oxytocin

clocks that work
smiles that are genuine

i lower my head
and concentrate
on the discomfort
around my right temple

tea

it’s not quite doing the trick,
but i drink it anyway
because i’ve told myself
that it will work.

i talked about my father today.

i drank with him two weeks ago.

my forehead.
the discomfort has moved there now.
i’m still drinking the tea.

oxytocin.
one person.
a friend.

i still can’t believe my mother is dead.
life is a shit hole.

i don’t have enough money to get out of it yet,
but i dream about the days when i will be out

up

away

smiling.

there will be pictures
and languages,
i will feel good.

when i’m not away,
i’ll do work that i love.
i will not dread each day as it begins

and in all this loving and seeing
and colour,
maybe i’ll find a clock that works
and smiles that are genuine
from one person.
a friend.

Because breathing is all I can do, I exhale and inhale through my tears, forcing myself not to think because combining problems won’t fix any of them and let’s not make this cry about everything wrong in my life. She is gone. It is unbelievable, but she is. And you did get lost today because you didn’t get enough sleep and you felt like a failure and you wanted attention from somewhere and couldn’t get it. Because the internet is not a person and notifications aren’t hugs.

It is okay that you forgot your class, because messing up five percent of your grade will not prove detrimental to your future or your well-being. You feel like you can’t keep track of everything at work, but it’s not your fault the office is understaffed and you are human. Please don’t beat yourself up.

She is gone, my love. And she loved you while she was here with all she had. Do the same, to yourself.

Please.

Love your body. It is the only one you have.

Floating on Emptiness

I pound against the doors of time
And beg them to release me.
Why did they lock me in here
When did they lock me in here
When will I be let go

Into the darkness
From whence I came –
Free from memories
And want
And love
And hurt
And desperation.

I float on my emptiness
And wait to be swallowed up
By this great vacancy
Which I’ve been allowed to occupy.

I wrestle with my ambitions
And my knowledge
And I fight and give up
Side by side.

“What’s the use?”
I ask myself.
“There will be nothing
When this is over
The same way there was nothing before.”

I release my breath
And sink into myself.
“Endure,” I say
“It will all be over soon.”

Awake

It’s death again, and my life, and what I’m to do with it. My long distance relationship and when and how I’ll find out what love is. How long I’ll live. How long my father will live. How things were before I was here. How they will change after. Why I was even born in the first place. Why I am being made to deal with this. Why there isn’t forever. Whether or not there really is anything afterwards. 

It’s 3:47 am and I’m awake thinking about these things, the same way I do any other time I’m awake. 

Fulfillment, success, happiness. Will I be one of the lucky ones who get to have these things? Or will I be one of the sad ones who never figure anything out, spending their whole lives searching for answers only to not find anything at all?

How many more years until I come to any sort of conclusion? 

15 Hours Before Now

Sometimes I remember again.

The thought enters my mind
and I hold on to it
instead of allowing it to pass.

For a second,
maybe three,
time speeds across my eyes.

My heart sinks.
It feels as if someone has tugged hard
on a string attached to it,
the way a truck driver would
sound his horn.

My body follows suit, quickly descending
as if it is being pulled into a well of water,
but just before my nostrils
go beneath the surface

I stop.

I mentally shake my head.
I throw the thought away.
I have to,
otherwise this paralysing fear
will spread through my being.

I release the breath
I had sucked in
three seconds before.

I sit upright.
I take another breath
and release it.

This is unproductive.
It will do me no good.
I will eventually die.
I don’t know when.
I cannot change this.
I will never be able to.

Continue to breathe.
Leave death alone.
It will come in due time.

Do not ask questions.
There is no one to tell you
why you were put here.

For now go home and sleep.
You have a long day tomorrow.

womanwater

Waves rush
To lap at my shores.
I run, wanting
Not to be eroded –
My hard shell
So long in the making.

I am overtaken;
My airways suddenly
Blocked with grief
And regret.

I search myself
For answers,
A way out;
There is nothing
But paralysing fear.

My feet kick,
My arms flail,
I lash my head
From side to side.
My locks weave around my face.

This is it,
I tell myself.
This is the end
I always knew would come.

My limbs grow tired.
They stop their resistance.
I try again
For one last breath –
There is nothing.
I focus my eyes
On the sun
Far above the surface.
I look
Until I can no longer see.

Cheers

Here’s to being alive and wondering what part you are supposed to play in the grand scheme of things – if you even do have a part to play, if you will make any impact at all.

Here’s to wondering why you never had a say in this whole being alive thing – why you never got to choose and how it was all just done to you, without your knowledge and without your consent.

Here’s to being scared of what will come afterwards, wishing you had some idea because it’s the not knowing that makes you afraid – not knowing when, not knowing how, not knowing anything at all, except that it is inevitable.

Dry

It’s dry – the fish and rice I’m having for lunch. The same way my eyes were last night, even though I begged and begged and summoned and summoned. My tears never made their way out. I was left to face my demons myself, without the aid of my tears to drown them out, or help me float away.

It’s dry – going down my throat. The same way the message of my mother’s death was. I had already known it was coming. There was nothing to be done.

It’s dry – like the air in Jamaica. I wish I could go back there. I wish I was there now.

 

A short poem I wrote yesterday.

God and Home

I’m going through the 108 drafts I have. I’ve deleted about three so far, some I’ve left as they are. This one I don’t know why I didn’t publish. I wrote it while I was in Jamaica in October after my mother died. It really looks fine. I don’t know why I didn’t publish it.

Let’s get writing shall we?

Firstly I stink. I’m sitting with my legs folded and I need a shower. I thought I wouldn’t be needing one for a while since I didn’t shower early yesterday.

Secondly, I’m home, except I don’t really think so anymore because my mother is not here. I found myself saying that I want to go home a few times recently and I realised that I don’t usually refer to America as home. I started to correct myself, but then I thought maybe I have to call it home now. I thought of Jamaica as home because my mother  was here, and she had always been my home. Always. But now she isn’t anymore. She isn’t anything anymore, just a part of my mind. She’s a memory.

I’m listening to music that is perfect right now. Perfect for my mood, perfect for what I’m writing. Perfect in its sound.

My father should be coming today. He didn’t tell me when, which is strange. Is he not coming today? Is he coming tomorrow? Wouldn’t he have told me what time he was to get here? Damn. K bought a dress for me that doesn’t have sleeves. I didn’t ask daddy to bring anything for me. I’m going to have to buy something. I didn’t want to do that. I can just buy a cheap pair of shoes right? But he’s definitely coming today since B called. He must have spoken to him.

Today is mommy’s wake. Stupid word. She isn’t going to wake up. It’s Friday today. Her wake is going to be on the Sabbath. God probably doesn’t like that. He has many reasons to kill me. Whatever.

I think I love M. Really. He probably loves me more, but I do think I love him. How can I not? Not that I have a lot of others to compare him to, but I think he’s the one. The one? I don’t know, but I don’t want it to be anyone else. I don’t want to spend time getting to know someone else and letting someone else get to know me.

I can smell that dumb blouse M was telling me about. Damn it stinks.

I really wish people would stop asking me how my mother died though. I don’t like repeating it. I’m tired.

T told me about God last night. I thought that was really strange coming from her. She is tattooed, smokes weed, and swears. I don’t think she goes to church either. But she was telling me about nothing being too big or small for God and saying that we can’t do it by ourselves. I didn’t get it. I didn’t think God could be inside a person like that. But He is. She said He made me perfect. M said He isn’t wicked. But I can have an opinion right?

Whatever I think He’s still God.