The Art of Losing

The chipper voices of my neighbors seep through the walls of my bedroom and bang against my ears,  breaking my lonely intimacy and insulting my cochlea with the noise of a thousand rumors. Their words shake my thoughts awake to prowl about my head between my ears, and you slip in between the changing of the guards. Strangers are easier to hold for me in this world of sand-people, because I always know they will slip from my fingers-- I can prepare to never expect anything from someone who I know will be gone. By contrast I've built mazes from buckets and bowls, spoons and coffee mugs, the palms of my hands, trying desperately to cling to the ones I wanted not to lose. Hundreds of grains have slipped away despite my efforts and I punish myself every time. But the irony is that I never realised the cracks and creases that my favorites fell through were lined with my own subconscious and the pain I placed upon my own soul. Strangers are easier to hold, and I find comfort in being left because of it. I don't trust others to love me and so I've gathered a tendency to look for signs of early departure, because it's easy. When my fears are confirmed I push. What if I look for love?

"I'm sorry if I smothered you. I sometimes wish I'd stayed inside my mother, never to come out."

Watermelon

I had never been afraid of death. In fact, at times I welcomed him with open arms. With dried tears and choked sobs I have spent years of my life begging his presence and with him the present of ending my present state of mind. Until I fell in love with you. 

Now each night I fall asleep terrified that the prayers I once whispered upon ears I felt were deaf will finally be realized because my prayer for you took years to be fulfilled as well, but fulfilled they surely were. Now those prayers have been listened to, and I know those ears that do the listening are not deaf but simply slow, patient. When eternity is your lifespan, years must seem like a single day. So I fear that since you were my first wish and death was my next, now that you have come, so shall it. 

But since you are here for the moment, let me tell you. I love you. I love you the way I love looking in a mirror and the way I love my parents when we laugh together. I love you the way I love lazy jazz on a Sunday morning and baking and curling up alone with a good book and a stuffed animal. I love you the way I love my cat. 

I know I love you because I'm scared. Too many times I have loved with the fear of being left alone. Too many times I have questioned the honesty behind a lovers eyes and found myself afraid of them....afraid of me.But for the first time, my fear is not of your judgement, or that you will leave or find me unworthy because I have seen the honesty behind your eyes and heard the truth behind your words and I know you love me too. This time, instead the only fear that leaves me praying is this: I had never been afraid of death. Until I fell in love with you.

Little Bird with the Big Brown Eyes

Last christmas, I bought bracelets for my two best friends and I. They were beautiful; straight out of my favorite art museum in downtown Charlotte. The bracelets were handwoven and fair trade. When I brought them to my friends, we had a mock ceremony. All three making our wishes, we tied them on each other' wrists, sealing the most closely-knit friend group I'd ever had. There was a legend surrounding these bracelets. It said that if you made a wish while tying them on, then as they god frayed and fell off, your wis would come true. Our friendship dissolved halfway through the semester. I kept my bracelet on anyway--a reminder of love. I wished to find my true love. Recently, I've lost hope in the possibility of true love. First, I tore off the woman on one end of the bracelet. Pulling her apart, thread by thread, I felt the magic of the bracelet fall away. Today, I tore the bracelet off. I started taking it apart while sitting, mind-numb, in class. When I looked down at the tattered yellow and while pieces of my broken wish in my hands, I finally understood. I had lost love of every form, and it was my own doing. I wanted to cry. No tears came. My chest hurt.

Tear-Flavored Gelato

He asked who it was. I didn't know. All I knew was that I loved him. I was fifteen. I didn't know what that meant. He never hit me. He wasn't mean. I was hurt. I am scared. I will always be. I pull inside. I wrap up. I want to be alone. He wouldn't leave me alone. He called me names. He was mad. I could tell. But, I could''t tell him. I didn't have the words. I didn't have any words. How can a pain cut so deep it takes your breath, heart, and stomach all-in-one? I was a buffet for the sadness so it feasted. She heard me crying. I'd been so careful. It was in the shower. She couldn't see my tears. Water is always the same. Two hydrogens and one oxygen. Water is always the same. He was next. He was ugly, then, in my eyes--because he was mean. Another called me fat. He couldn't figure me out so his sarcasm, aimed to peel back my layers, made me cut my skin to see what he was looking for. He didn't want me. He was a dick. Literally. I can't remember his face, but I remember the feeling as it hit the back of my throat. As I gagged. As he held. He was polite. He didn't even make me get my own toilet paper. and as I wiped, he left. It was the guy's bathroom. A true patriarchy, I guess. I wonder if it would've been the same had I asked to use the girls'. They asked if it was true. How far I'd gone. If I knew. It wasn't, I hadn't, I didn't. He said he liked my boobs. I guess he liked her personality more. I wonder sometimes if I even have one. Then he came in. I was 18 now. I loved him. I knew what that meant. We slept together the first night. He cheated. I dumped him. I got a tattoo. I moved on. He came, then. I didn't. I didn't want to. It was a grey area. Not a lie. Not quite the truth. It hurt. I asked him to stop. He didn't want to. I offered something see. He took it. He stole it really. I had offered five. He took twenty. I smiled sadly. I wanted to please and leave. He didn't even get me toilet paper. I felt his hands that night. Sometimes I still do. I didn't want them. Every part of me vehemently rejected them. I wanted them gone. He got closer. He whispered. I got scared. I pretended to sleep. He gave up. The next day I ran. He still doesn't know. I met two more hims. I didn't want them so I left. I met a third. He didn't want me so he left. This is it. I am alone. A matriarch now. Next time, I'm taking the girl's room.

Misinterpreted

When you flip a magnet over to the other side, it repels the magnets it once stuck to.
I've flipped my magnet over 4 times and each time, I've repelled another magnet.
But yet, despite the act of losing others, I have not yet found a single magnet to which I long to stick, whose side matched mine.
Ghosts of my past haunt me. I am strong but not strong enough. I have flipped the page and started a new chapter and yet I cannot justify the societal laws I broke when I decided to be happy. Because happiness has come at a cost and it is not possible when loneliness comes into town on it's horse. My lonely horse was disguised as a white steed and it told me that contentment was possible, yet because I broke so many laws in becoming content I have been thrown in jail, alone to rot. Tell me, is it better to be alone and sick or alone and healthy? In which case does the pain end quicker? Pretty hurts. So does loneliness. Would you rather be fabulous and sad or ugly and sad, either way someone else says you're happy. Who do I believe when I cannot trust myself. 

Peppermint Hot Chocolate

I'm scared. I'm afraid that I've lost what it means to feel. I'm so scared of this new state of being happy and supported, because I have become numb. It feels as if I've been polished and clipped and shined till my soul rubbed raw, and when a new shield of skin replaced the tarnished character of old, I think I lost some of the beauty of authenticity. I look and feel like a doll on a shelf. I'm shiny and new, but all of my depth and personality feels plastic and fake as well. I liked my sadness. I was in a relationship with pain and when we broke up I felt its absence as a scar, healed leaving an ugly reminder of not just what I used to be, and why I wanted to leave, but also of why I stayed. Without that scar, and with that pain I was real. I was raw, and I was beautiful. And now? With only content to fill its place, and joy and belonging, I feel only the restless aching of imperfection. I feel the flatness of my lost emotions in the curve of my laugh and my inability to search deeply into any conversation. I feel it in the jilt of shock when I realize how judgmental I've become, and the slap of its echo when insecurities arise and threaten to drown me back to whence I came. I feel the pain, vaguely, but different in my frustration. I become frustrated too often now, when I realize my immaturity and my faults and my shortcomings I get frustrated. I've become a maze of my own design and even I can solve it. I've become a puzzle of imperfection and entangled "shoulds", and I hate it. Now that my sadness is gone I see the true ugliness that has replaced it and whether or not it was a mask and a lonely existence part of me longs for the sadness back simply to hide behind. Because with this happiness, all I can think is what now?