Finding Paris

I wish I could have gone to Paris this year. I watched from afar, though, and that's good enough for now. I'll be there for real someday. Soon, I hope.

But even though I wasn't all the way there, Paris still taught me. It taught me that beauty can be found wherever you care enough to look, and that I feel alive when I realize that just maybe I am beautiful, too. 

I learned that being in love is not always a good thing and that all the darkness in the world can be forgotten by just one ray of light. 

In Paris I wandered into places of death and even though I wanted to leave, I stayed because the death reminded me of the value of life. Your life and my life and his life and her life and our life. 

I found out that growing up isn't as glamorous as I was told it was, because when you don't know what comes next, it's really hard to be happy about it.

I realized that drowning in my tears never got me anywhere and that silence isn't always golden but it is precious.

I discovered that the words 'I love you' are the most powerful words ever spoken, along with 'goodbye' and 'thank you.' I learned that I'm not alone even when it feels like I am because Paris is full of people like me who just want to be seen and heard and known.

Paris showed me that poetry can hurt without trying and the scars on my heart are so much more painful than the ones I keep finding on my arms. 

In Paris I watched the rain from the balcony. I thought it was beautiful. And then decided that I'd rather go stand in it, dance in it, shout my spirit to the world in it, and I did and was much happier.

I tried running away from everything that made me feel uncomfortable until I noticed that all my time was spent running. I didn't like that much, but it's hard to face your fears head on and sometimes it hurts, too.

I determined that I would remember the memories and savor the moments because they pass too quickly and are too easy to forget. The memories I miss the most are the ones I've forgotten.

And Paris revealed to me that everyone's Paris is just a little bit different, but everyone has one even if they don't always realize it. Don't miss out. The sun is setting in Paris, but you and me are destined, not to be revered, or to be powerful, but simply to be. Because the sun will rise again.

This Is Not A Love Poem

I thought we'd have more time. I thought if I just played the music it would become real. I thought if I ignored the pain it would go away. I thought so many things but I was wrong and now I can't sleep because of the words flashing through my head.

I hope I didn't annoy you and that you didn't think me too forward. Sometimes I think about the things I said to you and I wish I could disappear. You were always the one around to catch me talking to myself, and at first I didn't mind but now I do. I guess I was never meant for you anyway. 

Really I'm just confused. People told me white looked good on me, so I wore white. And the world said I should wear my heart on my sleeve, because after all, everyone else is doing it and I want to fit in... right? So I wore my heart on my sleeve, but it started bleeding where everyone could see it. That's the problem with these white shirts, I can't hide the bloodstains. That's why we wear black at funerals, you know. So you can't see our hearts bleeding as they break...

But I'm not talking about funerals, I'm talking about you, and halfway through this poem I realized I'm not writing about who I thought I was. Who am I kidding, this isn't even poetry. It's just words. Coming from a girl who drives home at 10:30 at night with the windows rolled down and her hands outstretched because she once thought she held the stars on her fingertips. A girl who keeps replaying those three songs because she can't forget and she can't let go. A girl with dirty, blistered feet because she danced like the devil was the judge. 

My emotions are running too high for me to think clearly anymore. My joints are stiff, my body painfully aware of its tired bones rubbing against each other, grinding themselves down to dust. I think I might fall apart if I'm not careful. But shouldn't I be too young to feel so old?

I'm just trying to find where I belong because I don't really know. But when I'm with you I feel like I belong somewhere. I know I'm an ugly crier but you looked past that and let me soak your shirt with my tears. 

It helped, but it still wasn't enough. I thought the church foyer would be empty. It wasn't. And still the tears find ways to slip out of my eyes late at night when I can't blame them on my contacts. But you still help me, except soon we'll both go our separate ways, and then where will I belong?

Ten more days, but I miss you already. 

How To Forget

Don't turn off the lights. Imagination runs more wild in the dark. When the lights go out, the memories flood in, and if you let that happen you won't ever escape them.

Don't close your eyes. Same principle. If you allow yourself to sleep, the nightmares will wake you up anyway. It may seem impossible but all it takes is focus. Focus on a tiny sound- the ticking of a clock or the whirring of an air vent. Concentrate on it as if losing your concentration means the end, because sometimes it does.

Avoid people, places, music, everything that reminds you. Sometimes everything does remind you. In that case, you simply have to become a recluse and take up knitting while you watch reruns of Star Trek and eat whatever happens to be in the pantry. It'll keep your mind off it.

Don't talk about it. Talking will only make you remember. Push it to the back of your mind and build walls of fake laughter and forced smiles around it. And if all these things fail and you still can't forget, you'll just have to find something else to break your heart instead. 

These methods work. Usually. The problem is that if you do this trying to forget the past, you'll forget yourself and end up losing the present as well. 

You never really forget. Even if you don't let yourself think about it again for the rest of your life, deep down inside you still remember, and there's nothing you can do to change that. The only way to forget is to realize that you can't. 

Light: Part I of Elysium

It's hard to find the light these days. 

Even though it's been a year and a half, I still use the peppermint soap that smells like Christmas and heartbreak because heaven needed an angel but it had to be her. I don't think heaven needs any more angels for a while. I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes, suspended on my lashes as they decide whether or not to fall, but nothing gold can stay and she was more golden than most.

And they fall. The salt of my tears stings my eyes, but it's a good kind of pain.

I'll never forget when I laid on her bed and fell asleep to the sound of her voice. I wish I'd gotten the chance to say goodbye. No, I had the chance. I wish I'd taken it.

Nine days later I was away from home and I smelled the lotion she always used. I almost started crying right there in the middle of Bath & Body Works. 

Last week I stepped into her room for the first time since she died. Even though there was still the blue and white bedspread, and the television, and the wooden board with the family birthdays written on it, it was empty because there was a wheelchair in the corner and the pillow my sister made for her was still lying on the bed. It felt like no one had been there in a while. The clock hasn't even been changed back to daylight standard time. I couldn't help my tears. I put some of that lotion on, too. It's still in the same spot on the counter in the kitchen. I don't think he has the heart to move it. It would feel like letting her go.

Every time I read the book she gave me I feel a little bit closer to her and to heaven because it's from 1937 and it smells like old pages and years of love. At least I kept the birthday cards from every year, so I won't forget how her spidery handwriting looked. I'm afraid I'm already forgetting the sound of her voice.

I went for a drive and turned up the music so I wouldn't have to think, because thinking means feeling and my heart is battered enough already, but turning the music up just made it worse. And I didn't want to go home but eventually I did.

If I were to die today, I would visit each of my friends and tell them how much they mean to me. I would take my family out to dinner and tell them I didn't really mean to go so soon. I would let them know that as hard as it sometimes is to believe, I really do love them. But in the end, I would drive to the overlook and watch as it got dark, and I would look out at the valley for as long as I could. And then at last I would join her and all the other angels I hope are waiting for me. 

Maybe there's some light after all.

What They Said: Part I of Voices

"Sit down and give up," they said;

she closed her eyes and listened.

And the dark crept in.

....

"You'll always be broken," they said;

she gave in and let herself sleep.

And the doubt crept in. 

....

"Nobody will protect you," they said;

she froze in helpless terror. 

And the fear crept in. 

....

"You'll never be good enough," they said;

she lost hope she'd ever smile again. 

And the guilt crept in. 

....

"You'll always be alone," they said;

her tears rained like blood. 

And the grief crept in. 

....

"No one could ever love you," they said;

a scream tore itself from her throat. 

And the pain crept in. 

....

....

....

....

"You're not perfect, you're loved," he said;

she hesitantly opened her eyes. 

And the hope crept in. 

....

"Broken can be beautiful," he said;

she started fighting the lies. 

And the peace crept in. 

....

"Don't doubt yourself," he said;

she thought she could smile again. 

And the trust crept in. 

....

"I'm still here for you," he said;

she decided to feel once more. 

And the love crept in. 

....

"I love you," she said;

his smile dried her tears. 

And the faith crept in. 

....

"I love you, too," he said;

she smiled back at him. 

And the light crept in. 

Labyrinth

I've spent my entire life in this labyrinth but I've never gotten lost because it's inside me. Inside my mind. I'm only lost if I want to be and the deeper I go into the maze the more I can hide myself. And I'm the only one who can get in and out. 

At first there's just a long hallway, with doors on either side. These are the shallow things- whether or not my room is clean, which clothes look good together. I probably spend more time here than I should.

When you reach the end of the hallway you'll have two choices. To the right you should see a door with the word 'secrets' scrawled across the top. I'd rather not let you in there right now, so take a left up the staircase to everything that is constantly on my mind. It's a long staircase. At the top is a semicircle of doors. There are five of them that you could explore. The door to the far left is Guilt. The sweatshirt that was never returned, the little white lies I told, all the promises I didn't keep. Behind the next door is Failures. In there are all the shows I was never cast in, all the scholarships I never received, all the goals I never reached. This door is reopened every time I add a new item to the list, which is much too often. 

To the right there are better things. The far right door is Comfort, everything that makes me feel confident about myself, such as friends I've made and compliments I've received. Next to it is Accomplishments: the good grades I've gotten, how my room is always clean, how I manage my time.

The door in the middle is Love. Behind it are two hallways. One slopes upward, the other down. The first one leads to a large room, very simply designed but tastefully decorated. Pictures of my family, immediate and extended, sit on the tables, while those of my friends adorn the walls. This is where I keep a record of every person I've ever loved, however briefly or deeply. Usually it isn't noticed, but there is a small closet to the side of the room. In there are all the living corpses of loved ones that will never stop haunting me. That door is kept under lock and key- opening it releases a flood of emotions I don't want to deal with. In the back of the larger room there is a door that leads to another hall on the right, and a staircase going down right ahead of you.

If you'd gone down the other hall, you'd have entered a huge ballroom that could have and would have been magnificent if not for the damage that has happened. This is my romance. The tapestries have been ripped to ribbon-like shreds and the wallpaper is faded and peeling. The high ceiling is cracked and looks like it will collapse inward at any given moment. And there are the chandeliers. Crystalline glass prisms that have crashed to the dull marble floor and shattered into hundreds of thousands of tiny fragments. Be careful not to cut your feet on the broken glass as you walk to the back of the room into another hallway. Right and up a staircase that leads you to a door ahead or another hallway on the left. No matter whether you take the upward or the downward hall initially, you'll still end up in the same place.

This hall is a long one, with lots of twists and turns and it's always getting longer, because the walls are lined with all my memories. I can see when I said my last goodbye to the family dog when I was five. I can read about how I felt like a princess when I learned to sing 'Silent Night' in German in the third grade. I can look at the outcast I was in fourth grade when we studied the medieval period. I can watch myself cry when I discovered we were moving, and recall all the schools I went to and all the friends I never had in elementary school. I can read what I wrote about the first day of seventh grade and the feeling of finally belonging after 12 years of isolation. I can remember having to leave that behind again to enter high school, and then I found a place here, too. I can watch myself die and be brought back to life better than I was before... I've relived all the sorrow and tears and pain as well as the laughter and joy and love. This hallway is one of my favorites to walk through because I can see in it everything that has created me. This hall is always getting longer as I make new memories, those of school dances and more hours spent at school than at home and becoming friends with my grandparents. 

At the end of this hallway is where I keep the essence of me. It's a library that started out small at first but has grown as I have become more and more human. There are shelves and shelves of books that hold my identity. Some of these books I've never even opened, unwilling to find out more about myself than I want to know. But there are others I read constantly. They tell me about who I am on a deeper level than most people will ever know. They tell me what helps me discover myself. They tell me where I turn when I need to escape. They tell me what heals me. This library is my sanctuary. Sometimes I let someone borrow a book or two or three, but I've never let anyone in before. I keep the library in the best condition I can. If my library is in order I can handle anything. Sometimes I lose it and my library faces the consequences, but I always set it to rights again, and then I cherish it even more than before. When I feel lost in life, I go to my library and then I don't feel so lost.

My mind is sort of like a labyrinth, but I'd guess it's a lot like yours. I've almost gotten lost inside my own mind, though, and it's time to leave. Time to retrace my steps back through the memories and love and stress to where I began. Thanks for coming with me.

Dear You,

I am inexplicably fixated by you. I am morbidly fascinated with you. I am gruesomely tempted by you. As expected, I'm also furious with you. Thinking about you makes me angry and afraid but also fills me with a sense of closure. 

I keep imagining your embrace. I think of going into your arms with my eyes closed and never opening them again. You are light and warmth and untroubled peace.

But I've seen what happens when people touch you. Or you touch them. I'm furious at you for touching the people I love and taking them away from me. Sometimes I'm ready to touch you and follow them. But usually not.

I know that eventually I'll have to touch you, and if you get impatient or think I'm taking too long, you'll just touch me and it will all be over. You'll touch me and I'll lose myself to you forever. I don't know when it will happen, only that it will. Until then, it doesn't make much sense to be afraid of you.

But I am anyway.

Love,

Midnight

Time Passes

Seconds

                      Minutes

                                   Hours

                                       DAYS

                                    Weeks

                                             Months

                                                                                 Y  e  a  r  s

It's been a lifetime since I entered the world as an outcast. Since I retreated into myself and my books and immersed myself in learning, and somewhere deep inside me I resigned myself to the very real possibility that I will forever be in this painful isolation. So long since I became me in a way that I never want to be me again. Since I started looking for the meaning of being alive, not just living.

Time passed.

It's been years since I was forced to pick up everything and move to another state. I always knew we wouldn't be there for very long and that just made me more and more... lonely. Haunted by the memory  of my once-friends saying they would write me every day. I never received a single letter.

Time passed. 

It's been months since I walked into the dim, white hospital room and said goodbye for the very last time. It was the last day of December and it was freezing outside, but it wasn't as cold as my heart was. Not even near that cold.

Time passed. 

It's been weeks since he put his arms around me and held my hand and held me close and my heart beat in my chest. For a moment I let myself hope, but then I had to remind myself that he was only putting on a show.

Time passes. 

It's been days since I laid on the grass and lifted my face to heaven and poured my heart out into the stream and felt loved and understood by the people who mean the most to me.

Time passes. 

It's been hours since I heard her crying and didn't know what to do, and I decided not to care about class so I could talk to her and feel like we were friends again.

Time passes. 

It's been minutes since I thought I might have been falling out of love.

Time passes. 

It's been seconds since---

But time still passes.