molting

There are days

I’d rather sit in silence

than talk about our problems

than talk about our days

I go silent

I’ve always been

floating in and out of people

in and out of obscurity

of consciousness

It’s like I’m molting

the way I completely change

when I drift in and out of

people

obscurity

consciousness

but I’m not so sure anyone else notices

because they’re busy wondering

where I am

because I disappear

for months at a time

only to come back to say

hey

how’ve you been

it’s been a while

and repeat.

a diner on a Wednesday at midnight

They sat across from each other in a vacant diner at midnight, high out of their minds, and pancakes in front of them. The pancakes, had the couple been sober, were bad. They sucked. No one comes here and orders the pancakes, especially not in the middle of the night. But to them, two stoned 21-year-olds, they were the best pancakes they’d ever had.

The man, tall, about six foot, unshaven, stomach just about reaching the table in front of him from where he sat back on the booth, made a joke about the pancakes and the woman, despite her best efforts, laughed. She didn’t think the joke was funny, in fact it might’ve even been the worst joke she’d ever heard, but she had the social obligation to act like she cared about him.

And he thought she cared. He was so certain that she cared because he lied so flawlessly whenever she came close to catching him. He was so convinced no one would ever catch his lies; he’s been doing it his whole life, at this point change his name to Lyin’ Brian. And she didn’t want to believe he would deceive her like he did. He was so nice, and so caring, how could someone be so heartless?

So, she had her suspicions and he had his bad jokes, and together they had bad decisions. They both thought they were made for each other, how silly that seems to them now. Because when it came down to it, she could only manage a laugh with him when she smoked, and he could only exist in the world when he did. And what kind of life is that?

a man who cared for everyone but himself

I once knew a man who cared for everyone but himself. He would walk to the ends of the earth for his friends, but he wouldn’t do a thing for himself. And people tried to make him care about himself, I tried to make him care, but it was hopeless. I wasn’t sure he knew how to care for himself and that made me sad. And he couldn’t wrap his head around how that made me sad, and I never expected him to because I knew how he was.

He was selfless and he thought that made him good. But he would drink his problems away and couldn’t understand how that hurt me, too. He would invite me over to watch over him while he drank and I tried to get him to stop, but it was no use trying because he did what he wanted and he would never listen to me if the advice was about his own safety.

And I cared for him. I cared for him more than I’d ever cared for anyone. And he knew that, or at least he knew part of that. I cared for him because he was good. He had good intentions, at least usually or when it came to his friends.

And I tried for so long to write something for him, but I could never get it right. Because it’s all so complex and I could never put it all into words. Maybe if I was given more words, I could explain what it is I feel for him. But for now, I’ll say I care.

important

Eloquent, but not with you.

I could never tell you how

much you meant to me or

how much I love to see you.

With you, I’m distracted by

your eloquence and the way

you carry yourself like you

matter. And you do, and it

distracts me. I’ve never met

someone who matters like

you do. And I think it scares

me how little you know how

important you are. And you

are so

very

important.

You spoke and I listened

You spoke

and I listened.

I talked, too

but you only heard

what you wanted.

You heard me when

I was disinterested

and when I was upset,

but you didn’t hear

the love I had for you

and all the admiration

I once felt

for you.

And it’s still there

but you never wanted that,

did you?

the man who talked like everyone was listening

I met a man once who talked like everyone was listening. He had straight brown hair and big brown eyes. And when he spoke, people listened. And I listened, too, but I didn’t want to. He looked at me one day like he was seeing me for the first time.

From then on, he talked to me like I was always listening. And I still didn’t want to, but how could you not? And I was young, only just eighteen. He was twenty and didn’t once think about his future. He would talk to me and I would listen.

He told me about how he got his license taken away and I ignored the red flag. He lived ten minutes away and I would pick him up in my old, beat-up Saturn. And one night specifically I remember we were out late after work, somewhere between 11 pm and 1 am. And we were at the convenience store down the street from his house and I still didn’t realize he was trouble when he went out of his way to go into a full-blown politics talk with a stranger who stood outside the convenience store the whole time we were there.

I remember overhearing the stranger say to him, “Who’s piece of shit ride is this?” and he said it was his friend’s car. I laughed at the time, but I remember thinking I wish we were more than that. And I can’t believe I ever wanted that.

This twenty-year-old actor who only wanted one thing and he got that from me, and he cared for a week or so, but then ghosted. And this eighteen-year-old unsure of their place in the world let him take whatever he wanted because it was summer and that’s what you do when you’re eighteen in the summer.

And at the time I remember I didn’t think he was taking advantage of me because I wanted it, too. But really, I just wanted to feel like I mattered.

Okay again

It was the smell of spring that brought me back,

it was the heat radiating off the gravel.

It was the first time I remembered how to smile

after my final breakdown last winter.

It was the feeling of knowing things will work out

despite not knowing how to get there.

It was the relief after the weight in my chest lifted,

I’ll be okay and nothing can stop that.

Goals in writing

I’ve had this goal since I was seven. Who can say that? I’ve wanted the same thing since I was in the second grade. And some days it feels like I’m barely any closer than I was back then. Of course, that’s not true. I’ve started and scrapped countless novels that just didn’t work or had some flaw or I got bored of. And every time I scrap a novel, I feel like I’m back in second grade again, the only book I finished being one I wrote about the boys in my class. It was three pages long and in the end they all turned into vampires. It seems that ever since then, I haven’t been able to finish anything but a poem. And half the time those don’t even feel finished.

But it’s fine, I tell myself. I’m only 22. There’s still time to write a full-length novel. I should cut myself some slack, writing a book is hard work. It takes years for most people to finish a book, and not to mention I’m still in school. And there was a point where I was going to give up writing altogether. Which now seems insane to me. When I’m writing is mostly the only time I ever feel like I’m truly accomplishing something, like I’m genuinely happy. And I wouldn’t give that up for anything.

Assumptions

Sometimes when I’m pouring my coffee, I like to imagine I’m a server at a small diner in the middle of nowhere. I’m getting that table of four their coffee first thing in the morning. They’ve clearly been up all night. Their rugged attire and laid-back attitudes had me assuming they’re musicians. No one around here had ever seen them before.

I brought them their coffee and asked if they were ready to order. The one wearing a leather jacket and smelled strongly of cigarettes turned to me with a flirtatious smile, I made another assumption that he was their lead singer.

“We’re ready.” He said kindly. I couldn’t make out his accent, but he definitely wasn’t from around here. It sounded southern. But this was upstate Maine, three hours from the nearest city.

I took their orders and their accents became more prominent. It was southern, no doubt. Maybe Kentucky or maybe Texas. I asked where they were from.

“I thought you’d never ask.” The charismatic lead singer said with a grin much too big. I didn’t trust him. He reminded me of my ex who would go on vacations with his friends and come back with more notches on his bedpost. I know it was unfair of me to assume this of him, but when you’ve been burnt like I have, it’s hard not to.

It was early. We had just opened. The rush hadn’t yet begun. Around here, the rush doesn’t start until 8. The table of four were the only ones in here besides a few older folks at the bar.

I watched the table of musicians talk among themselves. The radio being right next to me, I couldn’t make out what they were saying. All I could hear was melodies and an off-tune voice. I realized I never knew if they were musicians. I just assumed. I always assume. It’s how I stay safe.


This is just a little fictional piece I thought of this morning while making coffee, based on my bad habit of assuming things of people before I get to know them.

dysfunctional

I felt a wide variety of things that night,

drove home with a smile on my face but

a sinking feeling in my stomach that told

me to run. This was nothing but bad news

and I knew it. And I was sick of how many

times this had happened. And I was sick

of always letting it happen. But on I went

to make another bad decision. And the only

conclusion I can come to with all this is I

like being upset. Is that why I stay? Is that

why I can’t seem to let you go? Because I

like being sad? Or is it because I’m hoping

you’ll change? Or I’m hoping I’ll change you.

Or I’m hoping someday we end up working

and we can laugh and roll our eyes at all the

pain we put each other through. But I don’t

want that. I don’t want you. I just want pain.

So I guess I want you.