She deserves better
I try not to stare too long.
I try to ignore the detestation etched into my very being,
Laced into my every breath.
I try to love all that she has given me.
Strong legs for forest walks and unbound dancing,
A kind mouth for tasting new flavors and laughing
Open arms for hugging (my loved ones and myself),
Nimble hands for typing my varied thoughts.
I never thank her though.
No.
How can I find gratitude in what is flawed?
How can I find peace in what is wrong?
All I can offer are apologies.
I wish she was not burdened
With a mind like mine.
A passerby’s wonderings
I have walked by this house dozens of times. The two-storied home rests beside a small plot of farmland, and today, fresh leaves unfurl from the earth. The house is lovingly adorned with colorful flowers, which flourish in the spring air. Sometimes laundry hangs outside. Sometimes an elderly couple sits at a two-seated table on the front lawn. I wonder what their life is like. Do they enjoy meals together every day, never running out of things to say? Do they lead a quiet life, fulfilled by each other’s company? Are they happy?
I continue down the street and pass a duplex with three kid’s bikes parked out front. Children’s shirts dry in the breeze. Vibrant plastic toys lay forgotten in the parking lot. What is life like for this growing family? Do the parent’s sleep enough? Do the children dance with imaginary friends and fight with their siblings? Are they happy?
Finally, I reach my own apartment and stare at the curtained window facing the street. Does anyone pass my residence and fantasize about the life within? Does anyone observe my drying laundry and imagine what kind of person wears them? What am I like in their minds? How does my life unfold? Am I happy?
The “perfect” day
The wind is mild today,
Kissed by the comings of spring,
And upon waking,
She vows to fabricate the perfect day.
She ventures to her neighborhood park
And settles below a crooked tree
Adorned with freshly-born leaves.
She shifts her features to reflect perfect contentment,
Instilling wonder in her eyes as
She listens to symphonies
Of pigeon-coos and foliage-whispers.
She upturns her lips in elegant intrigue
And gazes at the blue sky,
Encouraging her unbound hair
To dance purposefully with the breeze.
It is a perfect day.
And that night,
As she lies in bed,
Waiting for the day’s staged fulfillment
To guide her to sleep,
She is disappointed to find
That she cannot deceive her mind after all.
Wednesday’s song
On a rainy Wednesday, I decide to go for a walk. I grab my umbrella and don my headphones, considering them an essential outdoor accessory. I float through the quiet residential town, barely acknowledging the houses and storefronts and fully committing my consciousness to the ebb and flow of my music.
However, in the limbo between one song’s end and another’s beginning, I notice the timid sound of raindrops knocking on the borders of my mind. Intrigued, I remove my headphones and listen.
Children’s unbothered laughter weaves through the droplets. A hurried cyclist rushes past me, and the gentle whoosh of her bike tires enters the chorus. An elderly man trudges by, and my brows furrow at the squelching of his rain-sodden shoes. I cannot help but smile as my own breath joins the afternoon’s symphony.
Upon returning home, the song does not end. Instead, it shifts to a cozy melody, interlaced with whistling teapots, rooftop-tappings, and soothing silence. I close my eyes and invite the moment’s dynamic composition into my heart. With a content sigh, I realize, I should listen to the day’s song more often.
What path am I on?
She follows the forest’s path,
Addicted to its
Winding presence
And
Tempted by its
Maze of untold stories.
At her feet,
Grass and wildflowers
Cradle her every step,
Propelling her forward
In innocent persuasion.
She greedily basks in the dreamlike world,
Embracing the reality as her own.
However,
She cannot escape the lingering unease
That she
Herself
Crafted the enchanting trail,
And that,
Rather than a magical journey of self-exploration,
It is simply a glorified route of diversion.
Storm clouds
Today she woke with a
Hollow chest and
Hazy mind.
The internal fog
Settled upon her irises,
Tainting the day
With shades of gray
Her thoughts sat imprisoned
Behind porous walls
Where only the words
With the sharpest claws
Could penetrate the cracks
She met the persistent jabs
With tired acknowledgement,
Regrettably submissive
To their pitiless intolerance
She tried to combat the pervasive hollowness
With empty stimuli,
Buy only seemed to amplify
Her mind’s spiteful side.
Defeated and trapped
Behind her own opaque mask,
She realized that sometimes
All she can do
Is wait for the storm to pass.
(And that’s okay)
She stands at the end of the hallway
I pause before the light switch, reluctant to plunge my room into indecisive darkness—the kind that sways between calming and eerie. I sigh. At this point, my hesitation has become a nightly ritual.
“You’re being childish,” I whisper to the air, internally kicking my nearly 30-year old brain.
Even so, I remain frozen. For I know, once I turn off the light, she will return. She has a habit of standing at the end of the hallway, or at least, I imagine she does. Visually, she appears as a young girl, maybe 10 years old. I say “appears” because her malevolent presence is far from that of an innocent child. I do not know what she, or rather it, is, and I certainly do not want to find out.
She spoke to me once during that undefined time between late night and early morning. I awoke to the sound of shuffling fabric in my room, and just like I am now, I was motionless. Stillness fell shortly after, but then, from the hallway that connects to the far end of my room, I heard a tiny voice.
“Can I borrow your pillow?”
My limbs became rigid, and I tried to shout “no,” but my lips were useless. I could not move.
“No, no, no, no, NO, NO,” she echoed, taunting my inability to speak. With each word her tone shifted to a gravely, deep, and demonic one, while still retaining a touch of childish youth.
I desperately tried to move, tried to free myself from the paralyzed state. I did not want to hear her next words or see her manipulated form. Her voice continued getting louder, and just as it reached its peak, I managed to move my index finger and then shot into an upright position. Her chanting vanished, and in that moment, I was so relieved. I had freed myself from her hold.
However, now, as I stand before the light switch, I wonder if I made the right choice. Perhaps, I should have let her finish the game. Ever since that first meeting, she has tainted the shadows of my room with unresolved business. I feel her, smirking in the blackness, always. I just want to feel safe again.
Author’s note:
Full disclosure, I am sitting on my bed typing this vignette in an attempt to validate the memory. I am hoping that by revealing her presence, I can gain closure, and she will leave me alone. Right now, it is nighttime, and I am sitting with the lights off, afraid to abandon the glow of my computer scree
Shit.
I don’t think she likes that I wrote about her.
I’m sorry
She often forgets about her,
That timid-eyed girl
In the corner of her mind.
She chooses to ignore
Her braces-lined smile,
Wire-framed glasses, and
Flushed cheeks.
It is easier to pretend that she does not exist.
It is easier to pretend that every self-destructive
Word,
Thought,
And act
Are not also directed
At her
At her fraying pigtails,
Quiet demeanor,
And displaced apologetic gaze.
She thought she could never harm a child.
She was wrong.