Only you can tell me how,
To fall out of your love and not to think about.
That place you used to keep so warm,
Fire is out - the darkness has come.
For reasons we will never know,
Shut down the fire - we are out of coals
So, say your piece and let me be.
Everything we had is shattering...
No, don't look back - I can't take the stare!
Those glasses eyes in such despair.
Even though it's over, I know you'll see,
This is how is all was meant to be.
Thank you, for some memories.
The apple doesn't far from the tree.
The sound of silence has deafened me.
I don't even try to fall into the radar.
They can be ashamed of me, whoever they are.
The loneliness it beckons and pleads.
From dark, dark eyes staring back at me.
I reach through a strange new mirror.
I get a glimpse of the world, how it used to appear.
I toss restless and forego sleep.
I tried my best, but at best it is only failing.
I pick up the phone,
I wonder who?
To call, just to hear the more sad news.
I cringe at the idea of honesty.
As all these walls come caving in.
I hope one day, the light will beckon me.
To see this new world, differently.
I hope one day I'll be unmasked.
And continue a life....
As long as it lasts.
I had so many shells.
The water was cooler, a hairs-raising spell.
Even in the dead of summer, I had goosebumps.
The waves crackled like they already knew, something was up,
The moonlight danced across the sand like a disco ball.
I was hopeful that the beauty would never stop.
It was one of those moments, I knew he had words to say.
And even as he approached them I had to look away.
Don't tell me, you don't love me [- not at all.
I'd rather hear it, in our hotel room.
I beg and pleaded. For it to stop.
No, you don't mean it - not at all
The shells crush - like an experiment.
I don't conceive it - I yet I fee; everything.
Next time I accept is here and now.
Never accept an offer...
With let's takes a walk through an oceantown.
I Don’t Know My Name
Hello, called me Vandana.
"That's original? How did you end up with a beautiful name?
I chuckle and smile and extend my arm.
It was what the police and whoever brought me to the orphanage at two years old. My adoptive parents decided to change it to Moriah (some biblical term that my pastor father decided would acclimate me better in this god-forsaken world.)
I've never known my real name. My date of real birth (they chose one at the orphanage to put me in a "system")
I couldn't tell you much before the time before I was moved to the States. I can only remember what they told me.
Off the plane. I refused to let the woman who I know call Mom hold me. The man who I now call my father is the only one who I would let touch me and swiftly hold my thumb to my lips and be silent in a second.
I hated American food (this is what I have only been told.) But the presence of a banana and I would stop my crying ( this took a long time.)
I grew up in a middle-class family. My brother wasn't very nice to me when we got older so I feel so alone.
Not only did they adopt an Indian child. They raised us in a world of strictly American culture. And yes, white American culture.
I tried my first Indian food by 19 in college.
I was surprised when the waiter asked me why I didn't know what Naan was.
He said his son and daughter have known this since their very first years. I was just more upset about that and I should have known.
I've been lost before then. I should have known that growing up Albino would have made it even harder to fit in. I'm exhausted but guess what, I'll never know my true name.
You want to ask what I believe is an existentialist crisis.
Well, could you say the same?
Daggers and hate.
I break and shake.
The bruises they show,
Makeup it helps.
The long sleeved lines,
I hope you go straight to L.
Then the erratic silence.
The eyes so read,
You can't realize it.
You break the furniture
Tear up the floors,
And crash the pictures
I wonder what more.
I'm cold, and ashamed
I may have stayed too long,
You make me cringe,
I wish you would just be gone.
The venom seeps out,
And hits the floor.
It stalks toward me,
I beg for no more.
You can't resist,
You have no resolve
This is the only way,
This problem can be solved.
I move my shaking legs
Toward the door,
But the venom reaches my brain,
Just once more.
I stand and I am weak,
But I can't take it this time,
I look you boldly,
And I say goodbye.
This venom has no control on me,
And once I let it go,
I can finally be free.
Once again happy.
The wind is chiming on a slightly cooler afternoon. Fall has just hit this neighborhood, and the wind chimes bring a slight glow to this neck of the woods. The small children leaving the bus, race to the front door to get their bikes and roam along the streets as a daily ritual. It's almost the time of year you smell pies baking in a windowsill for them to be possibly stolen by sticky fingers and a hungry belly.
The mailman tips his hat at he walks on by - no mail today. Not a strange odyssey since no one who ever know me knows where I live.
I sip the sweet tea in the glass on my left and shrug a cold chill that runs down my back. My hair is pulled back into a bun and my long dress's hem has caught up the slight dirt beneath the swing.
I pull my cardigan close - there is never any mail anyways. Most people don't notice. But I do keep to myself quite often.
I'm in love with the picturesque place they sent me too. A city that I never knew existed until I had received the details.
A small paper with an address and a name. A passport and a id card with a photo that barely looks like the old me.
I grow weary now thinking of all the nights I had stayed up and waited for the relief of death. I had always thought it'd be much more violent in his hands than to be shuttle out of state into a town with no one to talk to about my former life or the people in it.
Instead, I draw peace of mind in that those who may have helped me escape what would have surely been a horrific accident as the news would relay. I am comforted to know that regardless of what they said happened, no one here knows me as anything other than a simple retired school teacher. Who enjoys a sweet tea and a couple of moments on the porch swing before the coolness gets to me.
The children have turned the corner, and I wave at my neighbor politely as they walk to their mailbox.
It's almost time to start making dinner. For one. But one is what I was used too. A life with someone who was never physically or emotionally present, you begin to realize that you really are only cooking for one.
I stood up, stretching my legs slightly. Old bones seem to never let go of the chill in the air during these months.
I take one final survey of this cul-de-sac and bet my lucky stars on the peace within that has continually started to grow outwardly.
I am safe, and when I go to sleep - I have no qualms whether or not I will wake up. I'm just glad that either way, it'll be with a solemn choice that it was mine, and my time.
Another sip of tea before locking the door. Goodnight to all the folks who had to choice but to run. Run and live another life. Lord knows, it's not safe outside.
The mission was clear. They had said. Go, find the intel that you need and put a stop to this disaster. No pressure, God will not be angry. We fear him but he is with only compassion of a true heart.
I dipped my toes - sparkling white shoes - toward the elevators that lead there. I knew I should have changed. The filth only grew deeper into the darker depths. The lights continued to lower. I tried to look up slightly but all I could see was the black abyss. I kept wondering, why did I not turn back. I had always been so squeaky clean, but my white dress was easily starting to turn black with mold and unconceivable smells...I kept looking up. Finally, before I hit the bottom, I slipped into tears staring up into the wild abyss. Begging, pleading - this isn't the end!
I can walk back up - I can change and I can clean these stains that I've bumped and inadvertently turning into.
Please, I beg....I do not want to be this way, I will change. I can. I want to and I will whole-heartedly devote it.
I feel a warmth slightly...I feel arms curl around me - stop.
My legs are covered in a black mass - pulling me down.
I shiver and cling to the arms.
No, I can change.
"Let go of which one you wish to keep." A solemn voice speaks above me.
"Let go and be who you are meant to be." An impatient voice provokes me.
I let go.
Let me be honest. I don't give a flying fart about what your gender is, who you believe is the ultimate power. I couldn't care what your affiliation is with the politics in whatever continent, country or town you reside in. I have no qualms about sarcasm or a slight of tongue due to upbringing or general atmosphere of your upbringing ( most say your survival.)
Here is my culture. Fasten your seatbelts because although it's not based on religion, there is one true and inherent fact.
I honestly, respect what I see. A good person can have a horrifying past. A horrible person can have a life so perfect that would make a romance novel blush. Yes, the ones with Fabio.
I see the lost of the humanity in noticing the small things. When did that not represent the general good heartedness of an individual?
I was walking down the road, with a slight extra amount of money because of a job that went well. I decided for one treat, to get myself a great egg salad sandwich at my favorite restaurant. I was walking back to my place. when a woman asked if she could have half my sandwich - she was hungry. I hesitated. I know. The moral compass was spinning for longer than it should have. I have been hungry before. To the point, I had to beg the same as she did.
I didn't know a thing about her so I had to hope that this was a good deed ( and I only consider them if there is no audience) so I offered her half of it and half of a cookie.
She looked at me and said, "I don't like egg salad."
I was so astonished. I was offering half of the only treat I had bought ( and yes she did not know my income, so I understood that she may have perceived that I had more than I had.)
So I said, very clearly, "Ms., I have half a sandwich and cookie. I will spilt it with you. That is all I can give."
She shook her head and shooed me away. I was in awe.
So, no opinion of culture. But I will say common decency would be nice to have a quick return. I mean they make a hundred movies about someone who comes into a small fortune and gives back?
Our culture is more damaged by the idea that we should get exactly what we want when we ask for it.
The real truth is we only get what we want in small quantities, and appreciating those small doses - that's the only culture we find happiness.
Live and let be, Happiness is not the amount of egg salad that is present - but the amount you accept as good faith from someone who cared enough to try.
Be good to each other. Who knows what the other end of their story is.
The smell of dew has always been my official alarm clock. It's right when the sun is warming up the earth. I throw my scrawny legs across the comb bed, they will need to be washed soon - the smell of honey never seems to escape no matter how many times they are cleaned.
I pull on my official uniform, enough can be said that while black is slimming, the yellow stripes do nothing for our form.
I rub my eyes, they all take a moment to adjust and stretch out my wings one last time before heading to the farm.
I see the queen has already laid the duties out for us - and I hurry about to make sure I get the best section on this rotation otherwise it could be a long day like yesterday.
We wait for the queen's order, and we are off.
As usual, it is breezily and beautiful. The smell of euphoria as I pick my favorites and spend a minute or two longer. But my body beckons me elsewhere, knowing the queen has her quota.
As the sun starts to sway into a dusky disposition, I head back to the farm and clock in my pull. Another day was completed. While it is not a considerably horrible solitude, the monotony sometimes grows wearisome.
Yes, I am the working body - but the queen will always have control over it.
Help Me, Rhonda,
Help me with this broken heart. I keep thinking, Wouldn't It Be Nice if this finds its way into your hands? My heart is turning into broken glass and a million pieces it may turn into. Every day, I miss being your Surfer Girl, and even more so, you being mine. I know you have heard rumors that I Get Around, but Don't Worry, Baby! I have only ever had eyes for the one whose possess shimmering translucence as clear as the ocean waves at midnight. And, God Only Knows how much I miss your fun and the pureness of your unfailing heart. I keep remembering how we had such Good Vibrations. Chuckling at our private jokes, crying when no one but us understood these feelings. I miss when we used to ride around in your dad's favorite convertible. Heading up to the beach, just so we could Dance, Dance, Dance the night away, until the sunrise beckoned us to leave. I beg for you to understand, the moon no longer lights up the night when you are not with me. And I am sure you probably meet all kinds of other California Girls, but know you possess my heart and soul, as it is yours only. I hope this bottled letter reaches you on a random shoreline washing the sand away. Open it up, and feel my words inside. Inside a place, we both wish we did not have to hide.