Nicole C // living life sideways, i slide in; never quite fitting, not knowing how to begin.
well he looks much better in person.... repurposed baby sweater. his face is still a bit creepy and i want more details on his body, but it is what it is...
in the summer
we are warm and red
sweat lingers
sticky
and sometimes sweet
the sun beats down on brown grass
another year with too little rain
sheets cling in the uncomfortable silence of night
and i reach toward you
unable to grasp your radiant heat
though the season makes no difference
you are far away even in this cold
piles of snow build up
protecting some mystery from me
i cannot see beyond the white of my windows
i cannot hear beyond the wall of ice
we make motions of loving
without having the heart
to leave
i walked in on you
clouded with smoke
that came from your mouth instead of words
they were thick
and hard to hear
and my mouth was full
i was taught to be silent
and fragile and insecure
i was taught i was never good enough
nor would i ever be
so now i linger here
much like your grey shroud
and i'm choking on the poison
i used to love so much
i cannot count the times
i've thought of leaving
running
no shoes
no final glance over my shoulder
and i think i love him
but i don't think love is enough
and i couldn't tell you what is this is no admittance
no submission to guilt
i am shameless
written in sanskrit
and difficult to decipher
i may have been taught to hate myself
but i never let that stop me from hating you more
or being angry
or loving hard
or leaving when the door opens
The beginning is always difficult for me--as if my life were some mixed up dictionary whose A is in the middle one hour and at the end the next. Emptiness sometimes accompanies not knowing, not necessarily sadness, but a deep hollow feeling that resonates strong echoes and sends shivers up my spine. It is no mystery, then, that I have spent much of my life attempting to fill that void- with food, with love, with sex, with failing relationships, with poisonous friendships. It is no wonder why I’m restless, ruthless, and constantly anxious. There is no speculation to be made- no “she’s so young to have a child,” or “why does she stay with him?” It simply is, just as the earth is round or the sun is bright. And as many different tools as I’ve used to fill this void, nothing has gotten closer than my words, my ink, my liquid tongue.
“It’s all a draft until you die.”
Even in death perfection does not exist. If it were something more than blackness, more than nothingness that awaited us, a writer’s limbo would be red ink smudged over the piles of paper strewn about her. There is something beautiful, though, in the ability to change your art- because changing your life is nothing short of impossible. If only I had thought of this then, I often think… but on paper everything is malleable. Still, when I write poetry it is difficult for me to look back and alter it. The rawness of emotion is what I strive for in my art, not perfection, not using the most perfect words at each crucial moment. Sometimes the failure is what is breathtaking, sometimes the moments of weakness—the tear smearing ink across something whole and cathartic might be more poetic than the letters. Maybe, for some, there is hope and empowerment in changing the past with red ink and deep thought, but for me I think the past is [tear smear] left unchanged.
I used to write
I used to write words
that flowed effortlessly
from brain to tongue
without real thought
reflex of a reflection
and now what?
I sit alone most nights
with a fist on my throat
the harbinger of tears
I sit alone most nights
watching a child sleep peacefully
I sit alone most nights
an empty shell
a shadow of my former self
that has outgrown her own boredom
depression isn't even the same word anymore
I sit alone most nights
waiting for a companion
that has no idea I'm his
but still I'm loved
paradoxically the clutter of my life
cigarette butts and newspapers
dirty diapers and dirty clothes
I have no time
I don't know where it goes
I'm mismanaged and overwhelmed
i've got more words than ink
and my heart is being broken by my inability to write
i used to write beautiful things
that fueled the very fire of my being
but now
there are people to take care of
and i spend more time compiling to do lists
that will never get done
and i get lost in the worry
that is merely a distraction of my existence
and some days i can't breathe
and some days i can't think
and some days i can't cry
and most days
all i have
is the memory
yeah, i used to write....
hello moon
i wrote in echoes and waves
and wept softly into my hands
the ocean was never so full of salt
and i felt you pull away
and so did i
pulled into warm arms
and soft kisses that were deemed criminal
by the highest courts
my vision was blurred
my cup overfloweth
and i was the only one dancing
alone
i felt so sure
and afraid
and i knew they could hear
every whisper
little thoughts escaping
through red lips
twirling drunkenly on wet tongues
between us
space and time escaped
between us
reality could find no home
between us
light could find no path
between us
hard beats and hard hands
created an equation whose solution was only a dream
there was no answer to check
no problems to correct
and seated deeply was my desire to move
i never knew where
away from
into
through
there was a broken table
and spilled drinks
and a boy who could've been someone
were he not too busy being someone else
and through pain
and through longing
and through a discussion of stars
and a lion who had no mane
and a man who was very dark
and someone my heart could belong to
if only i didn't belong to someone better
and through a night which gave many hours to mere minutes
i remembered nothing clearly
squinting through the smoky haze of a life
i could have had
but now
can only visit occasionally
holidays again
and now we see ourselves
dimly lit
like rows of redbluegreenwhite lights that litter trees
snowflakes are unique they said
but i am not
i am empty
not even a shadow
not even a shell
i've decided to stop believing
i gave up on God long ago
and my heart kept beating
but now
even that seems exhaustive
and i think love might be a myth too
a sweet dream and a fairytale
damsel in distress
this fair maiden has cried for far too long
or been sleeping
or been afraid of living
it stops me
my heart still
not calm
even then
in my youth
by the hearth on Christmas morning
there was the pressure of loving
because it meant someone else was being loathed
i still dream of big bows
of metallic colored wrapping paper
of the crinkling and ripping that preceded excitement or disappointment
and it's true
my face always falls
my heart always breaks
my stomach always sinks
and even with a family
i still feel alone...
Speech
I spoke to you in shades of grey
not knowing how or even why the words came
I was interrupted by the noise
a cicada
my child
a loud car
and lost my thought
missed the train
I was training myself to care less
which never works
did I know then?
that I would be alone now
and if I did
why did I try?
my speech was disturbed
by your silence
and the surrounding sounds
of my life
Loneliness on Mute
We moved noiselessly
Through silent streets Our thoughts
Ivy weeds
Intertwined &
Strangling the beauty that existed
before we did My lips
A sad reminder
of hunger
The emotions of a child
who has more need than want My hands
hugging the curves
of a body
that I have wished was not there: my own
Dead Scheme
Great strands of force came forth
And pulsed deep rhythm--loud and course
And shook me from my very shell
And stole the secrets I dare not tell
And led me, shaking, to a shallow grave
And took my blood and breath and laid
Me there beneath the hollowed ground
And there I lay never found
But the earth was wet and I could move
And felt there was something left to prove
And so I bent and dug and clawed
A way out- out beneath a lifeless fog
Damp dirt, earthworms, and rocks did lack
The resolve to hold me back
Then rattled from that early death
I shuttered forth a violent breath
That, perhaps, would never know glee
But, positively, would never forget free
