sjsprWriting

It doesn’t feel like a goodbye. Goodbyes are quiet, grief-stricken creatures. Ones that cling to your knee caps as you try to move past, one foot in front of the other, anchors at your ankles. They move into your lungs, weigh down every breath. They fill you with a palpable desolation.

Goodbyes are ruin.

This is that wave you throw over your shoulder when you’re fighting past the kids in the hallway because your mother’s already called three times and you weren’t paying attention. This is that smirk and twirl combo you do, when you get away with the last word, only to turn back with a sheepish expression, hunting for your bag. This is that hug you give, every time, because a day spent not telling the people you care about that you love them is a day wasted. This is that “love you” given casually, at the end of every phone call. This is that arm thrown over someone’s shoulders, reeling them in and giving them a quick squeeze before rushing off. This is that phone of yours vibrating obnoxiously with incoming messages while you try to study and ignore your mom’s glares.

(“You just saw them,” she says, like a reason.)

This is not a goodbye. This is not a conclusion. This is not an end.

We are not stories with chapters or movies with credits. We are rolling, constantly, with no stops, no breaks, waiting for no one.

We are life. There is nothing final about this.

It all happened suddenly.

The walls grew larger and closer.

The ceiling was dripping down.

The tiles cracked like arid desolation.

The light hummed, quivered, popped.

The shards fell and turned to white dust.

You were there to see it all.

You didn’t move even when that disaster scathed your being.

It all happened instantly.

The floor trembled beneath you.

The windows shattered, a blinding light scurrying into the room.

Each dresser, cabinet, and drawer flopped open.

Words, metal, cloth, lead, ink, plastic.

Melting, trickling, swimming across the surface.

You let it all solidify your heart.

You didn’t blink to avoid the horrid view that tarnished your dreams of incandescent hills and golden plains.

And you stood up, only to find that you were alone in that room.

You moved along sleek tiles, perfectly carved armoires

ambulated under exquisite chandeliers.

Everything was still. Perfect. Intact.

But, your mind lagged and remained in the shadow of that brilliance, wanting to break out.

When we were 11 and a half

we talked about forever like it was an insurance plan

and created milky ways out of the dust on our parent’s bookshelves

But even then we knew that summer had to end

so we found mystery in the ducky pond down the street

and traced our desires into the crooks of each other’s necks

We left semicolons where a sentence could have ended, but didn’t.

Sometimes I pretend that I can feel yours burning on my back as you cross them off your list

And though I know you can’t feel mine

I scribble them down every now and then to remind myself that forever is my deadline

You see,

I want to give somebody a reason to remember me and remember my ever so common name

I want to live by impulse, by emotion, by heat

I want to wake up with passion on my tongue

and a new lesson learnt everyday

I want to fall in love in a language I don’t fully understand

and be part of the entire universe instead of just this one corner

I want to bring into this world what somebody left behind, I want to love the baby toes of a kid my body never knew

I want to stand before a crowd and find enough courage to forklift my words out of my chest

Make myself known by the verses that match the melodies in my curls

I want to buy a bra that is supportive the way my mother never was

I want to hum inside someone’s veins instead of laying on their skin like the silk of a conforming blouse

I want to spray paint your name into the stars and break away every constellation that gets in my way, fighting meteors like Sandra Bullock in that one movie with only two actors

I want to discover treasures in the eyes of a wounded heart and stitch together the remnants of a modern day war hero’s scars

I want to leave nothing unsaid, because the words we keep inside are the ones that eat at us from the inside and I am not one to be defeated in such a lowly manner

I want to make mistakes

After all, we’re kids aren’t we?

Kids who are being sent into this broken world at much too young an age

But we are kids with grown up powers

Me? I can vote

Him? He can drive

Her? She can open a bank account

And we can all drink

But even though my eyelids are heavy, my thoughts are heavier

And what I want most right now

Is to let you know that yes, I may have failed you

Because (spoiler alert) high school wasn’t really forever

But I will never forget the promises we made to ourselves by the ducky pond down the street

And I will never forget you 

It’s a weird feeling when life changes. Not only in the “wow I’m graduating high school sense” but in the “wow everything is probably going to change sense”.

This might seem slightly dramatic to some but it is a huge turn in my life at least. Most of the faces I see almost everyday, I have seen for the past 14 years of my life. Classmates, other students, teachers, administrators, staff.

Sure there were periods of remission, but sure enough, the next year, I knew a staple set of faces I was sure to see.

Its odd.

And honestly quite terrifying to think that those faces I have seen for the past 14 years of my life, are just going to fade into distant memories until we meet again.

But hopefully even with the variables wearing on, the impressions that everyone I've had the pleasure to interact with will not fade, because it is honestly the experiences and people I have met in my years here, that have made me who I am.

I will miss you all and incredible amount, more than you may possibly ever know.

Please stop calling.
Stop begging me to "stay".
What are bloody knuckles worth in a fight against yourself?
Put them down.
I cannot handle the anger that condenses inside me as it hits me over and over again,
that you only miss me when you run out of thems.
I waited, and tried, but now your text messages make me flinch,
and in my mind, I can only visualize the crazy in your eyes,
as they pierced me with hatred and obsession.
I don't want this.
Realize that I've closed my door.
Stop trying to pick the locks of a doorknob without a keyhole.
Go and find a girl who wont hate herself around you,
or cringe everytime you speak.
I wasn't born to shelter you.
I know I promised you forever, wrote it down with blood and ink,
but you know I've always had a problem with lying.
I don't feel to blame anymore.
I didn't leave, and how dare you expect me to have lingered when you fled?
I'm not your person.
You don't own me,  you never did.
I cannot save you, or fix you,
stop asking me to try.

Please, stop calling.
You're holding up the line.

It was 9:38 PM and Kvon was reflecting on life. With just one day left of school, a huge chapter in Kvon's life was coming to a close.

He dusted off and old notebook he had, and found a list of goals. For the most part, he had accomplished them.

Ace the PSAT? Check.

Get into college? Check.

Kiss a girl? There was plenty of time left for that.

Find peace? Uhh...

Kvon's feud with Desi had taken a toll on his physical and mental health. He'd been fighting for so long... and then he wondered why.

Why was it that Kvon and Desi fought? No one seemed to know.

Kvon approached Desi with a peace offering. They sat and became great friends.

Then, as fate would have it, they went out on a date (as friends of course) and each ordered a scrumptious main course. Unfortunately, the waiter had poor eyesight and mistook Kvon for Desi and vice-versa.

Kvon's plate had pork and Desi's had beef.

As the Muslim and Hindu religions each respectively dictate, such a vile transgression would bring about their untimely death.

Kvon and Desi slowly melted away in each others arms, smiling, as for a beautiful brief moment they were friends. And then they died.

The end.

NOT MINE!

Five Reasons Not to Fall in Love With A Poet
- [d.a.s]

1. They will spend countless hours on the phone,

reciting things they wrote about you.

They will tell you “your eyes are an endless ocean

And your freckles are spattered constellations

I fell in love with you in Autumn

Because the leaves were the exact same shade as your hair.”

Don’t fall in love with poets because three hour long calls filled with lies waste money.

2. They treat “I love you”s like bandages and plaster,

They’ll pull it out as if it can fix broken bones and cure the flu.

But love is mostly just a word,

And while poets think words can heal you,

Most people have realized that words just hurt.

Don’t fall in love with poets because I love you doesn’t stop the bleeding when you cut yourself open.

3. They think there’s something sick inside us all,

So it doesn’t matter if you’re happy,

They’ll find a fissure and say

There. You’re broken. Let me fix you.

Don’t fall in love with poets because they’ll break you in order to try to fix themselves.

4. When you curl up in bed,

Your head resting gently on their chest,

You’ll find tears dripping from your curls and fingers on your cheek,

And they’ll ask you what happens if you die tomorrow?

Don’t fall in love with poets because they’re too busy with themselves to fuck you properly.

5. When you break up, you’ll become nothing more than three scribbled pages in their journal,

Living in sheets of paper and carbon-based ink

Instead of where you used to be, a body on their linen sheets,

As they wrote prose about the spaces in between your ribs.

Don’t fall in love with poets because they’ll write a poem about how much they miss you six months after they said It’s not you, it’s me, and they’ll cough it up on your doorstep, crumpled and torn, as if to say

There.

I'm sorry for all of the disappointments,

and for the shattered pieces of porcelain on the ground,

and the watermarks,

though I should have known. 

I'm sorry for the impossible demands

I'm sorry for the waxy birthday cake, 

I don't think any of us could have put the flames out fast enough. 

I'm sorry for the giant drawing on the wall that lion erasers were made for, 

for your shitty pumpkin soup that you put so much effort into,

but I thought was disgusting. 

I'm sorry for all the snot and my trumpet-borderline-elephant blows 

I'm sorry about all the pills, 

at the time I was only thinking about how they'd affect me,

and not you too

I'm sorry for all of the sorry's. 

i'm sorry for all of the things I've had to say sorry for. 

I'm sorry that I might not mean all of these sorry's, 

I wish I wasn't such a teenager. 

but not all the time. no, definitely not all the time. I especially don't think so when you're standing, or existing off in some corner and blabbering on to someone who may or may not care about what you're saying.

No, those are the times where you are definitely the least sexy. 

I think you're sexy when I can't see you, or when you're not here, and you have a faraway look on your face.
-when you haven't spoken a damn word.
-when there's a cold draft that fills the room during your absence. 

mmmm, yes. definitely sexy. 

I think i really need some sleep

I've become quite apalled at the dirtiness of my own feet lately. I don't care, really. About dirty feet. It's just that I see my own, and suddenly, I'm assaulted with memories of the times you and I would walk around and gather gravelstones and tears under the calluses of our feet, and of mothers who care too much about the shades of unclean they are, what the others might think.  
They're always so dirty now. 

It's been like this ever since I got back, which is odd.
I'll clean and clean, rub my feet and peel them raw, but I just take two steps, my bedsheets are gray, and I am in disgust at it all.
It feels to me like home is the filthiest place to be. 

I miss outdoors, and walking worries away, leaving them in the sand and sidewalk, amongst the bird shit and all of the other crap thats there, where it belongs. I liked dirty feet when it felt like it was supposed to, meant to be dirty. Not this actual, filthy dirty that feels wrong. And I swear, I swear I don't mind it on others, or anything like that, I really don't care, really, I really, really don't
like
dirty
feet.