If No One Heard It, Did It Happen?

If no one heard it, did it happen?

If a person cannot leave a mark, do they exist?

(The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab)

Proof of my existence:

I am my unmade bed

My week old unfolded laundry that was Fresh once

I am the disappointment in my mothers eyes

And the scars I have left on lovers and strangers

I am my clothes I have donated

And my compilation of pintrest boards the innocent scroller will accidentally stumble across

I am the the jokes I penciled into the walls of my middle school bathroom stall

I am the dust I leave behind

Dead skin cells, reminder that they were living once

I was living once

I had once had the pleasure of laying my palm against the surface of something tangible and it felt the contact as much as I did

I am the peices of myself I have left scattered in the people I have let hold me

Long enough for parts of me to become caught under their fingernails and in their eyelashes

I am not my mistakes

But I am their consequences

I am shrapnel scars left by the promises I shattered

I am the pastries I have bought

My coin accumulating into something greater than it once was

And in that small way I make someone's dream a reality

And in that small way I am immortalized

I am the corners of novel pages I have folded

And the sentences I have left highlighted and the notes I have scrawled in its margins

I am the half finished stories I wrote in the 6th grade

I am my poetry

And the things I have discarded

I am my clouded breath dancing on the cold wind momentarily before dissipating

As it becomes one with the ether forever adrift

And in that small way I am immortalized

I am my embarrassing childhood photographs

I am the energy you spent on me and the time you wasted on us

I am the things I have created but perhaps more the absence left in the wake of the things I have destroyed

I am the stains I have left and the sins I have committed

Out of spite, out of desperation, frivolously or unwittingly.

I am the way my name burns yours tounge when your mouth tries to wrap itself around its pronunciation and the scalding memories

I am

I was

here.

I wonder who I could have become if I had been loved.

S o m a t i c R i t u a l

Wait until it is raining. By raining I mean pouring. I heard once, that a sign that your repentance has been accepted is rain. A gift. So go outside and let yourself be drenched in forgiveness. Wait until the mercy seeps into your bones and into your socks. Look up and inhale the possibility of the person you could become absolved of sin. Run your fingers through your hair and savour the knots, the barriers to perfection. Exhale your guilt and run away so you do not run the risk of inhaling it again. Keep running. Down the street. Down the path that takes you anywhere but here. Anywhere but where you started. Until your fingertips are numb and your chest is warm. Run your fingers over your lips and ache as your breath heats the cold of your palms. This is about contradiction. About oxymorons. About how opposition exists in your own body.

Look up at the grey of sky and ask it if mercy is a gift if you must beg for it, make sure there is no malice in your words if you want the clouds to listen. Think about why you are sorry and repeat the words to every puddle you pass until they mean nothing. They are just words. Excuses. Say them until your voice is hoarse and you are tiered. Do not come back until you are tiered. This is important. Trudge home in your wet clothes and soaked soul. Listen to nothing but your heartbeat. Listen to your heartbeat. Listen to your heartbeat. To nothing but your heartbeat. If someone stops you or looks at you oddly or asks you what you are doing or asks you if you are okay, remember their face. Remember their words and the way their life flickers in their irises. Remember them so you can include them in your poem so they can be forgiven too.

Wring out your sleeves and heartstring at the door. Politely decline the droplets offer of redemption. It's rude to decline a gift. But is mercy a gift if you must ask for it? And what does a sinner care about being polite. Go upstairs and crawl under your covers. It is okay if your bedsheets become damp. Take this as a practice in being grateful. You can apologize to your blankets later. Thank them for their sacrifice. Take a nap and dream of your sins. And when you wake write about the promises you have broken and the mistakes you have made and all the terrible things you have ever done. On the other side of the paper, write a letter to yourself about being deserving of second chances. Change your bedsheets and strip yourself of your guilty garments. Put them in the wash. Take a shower. Let the remnants of your hate and sorrow wash down the drain. You have paid for your sins, darling.

How many times can someone fall out of love?

Trick question.

No one ever really falls out of love.

Not all the way atleast.

For love is a shape shifter if I ever knew one.

.

I will die on this hill

And you will not know

Because you would have left

My heart at home.

So I become a peony.

The ground holds me kindly,

The same way she has cradled bones and buried teardrops,

Until I disintegrate into her embrace.

I will not be waiting for you when you come back for me.

.

The stars are all already ghosts.

And perhaps they are proof that there is a life after this one in which beautiful things are possible.

That we might bring someone hope in their darkest moment even if we are too far gone to be bound by the gravity of holding someone's faith in our palms.

.

I have nothing to offer you but potential.

Do with it what you will.

I hope you will find a better use for it that I have.

The most reckless thing I ever did was forgive you.

Mostly because I couldn't help it.

.

Please, stay with me until I forget.

I am frightened.

I am

Scared.

I am really

Scared.

For freedom is lonely.

And regret a vicious companion

.

~I don't know what I mean but I hope you do (02.20.21.)

In another universe the sky is always pink and I didn't give up on you, in another universe I'm a better person and magic is real and in an another one we still walk around the streets at late night holding hands and in another, we are together

And are you not the most palatable anguish I have ever allowed myself to feast upon?

~Saturday Afternoon Reflections~