Love(d)

You welcomed yourself into my dreams last night.

You told me that you loved me.

We were in my bed, and your arms were wrapped around me

I could almost smell the woodwork of your skin.

You loved me so much that I never needed to love myself– you always loved me enough for the both of us. I’m still trying to learn the concept of self love,

I try to remember how much you loved me

in hopes of digging up some leftover love

for myself.

You told me that you would wait for me at the gates of heaven, but

I feel as if I had already died waiting for you at the front gates of my home.

I wish I could forget the thought of you,

but how could you teach someone to forget to think about

anything at all.

 

Saturdays, 2010-2014

The kitchen was always bright, either by your smile or the refrigerator light.

We used to sit on the floor of your kitchen, take each other in, and talked about our fears.

We always turned off the lights.

It was almost like living with a ghost in the house.

I remember Saturdays with you.

We spent hours in your room.

I laid in your bed watching you paint. You were an artist, an unfathomable person.

Each part of your soul was closed off to everyone you met, but me.

I explored your soul and your mind. Your mind was a maze of darkness that even you did not understand.

You were always afraid that they would take you away from me, I think that’s why I insisted on holding you close.

Saturdays were our days.

When your hands trailed my body under the moonlight, those were the nights of Saturday.

Saturday was the day I realized that I was in love with you.

The day I tattooed my heart on my wrist for you, placed my heart on a silver platter for you.

I wish I could relive those Saturdays; meet you again, introduce myself again, change the ending.

I hope you remember those Saturdays.

I hope you think of me on those sadder nights on Saturdays.

February 9, 2017 // 1:15 AM 

2 AM

I am afraid of falling asleep, I am afraid of bumping into you along the way. The feeling of your hips against mine is more than just a memory, and it’s still hard to believe that I will never hold you again. I’m worried that I will be this way forever. My writing is consumed by you, and I am sickened by it. I wish I had an easier time falling asleep. I wish I had someone’s arms around me right now. I am dancing with insomnia to the beat of my pen hitting the paper, writing about what it feels like to be alone.

Ghost Letters, p.1

Dear First Love,

I’ve realized that I’ve had trouble saying your name recently. Each time I do, I get the taste of blood in my mouth. I hope this doesn’t happen forever. I miss the taste of love on my tongue, speaking in tongues of praise. You, First Love, are the definition of a love not yet experienced. I wonder if you still think of me and the way you used to run your thumb across the palm of my hand while you held it, or the way you used to brush my hair with your fingers, cursing the day I cut it. You found comfort in calling me yours, in seeking a home within me; a safe-haven. Do you remember when you slept over for the last time? We watched a movie with the strangest plot. It was about man and a woman that find a brass teapot that gave money whenever they harmed themselves. We laid in my living room on the couch till late at night, quiet kisses in the dark. You fell to the ground on your knees and told me how much you loved me. You told me how amazing I am, how you couldn’t believe how lucky you were. You started crying. I didn’t know that this was you trying to say goodbye. It was different since then. The next month was when you ended things. I convinced you to stay with me. My friends held an intervention, saying that I was trying to hold on to something that wasn’t going anywhere. I should’ve believed them. So, you see, First Love, I can’t move on the way that you wish I had. I cannot forget everything that I had endured. I wish you had been more gentle with me. Maybe I wouldn’t still be here holding my heart in my pocket with everybody I meet. I wish you were still in my life. I just won’t admit that I miss you, or that I wished you miss me.

Love,

Your First Love

We lay in bed wide awake, hoping for a sign that we had a chance. Or at least that’s what your eyes said, at a glance. Your hands warm with the fire that burned my skin. You never stood a chance with the idea of romance. Now I sit in bed, alone in my head and I don’t want to talk anymore. I miss you a lot, and I don’t want to talk at all.

These lines were inspired by i miss you a lot (happy birthday) by flatsound. I found that this song truly covers nearly every emotion I have ever felt about him. I could not get this song out of my head for the longest time. I find that it contradicts everything that I feel, and everything that I say. At least that’s how I feel listening to it. I find that when somebody misses a person, or loves a person deeply, they can’t stop talking to them or about them. But in my case, I had loved a person so deeply, and missed them so painfully that I didn’t even want to talk anymore. I developed a silence that I could only express in writing. 

I can draw your room by memory. My hands can still follow your body. Each beauty spot, tan line and curve was worshiped by my own hand. You breath was uneasy. You told me you trust me and love me. Now your breath is still cold, and your body still holds as a place of worship, but my hands no longer transcribe the scripture of love from your breath.

I always come back to this moment we had shared. It’s the moment I knew I was in love with him. I knew I had loved him deeply, but this moment was special. I feel like I write about this moment profusely, and I continuously try to write about the same moment in a different form. This refers to the body being a temple of worship, but no longer holding me as the person of worship. I guess thinking about it now, I had an unhealthy mindset that my world did truly revolved around him. 

Last night I laid in bed listening to the rain fall. The verbatim of the drops on my window sounded like a knocking, asking me to come outside to enjoy the view of the fire being let up by the storm.

I was laying in bed one night, and for the first time in my life, I found comfort in the sound of thunder and rain. It was 3 a.m., and I thought about him outside my window. I had  imagined this as a sign that I never wanted. I recorded the audio of rain hitting my window, and had the urge to create something out of it. Create something from the sadness I felt in that moment. 

After 3 a.m., I spoke your name freely like a love poem. Your name absent in my sober thought and word. After 3 a.m., your name drunkenly spells out love on my tongue.

I found that I never talk about my ex openly unless I am drunk off insomnia. I find that when I give up the control on my mind, I start to speak about him in terms of love and devotion. My mind is always weak when I’m dancing with insomnia. 

Spring, 1999 (revised)

There is a house on the South Side of Chicago,

home to a four-year-old girl.

A house with a bright green lawn, freshly mowed,

and two large bushes in front.

You can often see flowers growing in the ground

underneath them.

The image of this house I completely contrary to the truth

 

This building was compiled of bricks, cement and large windows

and did not feel like home to my four-year-old self.

This building was made on a foundation of betrayal.

This was no home to me.

The mortar between the bricks is soft and eaten away

by insects; this house is falling,

sinking,

towards the ground—my home is no more.

 

My stocky black hair whips across my baby skin,

with tears heavy enough to drag me towards the ground.

The birds were singing again,

and the sun was hiding behind a cloud.

This weather signifies new beginnings, but this house

without the home of my father’s arms was the end of all.

My four-year-old self cries for her father, she wails for him,

asking why he cannot stay in this strange house with her.

Her father comforts her as she cries

 

We will be together soon, he says

 

Her delicate heart could not comprehend why

he must do this, why he has to leave. She was

trying to understand why her world must come to an end.

 

As he walked away, she listened to the heel-toe click of his footsteps,

and thought to the beat of his step

there’s no place like home

                        there’s no place like home

                                    there’s no place like home

Things I Wish I Didn’t Know

I wish I never knew what it feels like to have a broken heart.

How each bone in your body feels like it’s dragging as baggage.

How each portion of food you ate never really satisfied you.

I wish I never knew what it feels like to be discriminated against.

How the color of my skin determines how I walk this earth.

How being a woman labels me as a second class citizen;

a backseat passenger.

I wish I never knew what it feels like to miss a ghost.

How the wind blowing makes me think about the way you walked.

How the leaves changing colors makes me think about your heart changing beats.

I wish I never knew what it meant to live in the world in fear.

When I walk into a home on the first floor.

When I walk down the street, thinking about the person walking behind me.

I wish I never knew what it meant to be a woman without the right to her own body.

How my right to choose is criticized; my right to make my own decision.

How I am not allowed to walk the streets alone without the fear of getting sexually

assaulted.

I wish I never knew what your house looked like.

How the stairs going up to your room is right by the door, welcoming me in.

How the kitchen was always bright—either by your smile, or by the refrigerator light.

I wish I never knew what your lips felt like against my neck.

Your warm breath as you exhale.
Your hands gripping my waist, always pulling me closer.

I wish I never knew violence.

Those cries from the mothers, wives, children, fathers, brothers. They Can’t Breathe.

Those cell phones ringing in the silence of the Pulse club.

I wish I never knew that boys pick on the girl they like.

I wouldn’t have let you pick at my bones.

I wouldn’t have accepted that I was never enough for you