Poetry Friday: Doubt

I recently found this post in my old drafts. I don’t remember why I wrote it, but I like it.


It depends on the day how I feel about us; about you. There are so many secret complications, internal struggles, that it’s enough to make it all not worth it.

Can I trust you? Can you trust me?

Can I trust that the future will be better than today?

If I need to vent or cry or worry, will my words reach your heart? I have darkness inside me, you know, black and heaving and hungry and cold. Maybe I will never lose it.

Can you love the darkness in me? Can you love my sadness and my pain? Can you accept the ugliness, or when I feel ugly? Can you accept my beauty, even when I see it clearer than you?

My mind is a mess of mistrust. I know what you want me to feel but you have to understand, lots of times I can’t or won’t. This is reality. This is me right now. I can see so much of myself that you will never understand or appreciate, not the way things are right now.

I bottle my emotions. I splatter my emotions across the pavement, bright and wide and red enough for helicopters to see.

I am tame, quiet, so soft and meek. I am wild, annoying, prickly and harsh.

I doubt you can handle me.

I don’t know if I will keep you.

“The List” or “I’d Like to Gnaw My Leg Off”

The engaged girl’s eyelids droop with black goo, a flat smile taped on her mouth. She leans against her boy and determinedly suppresses her building scream of frustration as well-meaning women’s words entrap her in a room of polite, civilized people.

Conclusion: The only thing worse than a wedding shower is planning one.


Something Worth Waiting For

I didn’t cry when he proposed to me, but I’m crying now. Looking at the pictures of the proposal, his perfect face glowing with happiness, fills me with an emotion so deep I didn’t even know it existed. I don’t know if it has a name. It involves the knowledge of how unbearable life has been in the past, and seeing how far I have come–how far God has carried me. I am so overcome with gratitude and awe that he, the best, most kind, sincere, and loving human I know, not only loves me, but wants to spend eternity with me.

Depression can suffocate all hope of a happy future, as I know it has done for me. But I urge you to hold on. Please. After all these years, now my tears are of gratitude for my blessed life; of faith in a bright and beautiful future. The darkness, isolation, and hopelessness of my past are quieted by the joy I receive from my relationship with this man. I have felt like there was no more happiness possible for me in life, and now I am the happiest woman on earth.

* * *

“Photograph” by Ed Sheeran

Loving can heal, loving can mend your soul
And it’s the only thing that I know,
I swear it will get easier,
Remember that with every piece of you
And it’s the only thing we take with us when we die

We keep this love in this photograph
We made these memories for ourselves
Where our eyes are never closing
Hearts were never broken
And time’s forever frozen still

TBT: “Day 1”

Throwback to a piece of unpublished writing I did in November 2014. P.S. It’s super dark and it makes me sad that I used to be this human. So, trigger warning I guess?

I’m writing this because I want to prove to myself that what is happening to me right now matters. I want to believe that this moment of pain and loneliness is important, more important than all the great accomplishments I have ever made, more important than my future income or the accomplishments of my children. Because if this moment is not of value, then I have zero guarantee that any other moment will matter, or that anything leading up to this point matters either.

I’ve written two books before. One was a fairytale and it mostly turned out to be a checkmark on my bucket list: finish a whole book. The second one was kind of therapy for me, where I wrote about my experiences in high school in second person. I made it all about a different girl, and I ended up sobbing one day at the keyboard as the full weight of what I had lived through engulfed me. I like words like engulf and encompass. I use them a lot when I write poetry. I write poetry a lot. Because it makes sense and it makes the reader do some of the work. If you’re reading this, maybe you’re picturing me being a human and stuff, or perhaps you’ve been envisioning high school hallways, but I’ve been feeding you these images. With poetry you have to immerse (another good word) yourself in the words and flesh out the meaning on your own. And it can mean such different things to different people. And I don’t care what your English teacher says—there is always more than one way to interpret poetry. I think that’s the point.

Let me tell you a little about where I really am right now. It is November. I am at college in a computer lab. A girl with black hair just sat down near me and we shared uncomfortable eye contact. I am wearing a hat I made out of yarn. It is purple and blue I think, but I can’t really see it right now. I have short brown hair and large brown tortoiseshell glasses. My eyes are blue. I have acne, worse right now than usual I think perhaps from stress. I’m wearing a turquoise hoodie from Aeropostale. It is the only thing I own from this store. My aunt bought it for me for Christmas. My tennis shoes have holes where my pinkie toes are. I have a large, curved nose. I’m a girl. There’s an elastic band on my right wrist that I snap when I want to die.

Oh, yeah, I am suicidal.

Now I don’t know what to say. Saying the S word usually takes a lot out of me. People expect some kind of explanation usually but I just never have a good one. I’ll be honest: part of me wants you to understand this. I know this is wrong of me, and that I shouldn’t wish this feeling on anyone else, but I selfishly want to feel less alone. Less freakish.

I feel like this isn’t working. I still don’t feel like I matter. And trying so hard to feel that way isn’t helping. Let me tell you about a friend of mine. He is a boy. We became closer friends over this last summer, especially when I went to work in San Francisco for a month and we called each other a lot. He really helped me feel less homesick. He is going to a different school than this one, but we see each other on the weekends because I get homesick and take the train home every Friday. Except, last Friday I tried to end our relationship, because I felt too numb and I had a vague realization that it wasn’t fair to drag him along, especially if I have a timer ticking away on my life. That week was the hardest one I’ve had in a really long time. I tried to make up for his absence by talking to my family on the phone more, but it didn’t work. It just made the pain a whole lot more real. He respected my wishes and didn’t contact me, but later he said it was really hard, and when my friend says things are hard you know they’ve been hard beyond imagine, because this human feels emotion to a level beyond the norm. I think I like to be with him because of this—he understands how happy and how sad life can be. Mostly sad.

I will call him Dawson.

Isn’t there a show called Dawson’s Creek? I looked it up just now, because I’m on the computer. The answer is yes; I thought of it because one of the actors on that show is Joshua Jackson, and he plays one of the leads on my favorite TV show Fringe. This is my favorite show because the people in the story understand how it is to be broken. And also all the gore and scariness kind of numbs my brain to the horror I had in high school. You probably think that I got raped or something, or I lost a limb. Something life-shatteringly horrible. What really happened wasn’t that bad, actually. In fact, compared to what happens to other people, especially in countries that aren’t America, things are way worse. Or so I hear. I’ve never left the country. But I’ve traveled by plane twice: once to New York City and once to San Francisco.

When I went to those places I realized that they were real, not just pretend places on TV or the internet. I never should have watched The Truman Show—it has basically made me think the entire world is a conspiracy theory. I think maybe this is a self-defense mechanism. I used it once before when my best friend died. This is complicated because I wasn’t his best friend, but he was mine. I claim the title anyway so as not to negate the reality of the agony I went through when I got the phone call and in the years following. It’s been over two and a half years now. But I remember that when he died, since it was just before April Fool’s Day, I sincerely believed it was some kind of elaborate April Fool’s trick, and it wasn’t until I saw his body at the viewing did I accept he really had died.

Him I will call Joel.

I need to go now. I have group counseling at three, and I haven’t really eaten my home lunch. I usually don’t eat very much anyway. I only ever pack a drink, a granola bar, an apple, and a small extra something like almonds or fruit snacks. I have lost weight in the last month. Like, probably five or so pounds. I’ve always wondered if I could be anorexic. I’m not saying I am, but I think I have it in me.

I write a blog. You don’t need to know what it’s called. But I feel like you should know I already write at least a few times a week. Sometimes I worry that if I got better, I wouldn’t have anything left to write about. Sometimes I worry that if I got better, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.

Stay, life. Staaay… Good life!

I’m gone for a month and WordPress has already changed? Seriously?

So this is what has been happening:

I’ve been unduly anxious (I know you’re all so shocked), mostly because I’ve been agonizing over complicated life crap, such as thinking of my future, certain church policy changes recently made public, and other such magical events.

Not to mention a friend took a public shot at my writing and I lost a little charity–it’s never fun to feel taken for granted, right? But the Poetry Fridays were getting stale anyway, and I was hardly posting anything else, so I think a break was good. I’m only writing today because it’s one month to the day I stopped. Yes, be grateful.

Oh, also, I started dating this guy officially. –>


(P.S. Why won’t WordPress let me embed my own blog posts now?)

Possibly the universe is fighting against me having this blog.

But I checked recently and I think I have 188 followers, and I’m grateful for all of you sticking out this radio silence, as well as the (as I have so eloquently deemed) average content of this blog.

I am alive, I am thankfully stepping out of a brief spell of mild depression, and I have a devilishly handsome young man in my life who thinks my hair smells nice even when I would classify it as hazardous material.

And how can you go wrong with that?

Poetry Friday: White Ribbons

White Ribbons

The white house on the corner,
with lavender blooms tracing the fence till
fall, where the little girl had worn her
hair up, hiding behind her sharpened pencil.

Worn her hair up, blonde curls in white ribbons. Molly
read her fairytales in the treetops, dreaming
of walnuts, and castles, and red trolleys.
Sunlight poured through curtain leaves; shining, streaming.

Sunlight poured onto old story pages, shafts of
gold on black print. Molly swung her feet, her
hands on low branches, and through the air her laughter
fell upon the ears of Peter.

Her laughter fell, but sighed soft now,
quiet like a hymn in church. But Peter, all he
did was smile and walk, turning down
the lane, and behind him treaded Molly.

Turning down the lane, he began to run,
his feet barely touching earth. Molly
watched with wide eyes; she had come
from her fairytales, quiet like snowflakes, following.

Come from her fairytales, blonde curls in white
ribbons, and she looked at the sky.
She untied her hair, wore it down, reflecting light.
Peter taught her to run; she learned how to fly.

* * *

The white house on the corner,
with gentle blossoms on trees where birds
sang, where the little girl had worn her
hair up, hiding behind her whispered words.

White ribbons on low branches, sunbeams on blonde curls.
A book between their laps, children dreamed of
warm raindrops in August. A boy and girl
read softly to each other, learning how to love.

Poetry Friday: The Secret on My Lips

The Secret on My Lips

I’m fine I’m fine I’m fine
and weeks and months dissolve,
and when the town’s asleep I tuck myself in bed
but the secret on my lips is
I can’t sleep

It’s morning and I’m tired
but empty
so I write it out and soon
I’ll curl in bed and imagine


that you love me, you miss me,
you’re thinking of me, too,
and sleep won’t bring
me nightmares, it will bring
me you.

“The Writing’s on the Wall” by OK Go: This song was stuck in my head the whole time I was editing this poem, so here ya go.