Well. I did it. I wrote something every day for a year.
Some of it sucks. Some of it I’m embarrassed by. Not just the writing but the content: my actions, my thoughts, the way I used to feel. But who knows? Maybe I’ll think the same way another year from now.
It’s for that reason I’m not quitting. I made a spinoff blog if anyone is interested in following it: codicillary. I’m not going to update every day, but I will when I write something that I think is worth posting, and if you’re by some miracle not sick of my ramblings you can keep reading any or all of it.
Thank you so much for the time you’ve put into reading my pet projects, strangers and friends alike. It really means a lot to me that anyone thinks my writing is worth reading.
I. something changed in August. I realized
that I had moved out of that dorm and I wasn’t tied
to things that had happened a year past
and that I didn’t ever have to walk the blue-painted walls
of that house again, tempting sin and giving in
when bottle caps fell to the floor like clothes. I realized
that college was supposed to be fun but everything I did
made me miserable.
II. so I pulled the plug. the wheels stopped turning
and I stopped moving, stopped going out,
started studying becoming a social recluse.
the one thing I did was get a glamorous job at a dining court,
no expectations, but minimum wage is worth more than you’d think.
I’ve never really had a taste for pizza but
they assigned Pete and I to the Italian station and things got kind of
he made me nervous but for once I didn’t
hide under my makeup and bat my eyes across a dark room. I just tried to be me.
he still makes me happy.
III. even with him some days I still felt like collapsing,
a bright star going supernova suddenly,
burning out and bringing everyone into a black hole.
and I knew why. I was living in someone else’s skin,
trying to fit myself to the engineering mold,
the life my father had crafted before my wary eyes.
The courage to disappoint someone who means so much to you
isn’t courage at all, but a cocktail two parts adrenaline,
one part quiet desperation, anxiety-driven.
IV. I won’t tell you
that everything is perfect. life is not
a romantic comedy and nothing ever wraps up as nicely
as Hollywood pretends. but when I look back at where I was
last February, I’m sorry for the girl I used to be.
I look in the mirror and I like the new me.
honestly, this was never meant to tell a story
but if you’re reading this, thanks again.
you stuck with me until the end.
after a while, I wasn’t really sure
where this was going anymore, just that
it was something I had to do. her words
petered out and mine dwindled down
to obsessive repetition, a song on repeat for so long
you don’t even hear the middle anymore,
just the kickstart as lyrics loop, and the occasional
that maybe I should get up
and turn it off.
the beginning: a class gone too long,
a fight cut too short to express
the way my chest felt like I had been bottled up
and the way I was left shaken until I had to pour
it all out onto a page. a lifeline: stay alive,
stay alive for me. the way pulling on each word
felt like stripping nerves from this fevered body,
like if I wrote about it I wouldn’t feel anymore.
the aftermath of abuse, self-prescribed therapy
to unwind everything I kept locked tight inside of me.
*italicized line stolen from truce by twenty one pilots, who, again, are a bomb band and you should go listen to them or else this hungry polar bear will maul your left hand.
i’m sorry is the flipside to i love you,
muted blues to fiery orange-red. both are
too short, too shallow to hold
the depth of emotion contained in such
few letters. they both are supposed to mean
so much but sometimes
it’s not enough.
everything about you is animal.
you rip into me with manicured teeth
and carved nails, claiming my old territory.
we had no feud until you pitted
me against you, alpha females alike—
your aggression and unprovoked wrath
is unparalleled. you can have
your pathetic scrap of land(it couldn’t support
me anyway.) some new girl
will fight you over it someday.
is a wedge forcing two perfectly fit pieces
apart. they cannot grow
with you stoic, solid, sitting stationary
between them. this is
not just about you anymore. your selfish sloth
affects us all.
my achilles’ heel is all in my head. my pride
is my chain, my thoughts an iron-worked jail cell
i can’t escape. i am hostage to heritage,
passed down from my father: proud and haughty—
please, try to impress me—
power-hungry, starved for authority. at least i am humble enough
to admit to it, living paradox—
my pride is poison, toxic, leaving me quarantined(under your very eyes
i am self-destructing.)
desire is blinding and my fingers are
my cane, tapping out the landscape before me.
i become primal in your wake, dragging
you under the covers with me; lust walks
hand in hand with sloth and gluttony. how will
I ever get enough of you, your body? (hormones
are the original sin, ensconced within) rough hands
and dancing mouths: when we close the doors to my room,
i couldn’t care less whether we ever come out.
to you the unit of mass is the dollar sign.
nothing matters unless it can be weighed
in monetary cost, the cost of my freedom,
my dreams, my joy. you wanted a trophy kid
to add to your shelf and I am trying to save
myself. you hear coins clinking in the vowels of
purdue chemical engineer—you do not hear
my cry for help. the health triangle’s 3 sides:
social, physical, emotions—not financial—and I am sick
of trying to fulfill some imagined debt I accrued
in being born to you.