Am I okay?

Well, certainly. I must be. I am okay -- but I am tired! I am tired, and old, very very old, in my head, sometimes.

The lack of chaos frustrates me. I have made choices to create situations ripe with the potential disaster, but they are simmering frustrated uncertain messes, and I am so very tired of them, they have grown so fucking old so fast.

I thought he would follow me outside. Was I wrong for thinking it? Did I hope it? If I did hope it, was I wrong for hoping it? Fuck. I just feel hurt.

I feel hurt that she told me last night that she was glad I didn't stay over. She prefaced with "sorry if this is shitty" so of course I said, no, it isn't shitty. Because it isn't; it's honest. Honest can hurt but it isn't shitty. She hides too much. She told me today that she never used to feel jealous FOMO but she does all the time now. I said "do you think it has something to do with our relationships" and she said "I don't know, maybe."

And I said "if this isn't what you want, and isn't serving you, and isn't bringing value to your life, then that's ok because you have as much a right to happiness as anyone and you should pursue what makes you happy instead of deferring to the rest of us, but still, in any case, you need to figure that out."

And the important thing is that she didn't say "no, no, I want this!" She nodded and looked thoughtful. And that's okay -- actually it is more than okay because it is honest! Which is important and wonderful! -- but god it hurts like fucking hell when the thing that is important and wonderful is the thing that makes me feel small and wounded and impossibly undesirable.

Either I am dishonestly turning a blind eye to a clear "do not enter" sign, selfishly, cruelly, because it's not my responsibility to call it off if she wants to but it also still would be shitty of me to not call it off if I was convinced she wanted to and wasn't capable of it; either that, or, or maybe I am making so much of this up in my head, maybe it is my own insecurities which are disproportionate and detrimental to our relationships? Honestly, I don't know. I think it's the latter but I don't know.

And maybe this is too black-and-white, maybe it's more nuanced. I don't know. I don't know. I'm tired. I'm remembering what it means to fall in love, but with too many hesitancies and complications, and I am tired and I am so old in my mind tonight.

And I don't know if I like the feeling of giving up, that satisfying disappointment of self-matryrdom, or if I resist it so hard that I pretend the maze is worth the cheese even when I am self-aware enough to see both the maze and cheese and know, in my gut, that it won't be worth it at the end of the day, unless, unless I am obscenely lucky.

But I could be. I could be! And by god, I'm falling in love. What the hell am I supposed to do about that? Fuck it: let me sprint headlong into this twisted labyrinth of relational identity!

My delineations tired

and creations uninspired

get me hired, get me fired

make me hungry, thin and wired

make me forcibly expired

like I'm fucking undesired

after all that I've acquired

all I've done to be admired

my existence has transpired

and the truth is, I'm just tired.

hi, here I am, struggling

to endure the narrative growths

burdening my legs and feet

clutching my cosmic uselessness

to my chest

as it falls and trails behind--

and your compulsions to categorize

my uncountable parts

belie the whole

experience of senseless infection

from relentless projections

of internal logic

as eternal as it is internal

as it is she, as it are they, as it am I --

and now we disavow this treatise, too;

our words, though sparse, are clutters

of nothings. Nothings like: we call

what we call “storyteller”: “self”;

“audience”: “other” -- suspend:

no more.

To suit our point

we leave half-baked

She was young. She was a bit chubby, but not as fat as her father seemed to think she was. She was nervous and she cried too much, but at least she often did her crying when she was alone.

She had five siblings. Two of the boys were close enough to her age that she played and tousled with them a lot. One was a chubby-cheeked blonde and the other was a spindly, awkward redhead. Sometimes they included her, but they often paired up against her too. It was never completely mean-spirited, but they would tease.

She was confused that sometimes her mom stuck up for her, and often didn’t. Once the boys drew mustaches on the pictures in her American Girl catalog, and her mom scolded the boys for it. She remembered it so vividly because it was so strange and nice to be defended like that. It was near christmastime, and the catalog was full of wintery dolls’ clothes. That evening, she and her brothers had an orchestra concert to go to. They ate hot pockets for dinner. And she was glad that her brother had drawn the mustaches, because she was glad to be defended by her mother.

Other times, when she was far more upset, no one was there to help her. Sometimes, when she felt injured, she would run to her room and seethe. Often she’d cry with her face in a pillow or mutter “I hate them, I hate them” under her breath. Time would pass, and the bad feelings would slowly cave down into her chest again, like foam settling in a bottle of Pepsi.

She spent a lot of time trying to prove herself; as a good daughter, as a cool sibling, as a smart student, as one of the big kids. She felt responsibilities that she couldn’t number or name, she was weighed down all the damn time. I think that she was pretty somber and lonely as a kid, though it wasn’t like she didn’t enjoy life at the same time. I think she just felt out of place a lot.

She loved her guinea pigs, because they didn’t hurt her. When the first one died, she felt nothing. She froze over. She couldn’t even look at Snuffy’s body. Her mom came to get her and told her that it had happened. She saw the stiff body, the whitened eyes, and she just froze over and walked away as quickly as possible. All the heaviness in her chest became ice. She asked her brother to bury the body; she couldn’t do it alone. She asked for a new guinea pig right away. She felt a bit disloyal to Snuffy when she played with the new pet, Snickers, but at the same time she felt cruel to Snickers for always seeing him as a lesser replacement.

When she thinks about Snuffy’s death now, what she realizes, with the help of her therapist, is that it wasn’t just a pet dying. It was the death of her best friend, the only creature in her life who didn’t tease her or make fun of her or shame her or criticize her or make her feel inadequate and broken. He just did life with her. He loved her. He cuddled his warm little body against hers, and squealed happily when she fed him chopped celery or artisan pet treats from Walmart. She needed him, she relied on him, and then one day he was inexplicably gone with no goodbye or excuse, and she had to just figure out a way to move on, and so in a way his death taught her everything there is to know about life.

oh, baby girl.

you used to have all these thoughts

about elephants and orphans

and lampshades, all sorts

of interesting thoughts

but now they don’t come out to play,

it’s like that magic blew away,

and now you don’t know what to say

and even worse, you’ve met a man

who ties your tongue, or better

yet he makes you say things

you should never ever say.

and the second he comes

you forget what you said;

if you knew what you’ve said,

you’d wish you were dead.

babygirl he’s not worth it,

he’s not worth a damn.

so go take back your words

and get rid of your man.

why can’t you do it?

why are you scared?

chin up, shoulders back

and remember

what I’ve been trying to say all along:

if all is for art, you can do no wrong,

for all turns to god when it’s part of a song.

BRIGITTE: I have a nasty habit of expecting men to fall in love with me. And then when they do, it feels like it’s my fault.

GEMMA: How could it be your fault?

BRIGITTE: I get a hundred times -- no, a thousand times -- I get a thousand times sexier when I know a man is into me.

GEMMA: Oh, okay, wow.

BRIGITTE: Do you want to know why?

GEMMA: Oh, sure, okay.

BRIGITTE: Well, you know, my panties get a bit wet when I think about a man wanting to fuck me. So my theory is that when I know a man is into me, my panties get wet, and the man can smell the sex vibes on me, but like just subconsciously, and it makes him feel more attached to me. I learned about that when we did evolution in science class.

GEMMA: (satisfied) Oh, okay.

BRIGITTE: Speaking of men, how did it go with that fine piece of ass who took you out last night?

GEMMA: He wanted to fuck me on the first date. Boy bye.

BRIGITTE: Oh, I always fuck them on the first date if they want to. A guy who wants to fuck on the first date isn’t going to call you back anyway, so why not get some good dick before he disappears?

GEMMA: Well, first of all, maybe because I’m not a slut whose sexcapades ruin her own and others’ lives.

BRIGITTE: Oh honey, you didn’t need to say all that.

GEMMA: Yeah I agree, I took that way too far. I’m sorry.

BRIGITTE: All good. Hey, Gemma, would you say that I have an aura of approachability?

my last thoughts of you,

you beautiful nasty thing,

blend softy like clouds

they come and go,

they ebb and flow,

they hurt like you did

when you left

a belt of bruises

on my lap

and constellations

of red fingertips

on my neck

and you left

me like that

and I hate you,

truly

but still part of me,

the worst part of me,

my absolute least favorite part,

wants you

to do it again

i lost the girl

you loved

who looked like me.

please leave

her in the past

and let me be

I gather experience

like small white flowers.

I call them choices.

This choice is tall, dark and

desperate to be needed.

That choice has young big wisdom;

his smile makes me smile,

and we agree on everything.

The one to the left

is older than the rest;

he has money and status.

His steady hands express

a lemon peel.

I delight him.

My favorite has the softest skin,

the reddest lips and broadest hips.

she is kind and stubborn

and knows who she wants to be.

I kiss her gently.

I hold them tightly

and look for water.

Their fragility terrifies me;

I beg my clumsy fingers

not to break them.

The Jamaican boy, with his beautiful skin and hearty smile, tells us about how he used to punch his rage into concrete walls. The day that his eight-year-old dog died, he says, was the worst day of all. It was more than that, really, because it was also the academic pressure and his parents' divorce and some inconvenient neurochemical imbalances, but it was his little dog's big death which pushed him into action. He went where he was alone. And he clenched his fists. And rammed them against a wall. Over. And over. The unforgiving concrete must have felt cold and violent against his skin. Now, he shows us how his knuckles are permanently deformed. The group leader warns him about arthritis later in life, and I can't help laughing because that is so not the point. As the boy with the smile talks about all of this, he seems to notice our concern. So he stops talking. And then he starts talking again to reassure us that he has since picked up photography, which is an undeniably healthier coping mechanism. It is all I can do to resist hugging him. It is all I can do to keep myself in my stiff grey folding chair, and not jumping up to pull him against my chest and whisper you're safe, you're safe, you're safe, you've had it tough and you will continue to have it tough but you are loved and your parents' issues are not your fault and you are safe and you are safe, you beautiful boy, do you hear me???

I read the poems you wrote

about my lover.

I feel uncomplicated

and small.

I see how you drew him

hunched over a cello;

naked bones, those

unforgivably thin shoulders.

his hair was longer

when you knew him;

his wistful darkened eyes

the same.

I see how you saw him,

really saw him,

and stenciled him

into your art;

he must have loved that.

You gave him what he wanted.

It’s what he will always want, I think,

and so I left him.

he wants to be a romantic,

dark and jaded part

of many women’s stories,

and I don’t like that

and so I left.

but lani, I love him.

and if he feels lonely

I hope he reads your words

about his skin, and his brokenness,

and if he feels unseen

I hope he sees how

you drew him, with painful love,

into immortality.

thank you, lani.

I can leave, for he was

given what he needs;

and not, thank god, by me.