Duality Read online

  I must be missing my rib cage

  that protective armor that everybody else has.

  A physical cage

  to shield their vulnerable hearts.

  Because when others get stabbed in the chest

  they seem to shake off the shock

  and I’m the only one walking around

  with a river of blood trailing behind me.

  Soul Sisterhood:

  Sitting on the hardwood floors in the middle of the night

  Talking about nothing and everything like we knew anything at all.

  Saturday afternoons filled with laughter

  when they should be filled with studying.

  While everyone else makes a contest out of their stress,

  we make a contest out of bad puns and throwing sharp objects.

  Phone calls and cookie cake and losing the drinking games

  And realizing that these are the good old days

  that you’re living in right now.

  I’d like to think the woman at the well held her head high as she walked,

  Ignoring the whispers of “whore” and “disgrace.”

  She held her head high not for arrogance

  But because the alternative would have been to crumble

  Under the weight of their words

  Before she was washed by the very water she went to retrieve.

  There’s a reason that shattered ribs are the most painful injuries.

  They are supposed to protect the most vulnerable parts of ourselves.

  But they also block it and hide it away from those who can benefit from the beating of our hearts.

  And it’s only when we shatter the rib cage,

  Shatter the walls,

  Bleed through the pain,

  That we can see our hearts for what they truly are:

  Broken and bleeding and beautiful

  All at once.

  Too often it feels like a curse to feel things so deeply.

  A weight on my chest that will never lighten.

  But lately I’ve gotten tired of carrying that weight around.

  I’ve decided to put pressure on it,

  That heavy lump of coal that makes it hard to breathe.

  If I push enough,

  Push the curse of feeling too much,

  Push the guilt, the fear, the anger and emotion,

  Perhaps that weighted coal will start to glimmer like a diamond.

  And feeling too deeply will finally feel like a blessing

  Instead of a heavy curse.

  I have decided to make peace with this body of mine.

  I can’t even recall the first voice that told me I should hate her.

  There have been so many I’ve forgotten their names.

  Instead I’ll value at the dip over my waistband,

  For it means I can afford food.

  I’ll love the curves in places curves “shouldn’t” be,

  For it represents rebellion in all the best ways.

  And I’ll cherish the lumps and bumps

  For they mean I have lived and breathed and used this body well.

  How sad for those who think alone means lonely.

  They can’t see my thoughts swirling in my mind,

  Or feel the heat of my mug of coffee wrapped in my palms

  As I pen out my dreams.

  Alone but not lonely,

  Because I’m connected not only to people

  But to the salt of this earth.

  Sun on my skin,

  Grass on my toes.

  Alone and far from lonely

  Because I have stopped fearing the person in the mirror

  And instead have asked her how I can help,

  How I can treat her with the kindness she deserves.

  Those who think alone means lonely

  Have yet to befriend the deepest parts of themselves

  The parts that make “alone”

  Not so solitary.

  Sometimes I feel like I have no personality,

  That each iteration of me is just a reflection to my environment.

  A reaction to whoever I’m in the room with,

  Who I want to impress,

  Or who I want to be like.

  Other times I feel like my personality overwhelms me.

  I have too much of it, too much of me.

  Feelings and thoughts and expressions tumble together

  Into an indescribable mess of a person

  Who cannot define herself.

  Rarely do I simply feel like a person

  Instead of an extreme of a dual personality.

  Fruit

  If I learned anything in my time studying literature, it’s

  that fruit is sexy.

  Fruit often represents pleasure. Represents sex.

  Juicy plums and pomegranates that get plucked and

  stroked and tasted

  Are filled with more sensual imagery than any modern

  pornography.

  The poets of the Victorian era knew this.

  They wrote of women holding apples and melons,

  delicately plucking grapes.

  It’s enough to make you blush

  When you walk down the produce aisle in search of

  bananas.

  Fruit is sweet, a dessert, a gift to be enjoyed.

  There is nothing more satisfying than watermelon on a

  summer day

  Or a crisp apple in the midst of fall.

  There is nothing processed or manufactured about it,

  Yet, it remains wonderful.

  What is sexier than something created with care

  Whose only purpose is to bring joy to those who enjoy

  it?

  But what happens to fruit when it is tossed on the

  ground of the grocery store?

  What happens when bruises prick the skin of the apples

  and nectarines that were not handled delicately?

  What happens when someone thinks they know better

  And their fingertips break the skin of something fragile,

  Even if it thought it was strong?

  What happens when the fruit is not enjoyed because

  someone didn’t understand how they should treat it?

  What happens when it rots?

  Bright pinks and purples and reds and yellows grown

  dim and dark and brown and black. The colors that

  once meant love and joy turn into darkness and pain at

  the hand of another.

  Do you understand the metaphor yet like I understood

  my sophomore year of college

  When I watched a boy slip a hand under my sorority

  sister’s blouse

  After she’d already told him no?

  Told him she didn’t feel well,

  Told him she’d had more alcohol than she had planned.

  Do you understand that fruit is only delicious

  When the person handling it handles it with care?

  Otherwise it becomes squished underneath the too

  tight grasp,

  The lift pushed out of it without its consent?

  Ruined.

  Do you understand that we were supposed to enjoy the

  love that the Earth gave us in the form of round, red

  fruits

  And instead we are forcing them to rot with our

  inability to take the focus off

  ourselves?

  We blame the Earth, say it is not fertile enough,

  Its branches were asking for it,

  The fruit was dangling itself in front of me begging to be

  picked

  But figs picked too soon become figs forgotten.

  What do we do with rotten fruit?

  We throw it away.

  We put it in the garbage. We say “you are of no use to

  me anymore” even though it was a gift from the Earth

  A gift from the one who created the earth, who s
aid,

  “Eat all you want, aside from this one.”

  And we couldn’t even follow that one rule.

  We had to grab, take, dig our fingers into something

  that wasn’t ours.

  Decide that we were in charge.

  So when fruit wilts we wrinkle our nose,

  We say it is not our problem anymore.

  We throw it away with no second thought.

  But…there is another way.

  A harder way.

  You can plant it. Cover it in dirt. Let it sit in the mud.

  It is not a pretty afterlife, but it is one that brings new

  life.

  It lifts up the seeds of others,

  Lifts up the seeds that were deep inside itself

  The ones overlooked by all those who harmed it

  The ones that once came from something beautiful.

  Your beautiful self, which feels like an echo of a

  memory of a past life.

  But the seeds of it are still there.

  Still capable of life.

  Still capable to grow from the ground that you were

  pushed into.

  Still capable to thrive.

  We’re all born with a volume level set at 10.

  Screaming, crying, shouting our way into life and existence.

  But it doesn’t take long for someone to adjust the knobs.

  Not our loved ones,

  But the world that we are born into.

  Why is it that my volume is it an eight

  but her volume is at a three

  all because the color of her skin?

  Don’t they know she has important things to say?

  Stop hitting the down button.

  Stop punching “mute.”

  It’s hard to demand these things

  When the people in charge have been doing it for centuries.

  It is my job to lower my already high volume that I did not have to work to increase.

  It is my job to listen to the volume of black and brown voices

  That have been drowned out by the static of white supremacy

  For years and years.

  It is not my job to shout louder

  And claim I’m turning the knob for them instead.

  I hate the difficulty of healing.

  It cannot done by skill, by luck,

  By being the MVP or employee of the month.

  The only cure we’ve found for sure is the one we cannot craft.

  You can’t blog away the pain

  Or lift enough weights to create a new you,

  Creating art is healthier than getting drunk,

  But the pain is still messy, still unable to fit in a box that you can check off and move on from.

  Even the best grievers,

  The vulnerable ones, open with their hurt,

  Seeking help and giving themselves a break,

  Are still aching and wondering why,

  If they’re doing everything right,

  Does it still hurt

  So, so much?

  And at the end of a day you’ve packed to the brim with business

  As an attempt to distract and deplete any depression,

  You still have to lie in bed with yourself and you pain.

  Alone.

  Together.

  Healing takes time.

  It takes nights of staring at the ceiling

  Days of wishing for this moment a year from now.

  And lifetimes to accept that the only way to heal

  Is to live through your trauma.

  Day by day

  By day

  By day.

  To the friendships that have faded,

  Blurred with time past and miles driven,

  The ghost of your presence still lingers within me.

  To the ones I loved

  That taught me empathy and joy,

  I still check your Instagram to make sure you’re okay.

  To the ones I miss

  That I’ve typed and deleted text messages to,

  I’m not quite sure what to make of us anymore.

  And to the ones that hurt and harmed,

  And cut me down to the bone with sharp words and razor claws...

  Goodbye and good luck and good riddance to you too.

  I spent too much time thinking that you were worth any.

  Some pain will break you into a million pieces.

  Scatter your soul and crack open the depth of your character.

  As you sit among the destruction, numb and desperate to curl into yourself and give up,

  Because not even you know who you are anymore.

  But honey, you must rise.

  Rise from the shock, for it will make you wise.

  Rise from the shame, for it will keep you humble,

  Rise from the hurt, because it will mold your heart into a lion’s.

  After all, when you’re shattered on the floor,

  The only way to move is up.

  And you can either be dragged to your feet with angry grumbling

  Or rise like a phoenix from the ashes of your old self.

  This man is so beautiful.

  He takes darkness and makes it deeper,

  Turning a color that should be nothingness into a rich night sky

  Where his eyes are stars shining amidst it.

  He takes sadness and makes it art

  A hollow heart beating to melody of an unknown catharsis

  Of unknown, potential hope.

  He is beautiful because he has been fighting demons

  That arrived when he was nine and never left.

  He hasn’t yet learned how to force them out

  Or maybe he has. Saying is always easier than doing

  And murdering the metaphors that plague his soul

  Is still too hard, no matter how strong he looks.

  He is beautiful not because of the way his hair falls in his eyes

  Or how his hands grip a glass.

  He is beautiful because he is surviving amidst his darkness.

  He is beautiful because he is finally starting to believe that he can.

  You, sir, are beautiful.

  Look how far you’ve come from the depths of your darkness.

  The journey you’ve traveled that was misunderstood by others

  Looked down upon by toxic masculinity

  Has brought closer to a place of peace.

  Keep going.

  Once upon a time

  I burned the pages of my fairytale books

  And decided to build my own outside the spines of books

  By growing a spine myself.

  Forgiving them will mend the soul.

  But I’m not there yet.

  I’m not whole.

  Let the light be warm,

  A small halo,

  A circle of yellow and a small audience,

  Because the truth is rarely as popular as pretty lies.

  But the people who bought tickets to the best show in town

  Are not in the back getting drinks

  Or on their phones at the table.

  They are listening, hungry to hear,

  Focused on the small spotlight

  Rather than the neons of distraction outside.

  Please fall in love with me.

  I will fill notebooks with words about your hands,

  How your eyes crinkle at the corners when you smile.

  I will kiss you good morning whether sunlight streams

  through the curtains

  Or rain falls on the roof above.

  I will ask about your day and listen while you tell me

  That Karen is still an idiot,

  But at least everyone else knows it too.

  I will send you pictures from the internet that remind

  me of you,

  Of us,

  Of inside jokes.

  Please fall in love with me.

  Because I am already in love with you.r />
  I have been conditioned to believe

  That if I’m not working my ass off,

  Losing sleep, drinking coffee for meals,

  And on the verge of a breakdown of burnout...

  Then I am lazy,

  Entitled,

  And deserve nothing.

  These lies will burn out an entire generation

  Moments after their matches are lit

  And before we can bring light

  To the wrongness of these norms.

  Shaky

  For as long as I can remember, I have hated my voice.

  For the bulk of my life it’s been a Russian roulette

  Of if I sound like I’m about to cry,

  And in turn self-sabotage any authority I have in front

  of others.

  When I stood in front of my tenth graders on their first

  day of sophomore year and my first day of teaching, I

  could barely get a word out.