Understanding

I wish I were a character,

out of a book,

whose journey was

dramatic and moving

or funny and intelligent.

I wish I said or did the right things,

and I wish someone else was writing it.

Hunched over a desk

writing away my life,

waxing poetic,

making me a hero.

I wish they would write

my lines and actions,

I wish they would write my fate.

I wish I were a protagonist,

in a fantasy land or reality,

battling villains both historical and modern.

I wish my story were relatable

and my personality palatable.

I wish I were timeless

and taught a thousand years from now

in English classes,

I wish my story would be good enough

to ignore and breathe confidence

into every procrastinating student.

I wish they would wing my test and get an ‘A’.

Because that would mean my story

was universal,

that it’s themes and metaphors

had already been done before.

Only then would I be understood.

A String of Maybes

Maybe you’d show up this time and I wouldn’t be left at the table downing a bottle of wine. Maybe you’d remember this time. Maybe this time I’d be important, or at least more important than whatever came up. Maybe this time was the time you’d finally decide to open your eyes and see what’s always been in front of you. Maybe this time you’ll realize we could be more. Maybe you’ll sit at the table waiting, sweating through your suit sipping scotch. Maybe this time it’ll be you fantasizing and not me. Maybe I’ll dress up. Maybe you won’t pick me up at my apartment, so I’ll walk and it’ll rain. Maybe on my way something comes up, someone. Maybe he shares his umbrella and a smile. Maybe I’m early like always so he and I grab a coffee. Maybe I get lost in his eyes and conversation. Maybe he looks just like you, only he doesn’t make me cry. Maybe this is the first time you sit at a table set for two, candles flickering out as you finish the champagne you bought for us. Maybe I’ve given up or let go or told myself for so long that friendship was enough. So maybe I marry Jason or Mark or Adam because he cooks and gives me the time of day. Maybe I settle into contentment because I feel appreciated. Maybe sometimes when I’m with him I forget he isn’t you.

All Will Be Well

Sometimes you just have to let yourself go
and fall in love with a stranger
who orders hot chocolate in the middle of summer,
or who writes poetic articles online dissecting life,
or who reads non-fiction so thick it could stopper a door.
Fall in love with someone who you think you know
because you know how they like their coffee
and who their favorite band is
and that they’re a dog person
but don’t know how many siblings they have
and if they’re allergic to shellfish
and who they went to prom with.
Fall in love for the sake of falling in love
but don’t, for a second, wonder if they love you back.
Sometimes you hit a wall,
looking back you forget how you got there
and how quickly everything you thought you would do fell apart
and how swiftly everything you thought you would be became a dream.
Everything that never happened never was because
you never tried,
or you didn’t have the means,
or you were paralyzed by fear of failure.
So, you told yourself to move on.
You trick yourself into believing that
you can’t miss what you never experienced.
Like lazy afternoons on a beach drinking mai-tais
listening to obscure indie rock bands
whose melodies are melancholy
and trying new foods spicy and foreign
from lands you’ve only dreamed of visiting.
Like buying a ticket for the next flight out
not knowing where you’re going
and who you’ll be with
because Canada or Australia, it doesn’t matter
anywhere is better than here.
But we never really vocalize
that we didn’t believe in our excuses to begin with
because it means facing the truth of our regrets
and that can get so overwhelming
that you can barely look at yourself some mornings,
thinking about where you’d be if you’d just taken a leap of faith.
So, sometimes we need to let go
and move to Scotland to open a café
and screw a college education
and fall in love with ourselves for the first time or all over again.
And it isn’t until we make this decision that we realize we’re happy.
We all do things were not proud of
and there are things we’ll never do
but somehow, someway
sometimes we end up exactly where we always wanted to be
even if we didn’t know it ourselves.

Letters

Some words are worth more than others
and I've weighed and counted and divided
them till my fingers bled and I wonder
if I've really said anything at all.
Using the words I do, I don't.
You would think that the absolute precious
quality of life, the tensile hold we have
would make it so courage was borne into
our very bones,
fortifying them and ourselves.
(But you'd be wrong.)
And my bones ache so very much
with everything unsaid.

Deeply Inept

I don’t know what it is you demand,
I don’t know if you’d understand
How pleased I am to have met you,
How I don’t know what to do.
I don’t need metaphors,
Just layman’s terms
To define the tightening in my chest,
My shallow breath.
Nothing could ever be said
To be its equal.
Perhaps you do know
What you’ve said without saying so,
That is all.

Methodology

I can’t help but cloak myself in multimedia
to make up for what I can’t verbalize
because [the only way I have learned to express myself
is through other people’s descriptions of life.]
And maybe that’s more than a little wrong,
but I’ll make my excuses
the truth is they’ve written everything I couldn’t
and better than I could’ve tried.
I can feel the music thrumming through my every nerve,
taunting me as I try and fail to learn to play.
Believe me, I’m all too aware of my own weaknesses
and I might be the only one,
but I feel like you’re watching and I want to do my best
to appear perfect and worthy because
[at this moment you mean everything.]
I’m being honest with other people’s words
and, at times, they taste like lies,
with a metallic-like falseness,
you know I’m only golden plated.
Anything I reference hasn’t gone platinum,
so their obscurity helps me hide,
but it’s when I’m alone that they call me like the sailors to sirens,
whispering, [I want to have control;
I want a perfect body, I want a perfect soul;
I want you to notice when I’m not around.]
I can feel their breath on the back of my neck -
I can recite the words, feel them on my tongue,
make them my own – you’d never know the difference.
If I’m honest I’m not clever, these words aren’t borrowed,
I know them with unusual certainty
because I breathe them, think them everyday
but they get lost between the constantly replaying
[I just want to feel alive for the first time in my life,
I just want to feel attractive today.]
And, if you were paying attention,
you’d notice my hesitation and lack of control
over every word that isn’t actually mine.

Who We Grew Up To Be

‘All for one and one for all.’
Hannah and Tony,
together we made the three musketeers
when our summers burned
brighter and hotter and shorter,
and we couldn’t get enough of the sun and rain.
And we were inseparable,
we were perfect friends
but we were young.
You and I, at the time, didn’t know
that you were my salvation,
the first friends I ever had.
Did you ever know?
Nah, you see we were restless,
we were children and maybe that was for the best.
Maybe our friendship was perfect
because it ended so abruptly,
maybe it was perfect
because we never got to see us grow up.
First, you, Hannah,
desperate for attention,
I remember liking your name because it’s a palindrome,
and that’s a big word for a six-year-old.
You didn’t know that when I met you
I’d already been to kindergarten once before,
you wouldn’t have discriminated anyway, right?
And second, you, Tony,
your parents own Bandidos and, as it happens,
you went to Carrboro too, do you remember me?
You were Prom King and I doubt you would’ve hung out with me
even if you did remember, did see me, you’d just walk past me.
I wondered if you remembered that day on the bus,
on our way home, you kissed me,
had we been older it would have destroyed our group
because we’re taught a boy can’t be friends with a girl.
Not really.
See, this was what was so great about our friendship.
We came before all the madness
and hormones, aren’t they just one in the same?
I remember swimming and playing pretend and playground runs,
but to be honest I don’t remember much
and I’m probably making half this stuff up.
I promise that, at the time, I treasured the friendship
I had with you but I didn’t have the words to express it.
But I do remember the day I knew I would never see you guys again,
in early June, I cried,
both of you were leaving our old school
and I was to be left behind.
On the cusp of the summer before second grade,
I lost my first friends and I learned the days
are actually longer, not shorter
especially when you have no company to share them with.
But sometimes I’m glad we didn’t grow up together,
we never saw the end of our friendship for real.
Because maybe you or I would’ve been disappointed
in the people we grew up to be.