Yesterday I sat outside in a different chair

A whole new view opened up

How the wind moves

The back view of neighborhood houses above their fences

A fresh patch of blue sky with clouds

A new perspective changed how I felt

I accomplished more difficult tasks than I had in last couple of months

She did you a favor, you know.

By trashing your foundation

and leaving you in your own dust.

Because that’s where growth happens,

under all the rubble of heartaches, bad decisions, false tongues

and vulnerability.

I

wait here alone,

in breathless nothing.

If you tap me,

I’ll shiver like lightning,

or melt like daylight,

or implode like a star,

consumed by the weight of my own gravity.

I am not formed to be caressed,

but would die,

just to be touched,

for a blazing instant,

by you

#Poetry, #Loneliness

I don’t like it when the sink is dirty.

I scrub, and scrub, and scrub, and it never gets clean. Somehow, there’s always one little spot that won’t budge - besieged by sponges and soap, that determined little fortress still stands. Today, it was a thick, crusty blue chunk on the left-hand side. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was Blake’s.

Blake is my roommate. And yet, he rarely acts like one. He doesn’t clean the hair out of the shower after he’s finished showering. He leaves his toothbrush on the sink instead of putting it in the toothbrush cup. He shaves every two days, and he doesn’t clean after himself because he always wakes up just before class. His razors are clogged with hair and dried cream. That same dried cream is now on the left-hand side of our sink.

I tried everything - wet wipes, soapy sponges, even damp toilet paper. Nothing. In desperation, I used my fingernail to scrape at it. I pressed down, hard, trying to loosen it. Nothing. I dug my nail into the center of the chunk, hoping that I could get at least part of it. Nothing. I pressed my nail down again, as hard as I could. Crack. I gasped and clutched my finger. For a few seconds, I couldn’t look. If I could just sink down to the floor, cradling my finger in my other hand and waiting until the pain subsided, it would be okay. But it didn’t subside. It got worse.

Finally, I forced myself to glance at it. My nail was cracked, and the skin around it was puffy and bright pink. Blood oozed out and dribbled down my finger. In that moment, I knew what I had to do.

When Blake came home that night, I smiled and said, “Hey, how was your day?” As he started ranting, I noticed his chin was still covered in light blond hair. That stupid man couldn’t even shave his face correctly. I nodded, “Wow, that sounds rough. Why don’t you take a nice, relaxing shower?” He scratched his chin thoughtfully and wandered into the bathroom.

As I waited for the sound of water, I noticed the cushions on the couch were askew, no doubt after a wild night with his friends. I clenched my teeth and stalked over to the couch.

I was fluffing the second pillow when I suddenly heard a rush of water from the faucet, followed by a knob turning and the light spray of the shower head. I have to admit that I smiled, just a little. Okay, maybe it was more of a grin. Or a grimace. I’m still not quite sure.

I crept up to the door and grabbed the handle, only to feel a wave of panic. What if he had locked the door? I hadn’t thought about that. I exhaled, trying to regain my composure, and lightly pushed.

The door opened, swiftly, silently, and before I could stop myself I was standing just a few feet away from him. Our bathroom is quite small, which is probably why I had been driven to this point of no return. He was blasting music through his speakers and singing loudly. A tenor. I have to admit he had a beautiful voice.

I glanced around, and my eyes lit up as I saw the bottle of shaving cream. It was one of those X-Tra Large bottles, and I figured it was heavy enough. I reached over and carefully grabbed it in my left hand.

In one quick motion, I stepped over to the shower, pulled back the curtain, and struck him on the head. He crumpled to the ground, a mess of bare arms and legs. Well, that was easier than I thought it would be.

The steam was getting thick — Blake always loved it scalding-hot — so I carefully leaned over and turned the handle until the water was cool. His skin was turning red from all the hot water. His eyes were closed, and his tongue was just barely hanging out of his mouth. I had to suppress a grin as I poked his tongue. It was soft and squishy, like a little gummy worm. I grasped it between my thumb and index finger, and squeezed. What if I pulled it out?

Suddenly, I noticed a dark liquid running down his neck. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. This can’t be happening. Not in my bathtub. Blake had to move. I grabbed the back of his head and felt something squishy. I jumped and pulled my hand back. It was covered in that same liquid, that ugly dark stain. No, no, no. Even in death, Blake was still trying to leave stains in my bathroom.

That’s how I ended up here, standing at the sink, washing my hands. Oops! There’s a little bit of blood on the rim of the bowl. I’ll just carefully grab a Clorox wipe and scrub it. Scrub, scrub, scrub. Thank goodness I was able to catch that.

I don’t like it when the sink is dirty.

Through your eyes, I want to see

If what you see is really me

The scars hidden beneath a smile

Do you know I'm crying, all the while

Are you ignoring all the signs

Avoiding mountains we can't climb

Will you really take the time

To see my heart; I hope this time

Can you grasp what's at my core

How I'm not like the girl next door

How I've failed, although I tried

See me; no filter; through your eyes

Sparrows

hop around,

in sync with

God’s heartbeat—

dancin’ the dance

of Joy.

Pecking the ground,

turnin’ around,

eatin’ insects, seeds,

& blooms—

nurtured by food

they did not plant.

(While humans worry,

lest they starve,

’cause the store next door

is closed—

and they ran out of milk

at breakfast.)

Photo by Jimmy Palma Gil

She put on

the butterfly earrings

he gave her

after he apologized

for the slap

at K-mart.

She put on

the butterfly necklace

he gave her

after he apologized

for kicking her

at the bar.

She put on

the butterfly broach

he gave her

after punching her

in front of

the kids.

As he slept

that night,

she shoved an ice-pick

into the base

of his skull—

then called 9-1-1.

They say that butterflies are a symbol of how time swings past, how people begin to shift despite the intent not to, how people who once were the centerpiece of your life drifted away in the current. They say that change is the only constant, the sun at the center of life, with everything else meandering through as you hold out a red carnation; as you stand outside the comforts of your air conditioned, sterile house with the off white, nigh claustrophobic walls with your ginger friend.

They say that butterflies are filled with the colors of the flowers they polinate, similar to how your friends are filled with the colors of who you are and how you've changed their lives, how even the boy you passed on the street earlier today was filled with your poingiant colors. Your arms were full of flowers earlier today: full of gladioli, of pink and white chrysanthimums, filled with white and yellow and crimson roses. You'd held them close as you'd walked down Main street, burying your face in their scents and their colors; you look down at a small cut, between your ring finger and your middle.

They say butterflies cause hurricanes; every time one takes flight, the winds they leave behind bounce fragile leaves, bounce their old coccoon, bounce the lillies by the pond then bounce the roofs of couples halfway across the world. The dancing green beneath you is no stronger, swaying too and fro as if frantically waving goodbye to the sun, even while her navy blue sequin gown trails across the sky. Your friend always loved to bring you here, to trail you behind the violet signage whispering "Welcome to Everwood Park", to lead you through its twisting trails and to dine atop its grand hill of monarch butterflies. You know that's why you're here today. You spare a glance at the burnt-out city below, past the statue of Lady Morpho to where your brother, with his friends, is pouring quarters into the arcade machines at Roosevelt corner; They're probably laughing merrily, having a great time with leftover pocket change and trying to win that two-dollar, neon green, gigantic stuffed lemur for your cousin Patty.

They say butterflies, at least when formed from molten silver and on a fine chain, should only be given to people who are worth at least that much to you. You bend down and fasten the rainbow pendant around her pale neck, then cautiously situate the charm over the center of her loose black dress. Beside you, a priest hands you the remaining flowers: the gladioli, the pink and white chrysanthimums, and the white and yellow and crimson roses. You manage to place all of them into her cold hands before you step back to avoid getting her dress wet. The man of faith places his hand over the shoulder of your black suit; he is still warm.