Before you were formed in the womb, I knew you
I've only known you for a week.
But I loved you already.
You were to be the baby of all my babies.
I was meant to carry you for the next 8 months and get to know you better. I was meant to hold you in sweet motherhood's embrace: to stare in wonder at your sweet face on the day of your birth. You were going to have so many friends. Your brother and sisters were going to love you beyond measure. You were to be our little one. I couldn't wait to carry you alongside your growing cousin, and I was so thrilled to surprise your auntie by telling her I was carrying her babies' Birthday buddy.
I felt so confident of the life you would live.
I spent hours searching for your name, but none seemed to be just right. Maybe a part of me knew then that I would never hold you. You see, sweet baby, I have lost you already. And I miss you so much. I miss the dreams I dared to dream for you. I miss all you would have been... All you could have been.
This morning, I got up, and I knew you were gone. I called the doctor and scheduled an appointment, hoping I'd been mistaken somehow. This morning your sister, who we'd not told about you, prayed for you. She prayed for her little baby brother. She thanked God for you. I am so sorry you won't get to meet her here. I wish there were some way to change it all... To give you that life I'd hoped, but alas, sweet baby, I cannot decide these things.
I know that Jesus is holding you now, and you're happy. I am so glad you are with him there.
But oh, my sweet baby with wings, I miss you already.
No one can accurately tell you about the roller coaster of emotions you are about to embark on when you have children.
The very moment you feel those first flutters of movement inside of you, you are swamped with this overwhelming sense of awe and wonder and love. With no small amount of fear thrown in as well. You are about to be a parent, you will be responsible for the life of another living thing. You will be the teacher, the guide. But what no one tells you is that this is an entity that has its own thoughts, will have its own feelings and fears, and anxieties. The first time your child wraps it's arms around you and tells you it loves you will fill you to bursting with love! And the first time this child looks you dead in the face and says it hates you, your whole world is going to crumble and fall around you. And the part that kills you? Is when you have to look into that precious face and say, "That's ok sweetheart, I still love you." Because as a parent you have to set aside your own feelings, and ensure that your children have the freedom and safe space to feel and express their own. And that is the hardest part, in my humble opinion, of being a parent.
Today at the cafe I give them a different name. When the order popped up on their computer screen, the one that shows the receipt of your order and asks for a tip, I see the barista had typed in "Allie." This could technically be a nickname for me but it never will be.
I leave my laptop screen open to get up and grab the avocado toast I had ordered. This screen was left open - the very one you're reading right now, these words plastered across the page for anyone to read while I was gone. Allie. Like the gothic dress I'm wearing to look like Wednesday Addams, it was all to pretend to be someone I'm not.
Allie. It's actually literary. I'm re-reading The Catcher in the Rye. It is the name of Holden Caulfield's younger brother, the one who died of leukemia. I'll never forget reading that section, how Holden smashed every glass window in their garage after Allie died, with his fist, later, unable to fully close that fist. He later tries punching his roommate with that fist and fails to get the result he was looking for. This anger, boiling hot, that unfairness - this is what drives me to write.
Last Friday, I heard from the fifth and final law school I had applied to. I had been rejected from the first four and thought, okay. I have one left. They took so long to respond that I thought for sure they were contemplating my application, re-reading and considering me. It's personal, applications. Did I pass the test to be above average?
I had not. Last Friday, upon hearing from the fifth and final law school, how unfortunately, they had had too many applicants to be able to accept everyone, how they had so many qualified applicants but not everyone can have a spot in the incoming class, I punched a wall.
Perhaps we are all pretending. I'm not Allie. I will not become a law school student this fall. I'm not Wednesday Addams. I didn't bleed after I had punched the wall. Even at that, I had failed. I hadn't left an impression on the hard plaster, or whatever it is that my fist had hit, whatever you call that hardness that can't be moved despite pushing against it. Anger that is misplaced, failing to reach the cosmic universe, swallowed whole and producing nothing but fists that can't close, blood that doesn't spill, a name I can't call my own.
It hurts when you don't get what you want, when the universe is seemingly conspiring against you. It hurts to be a writer, to spill these words. Why was I afraid that someone at the cafe would see my words plastered across the screen, read that I was pretending to be someone I am not?
Isn't the point of pretending to want to be convincing, to leave the impression against the metaphorical wall?
No soul goes without being touched by pain, heartache, anxiety and all those other immense unmeasurable feelings that runs through our bodies and minds as we maneuver and cope through our daily walk.
Those moments of being cut so deep where we feel there is no recovery or chance of rebound. Those days where we seem to be walking through them as if in a deep sleep. Those moments that we are rattled out of a pure paradise of peace into a plummeting all-consuming panic. Our bodies pulsate as the sensations form within the brain traveling through every single nerve right to the pounding racing heart which assures us of our worst fear that we must be dying only to look in the mirror and see there is no exterior panic present.
Wounds are peculiar...some are fresh and raw others have walked ever present through the months which turned to years feeling as if just stricken by them.
Our hurts are real, the pain is alive...sometimes others know exactly what we mean - as their paths overlap ours and at times we have all walked out from a storm and into the light...just to find that it is still night. From darkness do we ever escape? We do - we step in and out of the light, as we know shadows can always be found casting that shade upon us no matter where or when...it comes upon us somewhat unexpectedly expected.
While some hurts have just formed...others do not heal because we fail to leave them behind us where they belong - we place them in a small box and push them deep in to the back of the closet of our soul....where we fear to tread yet despite that fear, we are drawn to them over and over again opening up the box time after time, as though we are never certain what to expect each time we lift that weighted lid. No dust can gather on what continues to be touched and on that which is not forgotten nor released.
The waking of the so-called dead romantic
It's embarrassing to admit, but I am a sucker for romance
for tales of passion and love and vows of "til death do us part"
I always swooned over fictional men coming to save the day
sweeping their girls from situations like a hawk does its prey
I was so into them to the point my head was the place to be in
a refuge I created to take the edge off of my poor aching heart
but then again, who am I kidding,
I know that there will never be a knight in shining armor waiting for me along the way
No mafia boss to scoop me out of my misery and show me what love is all about
No lonely wolf to claim me as his mate despite all odds and come to be the partner I deserve
I know deep inside that my pain is mine to heal from and mine alone to sustain
That my hurt is all in my head and no one will ever come to taste even a droplet of its poisonous nectar
But despite it all, I guess my mind in a way still is a refuge I would choose out of my own will
That no matter how tough life can get, I need to man up even though I am no man at all
That being a soft romantic is nothing but a weakness in this time and age
That girls like me, might in fact not be made for love, to love and be loved
I mean, how could I?
When I can barely come to love myself as I am
I am a pro at finding faults within me like no mother-in-law can
I am the best at finding all sorts of reasons as to why people hate me, and none as to why anyone could come to love me
You see, I don't know when it all started,
Was it when I started to notice how I was never anyone’s first choice, not even the second or the third?
Maybe it was when all I heard was of how I should act and behave like so-and-so and never be like myself
Or perhaps it was when all throughout those years, I was constantly told to tone it down, to stop being weird and maybe act like someone else
You see, it's hard when during the years your identity is supposed to come to be,
All you hear and see is of how you should be anything but you
It does something to your soul at one point
I am broken, but no shards of me can ever be found
It's as if there was never even proof that I was once there, and that the shards have disappeared into thin air
Like me, like who I am
They say you crave the things you do not have or own
Maybe that could explain why I crave love so bad lately
Should I laugh at how ironic fate can be sometimes?
Aching for something you know fully well can never be yours, or that you are not made for
But if I am not made to love or to be loved, then how come it’s haunting my soul ?
I’d rather not feel a shred of hope over this endless torment of knowing what’s to come
I'd rather be submerged in my loneliness and not even gaze at the faint ray of light
I don’t know really,
All I can say is I am lost
I am tired and burnt out
But somehow despite all of this
A molecule within me keeps banging on the gates of my once romantic heart
"Let me out, let me love and be loved "
"Let me hurt and get hurt"
"Let me taste the nectar of the forbidden fruit "
"Just let me out !!"
She Bleeds Flame
My skin has become ashes
My brain lit aflame from the promises
My eyes dulled from the smoke
As everything around me broke
My blood is flame
In horrible beauty, it destroys me from the inside without shame.
Perhaps the worst of all
Is my heart that opens the cracks to the dawn.
My heart is scorched beyond recognition
Pumping my flamed blood like a man on a mission
As if pretending that there was normalcy as the chaos consumes me
Praying that this monster is my legacy
Something amazing that I'll never get to see
But deep down my heart knows that will never be
As a legacy means nothing if he's not here with me
The blood lit only spark that has grown into a flame
It burns me until no one can know who I am until I respond to my name
Lay Me Down (a drabble)
"For all todays," she whispered.
She couldn't see me smile in the dark, but my hands pulled her near as hips rocked, joining us.
My lips rested against her ear; I answered with a ragged exhale.
Then I breathed her in.
She smelled beautiful, and felt so sweet. She sounded gorgeous; she looked like a poet's hymn.
We harmonized wonderfully. Ours was an ageless song, yet, youth recited it best.
She and I, a perfect chorus.
Until we forgot the words.
"For all todays," I whispered.
Today was thirty years ago, and I no longer make promises she can't keep.
Of Stouthearted Stuff (Modern Haiku)
You cast out your soul
in trade for possessing me,
without my consent
and your heart you tore,
bleeding out atrocities
for my will to rend,
but I was my own.
Full of grit-resiliency
you got a friend in me
I scream at the knife being forced into my skin
It seems he’s having fun, I never should have been
In that place
At that time
Gotten into his car
Every time that hammer hits me, I can see stars
My hands bound to the ceiling
He’s asking me for favours
I want it to be over, but he continues to savour
He’s sick and twisted
Im innocent, aren't I?
Just a little girl, screaming at the sky
Asking God for help, as the blade pierces me again
Why is he laughing? Why aren’t I dead?
A cloth over my mouth
I’m feeling dizzy
I fall into a deep sleep, knowing this will happen again
He continues to reassure me
That I’m his only friend
The pain, oh the pain, it gnaws at me like a ravenous beast, tearing at my insides until I am left raw and bleeding. Each breath I take is a struggle, as if I am drowning in a sea of my own despair.
The weight of my agony is too much to bear, like a crushing boulder that sits heavy on my chest, suffocating me. I am consumed by my anguish, trapped in a never-ending cycle of torment and misery.
My heart is a gaping wound that refuses to heal, each beat a reminder of the pain that courses through my veins. And yet, I cannot help but revel in this agony, this all-consuming fire that burns within me, for it is the only thing that reminds me that I am alive.