in a complicated math problem ending up with an Y instead of an X leaving you to ask the question why why why . a typo in the novel of yourself picked out by the harshest critic ridiculed ? , circled, underlined , and torn apart. But it isn't a mistake                                  an error                                               a typo it isn't something WRONG with you. The only fixing you need is......... your bruises           ...

Words cannot describe what I feel for you. Scattered and crumbled pages strewn across the floor, demonstrate pathetic attempts. Crossed out phrases Scratched out words  Frustration flowing through the pen  The 26 letters in the alphabet have completely and utterly failed me. Unable to form a phrase about your eyes Or a word for your smile  Or a even syllable about your laugh The constants and vowels crumble, useless. And all these letters can offer me is one word, using 4 letters of the 26. Love. But this word cannot contain all I feel for you. It is spilling over the edges. It is not large enough or wide  to hold all I feel. If I could, I would rearrange all 26 letters to form a word.  And yet the word would still not be long enough or tall enough. Words and letters are incompetent. Failures. They cannot rearrange in such a way to describe what I feel for you. So I settle for the word they can offer, love. And oh do I feel that for you.

Part Three The Eyes. They say the eyes are the window to your soul. Looking into mine you can see the blinds are pulled tight. And the [curtains are}{ yanked shut] Shutting out prying eyes, and peeping toms. Desperate for a peek of my naked soul. Once they realized how tight   the curtains were drawn they walked away d isappointed. But you sat beneath my window [}{]        .        .  .          . Tossing rocks         .  .           .           .   .        .      .             . Like some insistent Romeo. Little by little The curtain was [dra}aaaaaaaa{wn] away. And my soul shyly show...

Part Two: The legs. It was a Monday when we first kissed I remember, because I told you Monday's were my favorite day. Your eyes lit up in amusement when I told that Mondays were like a redo, a fresh start. You kissed me then, telling me I deserved the best beginning to my fresh start. My knees went           , like you had             on your lips. Making me feel           and                           weak                      alcohol                           ...

Part One: The Hands The day you first held my hand you laughed in shock "Your hands are so cold." Then you smiled and brought my fingers to your lips. Warm breath fanned across my fingers. My heart skipped a beat, and my freezing fingers began to thaw. In that moment I vowed I'd never let you go. You'd have to be pried from my Cold                     Dead                                             Hands . And in a way, you were. The day you left my hands fell to my sides empty, and soon the cold set in. Your hands weren't there to keep mine warm. And I felt dead. Lifeless. You pried your hand from mine and I had no choice But      ...

Hey little fighter, I know you're drowning in an ocean of tears, And you're struggling to learn how to swim. I know your life is a mess of tangled Christmas lights, When you get one colored bulb to light up another goes out. I know you're wrestling with your exhaustion, And you keep getting pinned. And it's okay. Maybe quit trying to swim, float on your back awhile. Gaze up at the strikingly blue sky, that wavers like a mirror reflecting the deep blue sea. Maybe quit trying to untangle the lights and watch them flicker in a beautiful mass of uncertainty. Maybe quit wrestling with your exhaustion and lay down with it instead, Let it trail it's fingers through your hair and rock you to sleep, And when you awake it'll be gone from your bed like a one night lover. Hey little fighter, I know you're trying. I know it's hard. And it's okay, to take a break.