The Best Day of My Life

It was the worst day of my life when I abandoned you

 

I am 16 years old.

I am sitting next to him but I wish that I was across from him,

Because then we could admit that

This discussion is really an intervention, me asking the questions and him,

With nothing but an ultimatum.

How did we get here?

Friends who sit in class and share sandwiches

Making jokes that no one else seems to get

Or running across the train tracks in the dark,

Knowing the chances of a train coming are so slim

But hey, if it does, I’ll make sure you make it safely to the other side

 

To the other side. Would it really be so bad?

Yes.

I can’t go on much longer,

You have to try

I have nothing left to live for; I want to kill myself

Please don’t. I won’t let you

Over and over like a vinyl record all scratched and bent

But we play it anyway. Until the words we are singing no longer have meaning

And he has memorized every note. He knows my lines by heart

He corrects me when I get them wrong

And I am so tired, of being those lines

That one miniscule little thread

That is keeping him here.

 

It was the worst day of my life when I abandoned you

 

The bruises on his face grew like flowers in bloom,

Day by day, slowly his body was becoming

A garden of blue and yellow

When I finally uprooted him and replanted him

Next to me, I thought he would grow big and strong

But I was wrong.

I am not a nurse

I have no medical training at all

But I lived my life in the emergency room

I spent every minute of every day worrying

Thinking of new ways to save you

My pager constantly going off

Telling me it was time to give you your medicine

Your prescription of me

But there is only so much of myself that I can give before I am empty

 

It was the worst day of my life when I abandoned you

 

Time can be so slow when it wants to be

Every day feels longer than the one before

Every time we play that broken record

Would it really be so bad?

Yes.

I can’t go on much longer,

You have to try

I have nothing left to live for; I want to kill myself

Please don’t. I won’t let you do that.

 

 

I can’t go on much longer,

You have to try

I have nothing left to live for; I want to kill myself

Then do.

Because every day that you don’t

The blood on my hands turns thicker

The hole in my chest grows wider

And I see no way out

Because I keep trying and trying to make you better

But the cure is not inside of me it is inside

Of you

 

I am 18 years old.

There is a girl I often see in the mirror

She looks like me

But I do not know her

 

It was the worst day of my life when I abandoned you

But I promise to give you everything I have now

These bruises and scars will heal. This pain will heal.

You are going to live

I Hardly Ever Smoke

I hardly ever smoke.

But when I do, it is because I can’t stand to feel my own heightened breath barrel through my lungs without a direction or purpose for one moment longer. My body is not a pinball machine, but my pulse tends to jump at the chance to play.

It will be because my heart is aching for something that I have never experienced…or maybe I did…long ago. In a dream. Like seeing a color you have no name for. Sometimes I almost think I see that color in you, but what if instead, it is a disappointing violet, mauve or lavender hue?

It will be because I have writers block and am stuck on the blank page of my life; scribbling, crossing out, scribbling, crossing out. The most avid readers hang on my every move, desperate to know the ending. Me too.

It could be because I haven’t spoken to the moon in a while and I have a great deal of questions to ask. My “Dear Abby” letters are all addressed “Dear Universe” and almost always end with the same question. The question of whether it even matters at all.

It’s usually just because I feel small.

I hardly ever smoke. But sometimes, on the precipice of life, between the corners of the moon and the colors, on the edges of the pages or lost in the ocean of the universe,

I might step out for a moment

and breathe some fire back into me.

Twelve

The nostalgia comes in waves. Less and less frequently as time goes on, but still they come. I will pass a stranger, that smells like you- or hear a song we used to listen to, or a friend will make that same joke you would and I feel everything, all at once. The wave takes my entire body, rocks through it with the force of the memories and love and adoration and heartbreak. And then it is gone. Time is so constant; it is almost abrasive. It carries us forward, whether we want to go or not. But the subconscious memories of our deepest feelings- those have the power to take us back- if only for a moment. They are the photographs and keepsakes of our lives; a rumpled postcard from the past saying “wish you were here”. And for a moment, and only for a moment, I wish I was too.

Eleven

Fortune cookies and horoscopes and internet quizzes asking “what color is your soul?” are all just excuses to find what we want to see in ourselves. They only exist because the human experience of living life without really seeing how others perceive you is difficult. We are the artist that molds and shapes the person we choose to be, but how can we be sure that this arm, this leg, looks the way I want it to? It’s a giant game of charades- we act out the clues in the hopes that someone, anyone out there will see who we are trying to be and accept that as our reality. We seek the predictions and read between the lines but we only read in the identity  we want to. Because an artist does not want to be told that their starry night is really nothing more than a blur of blue.

Ten

Empathy is a very curious thing. Sympathy- a feeling of understanding or appreciating the life experiences of another individual- this is a very human quality. Sympathy is the ability of one individual to look at another, and see a mirror reflection. Empathy, is not simply understanding. Empathy is the embodiment of another’s life experience– looking at a mirror and stepping through to the other side. Empathy is not a human trait; it is a borrowed peculiarity from something far more divine.

Nine

Sometimes it seems to me that I am in an abusive relationship with my femininity. Being a woman is magical, ethereal and beautiful. I willingly and full heartedly subscribe to the soft strength, the beautiful wisdom, the unspoken comradery that is womanhood. But I also feel deeply that I do not adequately fulfill my role as the lovely, angelic nymph. It almost feels sometimes as though I am trying to live my life as the unicorn I know I am, while being told by society that I am nothing but a horse.

Eight

Take me somewhere high. Let me climb to the top of the mountain, to the top of the stairs. Let me crawl out onto the roof, up into the tree. Help pull me higher, up to the summit, to the apex of the world. Then, step back, let me breathe. It is between the endless depths of the sky and the distant ground below that I find peace. It is within this open space, this empty nothing, that I find myself most full.