post-halloween haunting

“When I lived alone
Is there a ghost in my house
my house?”
-Band of Horses, Is There a Ghost

Oh, how I love October. It’s my favorite month of the year. Halloween is my favorite holiday. But this year, you could say all my candy melted. I had good intentions of watching horror movies every night and maybe even going out and enjoying some spooky events in my town. but I didn’t end up doing any of that.

I’m not really sure what happened. I think the ebb and flow of my depression was flowing heavily last month. I didn’t feel motivated to do much of anything. Work has been so stressful that when I have some time off, I just want to lie on the couch. And with each arriving weekend, I’d tell myself, “Okay, I’ll rest this weekend but I’ll go out next weekend.” And I did that over and over until there were no more weekends in October.

And when I was lying on the couch, instead of watching horror movies, I was scrolling through my phone, trying to detach and dig for some dopamine. Plus, movies are so crappy these days and we have so many movies available in an instant. There’s no incentive to even try to pay attention anymore. If we’re not grabbed in the first five minutes, we can click off it and search for another.

But I didn’t even try. And even though I might have avoided some low-budget stinkers, I also missed out on the ambiance and atmosphere a horror movie sets when the blood and boobs are flying.

I also feel bad about the way I look. As much as I’d like to walk around and explore food trucks and live music, I feel huge and none of my clothes fit well and I hate my face. I don’t feel comfortable out in public and witnessing everyone else looking so put-together makes me feel more out of sorts.

So I stayed home.

I did manage to throw some decorations up. But after I was done, I realized I had no one to invite over and show. Sure, I enjoyed them and the skulls and pumpkins helped differentiate October from every other crappy month of the year but it also would have been nice to hae someone over to enjoy them as well.

It was a reminder of loneliness. There’s something about the holidays that are meant to be shared. These feasts, fairs, and festivals bring people together, create memories and give friends and family something to do. Of course single people can enjoy them just as much. And I have before. But it doesn’t beat having someone to share it with.

My sister’s birthday is on Halloween so I went to my mom’s house for a birthday lunch with my mom and sister, followed by a lecture from my mom about how I need to eat healthier, stay away from fast food, meal prep, and get on Ozempic. Wow, how did I not think of that before? She acts like I don’t already know this and like I haven’t been through this before. She can’t even follow her own advice. I asked her when was the last time she got on her walking pad she recently purchased. She said it had been weeks.

And when I left, she packed some leftovers for me and asked how many slices of birthday cake did I want to take with me.

“Just one,” I said.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

Are you kidding me? I thought to myself.

I came home to an empty apartment. It was dark, quiet and painted with shadows. And as I unpacked the extra soup and cake, I felt a presence. It was a bristle of static, a whoosh of energy, a spectre that had slipped out from under the plastic snakes and skulls. It wasn’t the kind of spectre that stabbed or slashed but one that sucked all the vitality from its fleshy companions.

It was a reminder of loneliness, a tear ripping down my side and pulling away at me. A separation of flesh and feeling. An ache that tunneled down to my bones.

I got undressed, lit some candles, and got on the couch. I wrapped up in a blanket and turned on the tv. But I didn’t watch anything, just stared ahead and sank in deeply as the day dissipated.

i want to come back as a ghost

“Even though you broke me
I just want you to know that
You fucking deserve it
But I don’t wanna hurt you back…”
-Fefe Dobson, I Can’t Love You (And Love Him Too)

“Will anybody ever love me?
For good reasons
Without grievance, not for sport…”
-Sufjan Stevens, Will Anybody Ever Love Me?

In 2020, I crashed into dating, an amateur driver dropped into an obstacle course designed for professionals, told to navigate a pandemic and predators, accelerating into sex and backstabbing, shifting gears for ghosting and regrets, racing by orange cones and red flags, potholes and holes in my heart, a heart attack and a series of speed bumps in the form of bodies in my bed who left without saying goodbye.

That’s a lot for someone who barely had a permit to pursue partners.

I get on the road surrounded by other drivers and there’s no way to turn around or even slow down so I press the gas and keep going forward. I haven’t had much time to even look in the rearview mirror to reflect on these relationships but when I do, I can’t help but wonder if these long-gone people ever take the time to reflect on me.

Loneliness informed my love life. It told me I wasn’t good enough, that no one truly wanted me. And when people finally came into my life and treated me terribly, my poor self-esteem stepped in to confirm their actions, to tell me I was foolish to think anyone would actually care, because look, they pulled me close just to clothesline me to the ground. 

But…what if?

As pessimistic as I can be, there’s always an underlying hope that maybe I was good to these people and they just didn’t understand how to process it, or maybe their self-esteem told them they didn’t deserve it so they pushed me away, not out of malice, but out of fear. Maybe they did like me but their demons wouldn’t allow their heart to grow close to mine.

I wonder if they ever think about that. I often fantasize about them fantasizing about me. Do they ever think of me? Do they ever regret how they treated me? Do they ever wonder if I’m doing okay? Do they even miss me or give me a second thought? The truth is, they probably don’t. I’ve never seen any evidence that anyone ever wanted to reach back out to me to apologize or acknowledge the hurt I told them they caused. They just disappear and that’s it.

I just think it would be nice if they would think of me. If they did have some regrets. If they become consumed with unrelenting sadness the way I was, if they could feel a bit of the pain they caused me. I know it’s petty and sometimes I hate that I feel this way but if I knew someone was wallowing in their grief over mistreating me, I can’t say I wouldn’t get a little satisfaction from that. To know they left me and I came back as a ghost, haunting them, popping up in their mind to drop a little bit of misery on their head. 

But it’s just a petulant fantasy, a rearview roleplay game I play for myself on long drives to work, putting in 12-hour days and daydreaming about being wanted, being loved, begging for a second chance to have me back, finally putting some power in my hands. But the ghost games only come to me in the moments I’m not distracted, when my loneliness sees its chance to come back to the forefront of my attention. 

The only problem with my little play is that I end up being the one who is haunted. I still have the woman from 2018 sitting in my passenger’s seat, an outline of cruelty blasting in my face as bright and blinding as the oncoming traffic’s headlights. And the others who hurt me fill the backseat, taking turns kicking my seat, jabs to remind me of my heartbreak. They never looked back. They never cared. If they did, they wouldn’t have hurt me in the first place. 

I’m always stuck in this traffic jam of being totally jaded by everyone and giving people too many chances. I can’t seem to navigate the complicated road, and social, systems. I really want to get off the road but can’t find an exit and can’t exit my constant overthinking. The best thing for me to do is try to empty this carpool and get back in the single-lane, lonely but with a little more peace of mind. Because I need to get over it. I know they already have.

coffin’s length

“Tiny vessels oozed into your neck
And formed the bruises
That you said you didn’t want to fade
But they did, and so did I that day
So one last touch and then you’ll go
And we’ll pretend that it meant something so much more
But it was vile, and it was cheap
And you are beautiful but you don’t mean a thing to me…”
-Death Cab for Cutie, Tiny Vessels

“I get scared of the things you could do to my heart
Oh, I don’t care
I’ll look into your eyes as you tear me apart
Tear me open…”
-Slayyyter, Tear me Open

Oh, there it is, the familiar stretch of tendons, fraying and popping, tiny tendrils of connection falling to the floor.

Nervous and unsteady, tenuous but ready, propelling into the pondering of an infinitesimal spark between two sheets of skin. Curled up beside a sentimental stranger while the coffee brews, another carafe and another call to the couch. A blush of pink, a flash of teeth and skin, wandering hands and wondering what it all means.

Driving home in the morning light, orange hazes of memories of blankets from the night before, burning it into my brain but remaining ambivalent in my heart. I don’t care if it doesn’t lead to anything. I don’t care if I don’t get another invite over. I don’t care if I never hear from this person again.

But I do.

I always do.

I’ve learned to keep people at coffin’s length due to the deaths of past relationships. I can’t endure another asphyxiation via unanswered texts, another flogging by being flaked on, another stab to the gut when being ghosted. I can’t trust that potential paramours might not turn into poison, that lovers won’t turn into leeches, that friends won’t field-dress me in the dark. Because it’s happened time and again, my heart was given then garrotted, my body swelled then shriveled, my mind totally and absolutely massacred by the masses.

I always resign myself to rest in the dirt yet end up climbing over my own corpse to taste the lips of another, forever chasing that nectar of life, of praying for nirvana on Earth. Someone will prove me wrong, someone will save me from the grave others dug for me. You can’t have death without life, evil without good, hate without love. It can’t all be so bad, to be so unlucky to continuously run into lunatics and liars, to only ever see the dirty inner workings of the wicked. Yet all I’ve known of humanity is the inhumane ways in which they treat each other. Sweetness is subterfuge. Charm is a mask carved into a smile to distract you from the knife going toward your neck.

I’ve been corrupted, cautious and caustic, paranoid and impatient, unable to navigate the murky waters of conversations, intentions, and executions. I wade in the pond of pondering each change in demeanor, each flimsy excuse, each time I was stood up and slashed down. Hesitation muddies the path, blinding me and binding me to my own insecurities and haunted history with others. As much as I try to sidestep the path caked in blood from the backlog of bad dates, I always find myself going back there. It’s as if it was carved just for me, a slot sliced up for me to slide back into with each and every rejection, pushing me farther into the dark, the damp, the downward spill of suffering. 

I try to pull myself up to surface relations, enjoying the body, the bad banter, the horror movies and bed buddies, all while knowing it’s just a kiss away from ending, a night spent satisfying with no reciprocation, a text exchange that ends when I get left on read. And being okay with that. Keeping it realistic, being grateful for a moment of peace, not lingering on the possibility of it prolonging into an actual partnership. Because that would be impossible.

But staying neutral is like holding water, seeping through my fingers despite my best efforts to hold it all together. There will always be hope for something more than a midnight rendevous. There will always be an extra heartbeat burned into the bedding. But I can’t trust others to turn the tide, to swing me away from the shore before I drown in disparate loneliness.

And as it always goes, the good times gather together to give me a false sense of safety. Maybe I’d made it out of the woods after all, just out of the grasp of creatures wanting to cut me down to refuel their own rage. But the green flags get splashed with red, steeped in an ink of inconclusive behavior, cold indifference, and unreturned phone calls. It renders me paralyzed yet again.

I give up and then I give in, each time hoping it’ll be different but it never is. A self-fulfilling prophecy or a prognosis of habitual heartbreak. I’ll never truly know. And maybe that’s not even the point. The need for another sails past the putrid undercurrent of corrupt courtship. It’s another chance to set things right, to expound upon the flesh while limiting my investment in it. And I usually fail. But in the moment, failing seems an acceptable outcome when coming close to someone else. 

Maybe I should be grateful just to have that, no matter how minuscule or momentous, no matter the malevolent motive. There will always be another smile waiting for me, another set of teeth ready to receive me in restoration or rip me apart one more time. And I’ll offer up my throat for a kiss or a bite. And as long as I’m feeling something, I don’t care which one it is.

lovely lonely loner

I just wanna wake up in someone else’s arms

-Mae, Someone Else’s Arms

My relationship with loneliness has been the longest relationship of my life. I can’t remember a time I didn’t feel it. When I was young, I saw it as a disease, slowly eating away at my soul. I saw everyone else around me dating, connecting to others, and partnering up. Meanwhile, I was too shy and insecure to put myself out there.

The loneliness took advantage of my every insecurity and used it like a whip to flog me. Too fat crack. Too ugly crack. Too weird crack. It nestled in my ear and whispered to me, “You don’t deserve love.”

As I got older, I made friends and that eased the loneliness by a small margin. But no one ever stuck around, which ended up deepening the loneliness by a wide margin. It really started to mess with my mind. If I can’t even keep platonic friends, what is actually wrong with me? 

And in 2018, I had my first encounter with someone who I thought might actually be special. Unfortunately, it did not end well. In fact, it left a scar thas has yet to fully heal. And in 2020, despite the pandemic and my own increasing social anxiety, I once again attempted to put myself out there and those relationships all failed as well. 

Naturally, this picked away at my self-esteem. With each instance of ghosting, I felt the crack of the loneliness whip once more. But with time, introspection, and a dose of therapy, I realized I wasn’t always the problem. There was just something about me that kept attracting the wrong type of people into my life and because I’m too nice for my own good and also so eager to ease the loneliness bug, I gave more people more chances than they deserved.

This is when my loneliness started to shift. The whip felt more like a well, filling itself in the space that it had previously eaten away. My loneliness started to complete me, to become a part of me, a phantom limb that demanded to linger. I compared that feeling to the anxiety and anger these multitudes of failed relationships brought me and realized I preferred it. Of course loneliness didn’t feel good but it was better than the anticipation of being ghosted, overanalyzing every text message, waiting for the axe to fall.

It’s sad when you have to choose the lesser of two sucky feelings.

But I could live with the loneliness. It didn’t bring about the amount of anxiety a new prospective relationship did. I knew loneliness inside and out. It didn’t bring surprises. It was an expected emptiness that I could bear. And that loneliness nestled up to my ear again but this time it whispered, “You don’t need love.”

I remember the times when I was so young and naive and caught up in falling in love. I think it’s sweet. And I was a sweet kid. I had a lot of love to give and it’s a shame I was never given that opportunity. I was all about love songs, love movies, even writing my own prose and poetry about my future lovers, pouring out sweet nothings to what would eventually become no one at all.

But the reality is never as good as the revery. I stepped into the real world and dealt with real people with really shitty attitudes. And instead of feeling the good vibes I had hoped for, I felt irritated, annoyed, and the extreme urge to be left alone. And it never got better over the years. Either I just didn’t know how to pick ‘em or that’s all the universe had to offer.

We gave all our best hearts away to other people. You can have all the crazies, alcoholics, and sexual abusers.

And being alone for so long absolutely changes your brain chemistry. I’m not even sure I would know how to be in a relationship if I ever found a compatible partner. I’ve been burned so much that I would always be hyper-vigilant about the inevitable end of the relationship that I’d never be able to form a bond of trust or enjoy their company.

I’ve lived my life as a single person for so long and I just don’t see how it could ever change. It’s probably best if it doesn’t change. I know I don’t need love. And at this point, I’m not sure I even want it. The years and deepening depression has drained a lot of love from me. YOu could say I’ve become bitter, although I try not to let it be my entire personality. I just…don’t feel as strongly about love, life, or anything at all the way I used to. And I don’t think that makes me a good boyfriend.

And yet…this surgery situation might have shifted my loneliness yet again.

I had a friendship for a year that recently ended. And while it wasn’t a good one, she took up a large portion of my time, energy, and life. And now that she’s gone, I don’t feel sad for her departure. In fact, I feel relief. I’m better off. Yet I’ve become accustomed to just having someone to hang out with, to lean on, to cuddle and exist in a shared space. And now that those privileges are gone, I miss them. I miss the company. And I find myself incredibly lonely. More lonely than I’ve felt in years. And it’s messing with my head (oh yeah, along with the multitude of medications and post-surgery brain fog). I just find myself wanting to talk to someone, to have a text exchange, to just…feel anchored to humanity and not floating about in an isolated ocean. 

The good thing is this loneliness doesn’t have a grip on me the way it used to. I can recognize that this is just an adjustment, that these lonely pangs will eventually fade. I just have to wait it out. Plus, I’m a loner. I belong by myself. Deep down I’ve come to realize this. I don’t do well with people for long periods of time. But I’d still like company. And it’s not coming from a place of desperation or of wanting to fall in love. It’s not a hope for a happy ending. It’s just a natural need for companionship. It’d be nice to have a pal. But if that doesn’t happen, I know it won’t be the death of me. I’ll self-destruct long before a person perishes me.

death of an instrument

When I was a kid, I started drawing as soon as I could pick up a pencil. And I have been drawing ever since.

Well, not exactly.

I drew all the way through college. I earned a bachelor’s degree in animation and promptly stopped drawing. My own natural insecurities mixed with the negative criticism from my professors and the unmatchable talent of my classmates made me think I just wasn’t good enough. And so I stopped for several years. I’ve picked drawing back up here and there but haven’t stuck with it. I regret that now because if I would have kept practicing, I could be a phenomenal artist.

When I was a teen, I also started writing. And the more I did it, the more it just poured out of me. It was like this door inside me that had been waiting to open for years was finally unlocked and all the artistic expression, prose, and poetry just broke like a dam. It was awesome. I wrote in a blog, then eventually moved on to poetry, and even dabbled in fiction. I wrote a couple of books and even published one. It totally tanked. That, much like my drawing, hurt my confidence and I’ve slowed down with my writing over the years. What once was so easy now takes more time and effort. 

I even used to dabble in music. Nothing serious but I composed songs on my computer and friends told me I had a decent voice when I’d sing along to one-hit wonders in the car. I even thought I sounded okay. But again, over the years, the inspiration drained and my voice started sounding more strained than sublime.

I suppose life and responsibilities and depression will do that to you. Every outlet, every form of expression that I found, every instrument at my disposal slowly died on me. 

And that’s kind hard for someone who once considered himself an artist and writer (although I never excelled at songwriting enough to call myself a musician). My whole persona was all about art. I reveled in it, loved it, felt like I had an identity and purpose. And over the years, that identity and purpose faded away.

I recently started drawing again. But being a perfectionist has made it a bit challenging. If something doesn’t come out exactly how I want it, I get frustrated. Drawing used to be fun, never a chore. But I stuck with it and created a few portraits that I’m semi-proud of and at least that’s a start.

And the other day, I got in my car and as I was driving, I found an old song that I used to love. And Instantly, I remembered every word even though it had probably been a couple of years since I’d heard it. But the lyrics came back to me, as well as all the previous times I’d heard it, driving in my car, to work or a friend’s house or for a casual tryst. And I sang. And although I knew I was out of tune, I didn’t care. Because I was singing for me. And it made me realize that I am drawing for myself as well, so why all the pressure? It doesn’t have to be good to be enjoyable. And I don’t have to be good to do it. Art is a process, not the product. I sure had fun singing and I should have fun drawing, just because it’s a chance to get away from it all, to escape into my charcoals and colored pencils, to take a trip away from the trepidations of a tepid existence. I don’t like where I am in the world. But at least I can like what I do. So I should keep doing it.

distance is a devil’s smile

“What a troubled world it is when you’re outside arm’s length…”
-Showbread, Sing me to Sleep

“I don’t want anything more than to see your face when you open the door…”
-Lily Allen, Chinese

My mind often goes to where you are, wading through the worry and wonder, trudging further through the muck of miserable days and sad, sleepless nights. I can find you in my mind’s eye, painting your portrait behind my eyelids. The brush strokes shape your sheepish grin, your dimple politely pressed into your bouncy cheek, your head lowered as those deep eyes lift up to me, batting the lacework of your lashes. It penetrates the marble of my chest, melting the waxy layer of apathy and sediment from my ribcage. 

The memories come to me like soft shards, slicing through the treachery of foul temperaments and opening up recollections of rest and reward. They present themselves in my quieter moments: taking a break at work, driving home, eating a meal, and often while I’m in the throes of unconsciousness. They sneak in at night, quiet pinpricks that prod open time spent with you, a sensation of warmth laced with a longing to lay down with you again.

I think back on when we first teamed up under the Christmas tree, tinsel and ornaments and your eyes, all sparkling under the shimmering star, guiding my lips to yours, feeling so natural in an otherwise petrifying situation. Pushing beyond my bounds of bravery, slipping my hand in yours, closing my eyes and sinking into your lips, allowing the wash of your breath, your scent, your presence to penetrate all the fear and fumbling. Sliding down a path with no resistance, no regret, and no ramifications residing inside your smile. 

Feeling you in bed next to me, cuddling under the covers, kissing and exploring, nerves lighting up in awe of your body. Soft hands, a warm mouth, slick skin sliding back and forth in sweat and spit, waves of pleasure building up and blowing out. Feeling your hands all over me, massaging and tugging, scratching and kneading away all the tension and dereliction of the day. Comfortable in my openness, treading through unspoken trust, the air around me, your lips on me, the sensitivity of skin heightened by sensation, situation, and shared company. We melted into the bed, sleep pulling us down into dreams wrapped in each other’s arms. 

Soon the sun rose up to peek from over the trees to see the love we’d made. It slipped through the blinds of my window, golden slices that stretched across the room to rest atop our naked bodies.

Our nightly dates drifted into daily domesticity. You turned on the shower while I started the coffee, hot water and a hot cup waiting for you while you dried off. You came into the kitchen with wet hair and that sheepish grin, walking over to me as I put my arms around your damp back, pressing you into me. Squeezing and swaying, a sleepy dance of two lovers locked away in our own simple pleasures. Jealous of the scent that lay upon your neck, pressing my lips to your dimple, your nose, your mouth. Your lips warm and sweet from the morning brew, calculating the ratio of coffee to cream, of butter to bread, of your laugh to my smile.

I sent you off with a kiss and counted down the hours until you returned to me, until I could see that smile again, that dimple resting easy in your shimmering cheek. Waiting to feel that hug that comforted the restless unease of unemployment and an uncertain future. Left with hours to contemplate your caress, I found our time together precious and realized your touch created small passages through the doubts, the struggles, and the depression that dug into my brain.

But such an arrangement wasn’t sustainable. Much like the bottom of a pudding cup, the good times had to end. It wasn’t practical to drive so far for so long to come back to me each night. You had to go back home. I held you and squeezed all the love I could from your body to store up until the next time. Swaying with you in my arms, caressing the back of your head, the strands of soft hair gliding across my palm like satin sheets. Your warmth, your size, a dizzying array of feelings, holding tight to time to somehow make it stop, an eternal pause on the clock with you wrapped around me, a selfish attempt to seize and savor every second you were near me. 

When you were gone, my bed was a cold reminder of your vacancy, an expansive void where you once rested your sweet silky head. You’d become so ingrained in my life in such a short period of time. It was as natural as you please, unprecedented and unpredictable, swept up in a delicious fear that I could be slipping into the warm waters of something marvelous, life-changing, healing. And when you went away, so did a part of that revelatory joy.

With every conversation, I pulled out a thread of closeness and sewed my heart to yours. Every shared laugh, every mutual kiss, every similar sad situation was another stitch in the cloth, another corset-tight tether to you. The breathing, the bleeding, the pain of existing in the hell of our own heads, all herded together inside an eight-chambered cell.

I added your pain to my own personal collection. A tapestry of timeless torture that ran through every thought, feeling, and action. We were both poisoned like a black dye in our guts, forever altering our DNA, throwing us off-kilter from the chemistry of normalcy. It was a polar opposite spectrum of vile acts and unfulfilled experiences, a trauma of action and inaction. But I saw the good that came from such a bad mess. And I hoped I could help you see it too. 

Poking and prodding you with my sardonic jokes, coaxing out your real smile, that chip-toothed laugh that got me high like a drug. Such a beautiful face, so warm and sweet and inviting. An unwitting charmer, and unassuming kind soul, separate from the past, forged ahead through the fucked up formative years to make a productive, caring, strong-willed human being. Yet unaware of your gifts, your generosity, your glow that grafted onto others.

I wanted to show you that, to remind you in case you’d forgotten, to inform you in case you didn’t know. You can overcome anything because you’ve already survived the worst of everything. You’ve carried on, created relationships, and crafted a life for yourself with little help from others. Independent and stubborn and strong beyond belief, as complex as an equation, as gentle as a kitten, layered and nuanced and capable of so much more than you can fathom.

Distance is a devil’s smile, stretching farther and wider until the lips split, cropping up crooked teeth that topple me, a tongue that laps up my languishing, a guttural guffaw amplifying my agony. I dream of dreaming next to you, grazing my hand across your shoulder, content in the milky twilight of awareness that you’re still there, near yet drifting off into your own uncharted dreams. And that maybe, you could be dreaming about me as well. 

I still crave the surrender of sleeping next to you, the illicit trust of bringing two bodies together while at their most vulnerable: naked, unseeing and unknowing, but comforted by the plump protection each other brings. The breeze of your breath, the symphony of your sighs, the littlest shudders that slide across your skin, all nocturnal candies I delight in, the sweet and delicate midnight morsels of someone at ease with me, falling ever under, drawing ever closer, and remaining in tune with the tempo of my kisses.

As the divide grows wider, so does my fear of the future, of moments forgotten, out of sight and out of mind. The sharp shards grow muddy and dull the distinctive dreams of an unlikely, yet dynamic duo. Paltry paychecks and gas prices guzzle the gumption to close the gap between us. I can only pray mind over miles will prevail. And if they don’t, I hope I made a difference in your demeanor, that you might feel a fraction better about yourself and your journey through this haunted hayride we call life. 

Remember, ghouls and goblins will always bust out to try to blast you off course. But there is a way out. There is an end in sight. And once you know you’re in control, that the monsters within the trees are nothing more than regular men in masks, it makes the journey a little less scary and a little more serene. And for as long as you’ll want, I will sit next to you and hold your hand along the way.

dipping a daydream

“Now I have to remember you for longer than I have known you.”

-C.C. Aurel

It seems I’m always found at my most forlorn then left with the most minuscule moments of contentment.

Coming together by a common conspirator, only looking to commiserate but finding a connection instead. It was like getting washed up in a wave of wide-eyed wonder. Going with the flow of feelings and fortunate fingertips. The fear, the caution I always wore like a second skin, all cast aside in favor of feeling a smile skirt across my face.

You said it yourself. What were the chances we’d meet like this? Could we both find love between two broken hearts? From that very first night, you set up a fairy tale ending, sending my mind into that dangerous territory of thinking too much, of hoping for the best despite evidence to the contrary. But I couldn’t help it, didn’t want to care, chose to smile in your arms instead of self-soothing with cynicism.

It’s hard to look back now and feel good about these times, knowing they would never amount to anything. It’s like dipping a daydream into dark chocolate: a little sweet, a little bitter.

But I try. I want to imagine a time when the good outshone the bad, when getting swept away by your smile meant more than being discarded by your desires.

It was over-cooked pizza brought over by an over-baked server. Pepperoni and cheesy one-liners. A row of pearl teeth gleaming under the egg-yolk light. It was pressing forward in the face of consistent insecurity, the calm of nearly non-existent expectations, a rare “what the hell” attitude that should always be utilized when it appears. It was the danger of fun, the thrill of not knowing what was coming, getting inside my car and colliding with someone new.

The drug of the heart, the placebo of placing myself in protected hands. Burning gas and getting high off the fumes of finally having fun. No direction, destination, or depression. Accelerating in circles, coy smiles and shooting glances, my nerves finally settling down as we put it back in park.

The sun went down as the glow came up around us, the moon mingling with the streetlights to illuminate your grinning face. The cool comfort of the A/C, the warmth of your arm wrapped around mine, listening to the soft sounds that slipped through your speakers. I found myself wading through the reality before me and the adolescent dream that had always wrapped itself around my heart. Could this be it, the fantasy finally flesh?

I’ve never been like this, so comfortable so fast, so in tune to the taste of attraction, to feel it reciprocated so easily. It was all so good. So effortless.

I pulled back to take you all in, to look into the marbled blue of your eyes. I don’t know what came over me, this push to feel you, this electric urge to have you as close to me as possible. I reached up and gently guided your face to mine, closed my eyes, and went in for a kiss. Touching your warm lips, the natural rhythm, the dull rumble in my stomach, a rising heat in my chest, a high that hit my head like a sample of euphoria injected straight into my veins.

My first time ever initiating a kiss. And it felt natural. And good. Like I’d made the first move a million times before. We kissed and cuddled and listened to the music as it filled the car. Hours passed and as the clock slipped into a new day, it was time to go. Yet, I didn’t want to leave. And I felt that you didn’t either. We made plans to see each other the next day and as we separated for the night, I still felt your pull as I pulled out of the parking lot.

I went home with no regrets, no index of doubt or stings of social ineptitudes. I could only reply the events with an ease, a pride that I could be funny, charming, wanted. I did a good job. I glided through the night, burning the events into my brain so I could savor them again and again. The best first date. The best first kiss. All rolled into one unsuspecting night. My car was quiet, my brain only slightly abuzz. I felt a softness soak its way inside my chest as I began to count the hours, and miles, until I could see you again.

a fantasy of feathers

I’ve always fantasized about feathers flitting across my forehead while fearing the flames that flicker beneath my feet. My mind travels from my temples to my toes, vacillating between Elysian fields and entropic erosion. I fear the future, immobilized, inarticulate, and inept at dealing with the consequences of a life lived contained by conscious consideration of everyone else.

When I pulled back the braids of my brain, hell trickled in to fill the gap. It was the fear of failure, the neverending abandonment, the undeniable doubt that I was worthy of the earth or its inhabitants. The peace of death doubled with the fear of catching fire laid me out on a bed of spikes. The more I squirmed to seek salvation, the greater my deeds, the more I carried on in the face of unending disappointment, the deeper they sank into my back. I wept, I shouted, I whispered into blank space above me but nothing whispered back.

That’s when I notice the breath beating beside me. Soft, steady, soothing. Balancing my brain, blood, and bone. My eyes water from the frustration of an untethered body and from the gratitude your gravity brings, restoring my center and realigning my restless worries into tranquil transitions. You put your hand on my chest, press down firmly and release, massaging a rhythm of regulation into my ribcage. The spikes slide out and the pain slips away. 

Through red-coated eyes, I turn to look into yours. I see more than the marbled blue. I see the hell draining away. I see salvation as a state of mind and not a series of good deeds. I see a buoyant hope that I can be healed, a sweetness in your smile crafted just for me, a desire to shield me from the shame of the past, the pull of my paranoia, and the deepest worry that I will wither away alone. All those fears fade when I look at your face. And the feathers feel soft to the touch as the flames finally flicker out.

watch them die

“Although we both lie close together
We feel miles apart inside
Was it something I said or something I did
Did the words not come out right
Though I tried not to hurt you
Though I tried
But I guess that’s why they say
every rose has its thorn…”
-Poison, Every Rose has its Thorn

Recently, I got some flowers for my apartment and called my mom to ask her how I could keep them alive for longer. She said there wasn’t much I could do once they’d been cut.

“Just enjoy them while you can,” she said. “Then sit back and watch them die.”

Due to recent events, I couldn’t help but draw a parallel between wilting flowers and wilting relationships.

My therapist once told me I’m 15 years behind my peers socially. So when I feel a pal, partner, or potential paramour slip away, I assume it’s my fault. Fearing they’re about to prune me from their lives, I ask what I did wrong. The near-universal response I get is I didn’t do anything wrong at all, followed by abstract reasonings for their absence. But that’s not comforting. It’s confusing and conflicting. Especially when their reasonings didn’t stop them from planting seeds with others.

Because if I messed up, I can try to fix it. But when I hear I didn’t do anything wrong, all I’m really hearing is I just don’t mean that much to the other person. I am transitional, ephemeral, a stepping stone to someone actually special. I’m simply no longer wanted. And that feels so much worse.

There’s a certain sense of sadness in trying to bloom something beautiful with someone, to work so hard to cultivate companionship, only to see a crack form and witness as weeds spring up from the split between us. And it’s more painful knowing there’s nothing I can do to save it. 

All I can do is enjoy it while it lasts. 

Then sit back and watch it die.

love for you

“This is our last goodnight
Say what you will
Say all that you can
Words have no meaning
When I’ve seen where you’ve been”
-Anberlin, (The Symphony of) Blasé

Two melt into one, weekends spent watching horror movies on the couch, drenched in blood and popcorn, wandering hands massaging chests and sinking into each other’s skin. Clockwork travel, dependable Saturdays spent bouncing from your house to mine, supper while the sun sets, kissing in the light of the tv, casting shadows that sink into fine lines and laughter. Layered colognes collecting in the couch cushions, a chill in the air, the heat of your body on mine, dressing up before dressing down.

Pushing for more than a plush chest to rest your head, striving to solidify these Saturday nights into domesticity, swapping not just hands but hearts, wanting to label a love only yet lumbering out of the dark. Pushing past boundaries and bounding from one stage to another with stunning speed. In a rush to feel the swell of blood, to bask in the bulge in my pants, to pull it out and pull apart all my resolve. Reticent all the way, scared to let you find your way past the cloth to get to the skin and suffering beneath. Not ready, willing, or able to take it that far. You agreed with a kiss and a smile, one final graze of your hand before you headed off. 

Quickly, the once day-long conversations fizzled into faraway texts that became foreign, your name popping up in surprise on my screen. And the other friend you didn’t want to talk about, the one I knew was more than just, soon slipped into my Saturday spot. Boasting a new love and splashing it on the socials, another one to spend your weekends with, fresh meat for the slaughter, fresh blood to pump and squeeze. Fresh popcorn before popping off into your mouth without fear of emotional consequences, instead cementing fervent smiles and confident selection. Know what you want, take what you want, bask in the glory of decisiveness.

My phone grows cold on the coffee table as I huddle under a weighted blanket, putting on music to drown out the sounds outside, the cars coming and going, the passengers looking forward to dates or friends or erotic liaisons, vehicles pushing gravel as they pull out or park. Footsteps draw closer and for a moment I think you might have stopped by to see me before I hear them lead to another door. Bustling bodies and plans and fun, all outside my door and outside my realm of possibility.

There’s a certain sadness in knowing someone can shrug their shoulders at losing you and find someone else with ease. I wouldn’t dream of keeping you captive and don’t fault you for finding love elsewhere. 

I didn’t want you. But I didn’t want you to want someone else so quickly. 

I had hoped to retain the intimacy we had fostered just a little bit longer. It was looking forward to an activity, a person, the serotonin splashing to and fro, the buzz of possibility, the comfort of familiarity. We’d taken months to build what we’d had, only to be broken in a matter of days. 

The damage of loneliness, the fear of insecurity, the mistrust of my own brain keeps holding me back from participating in life, love, and the simple pleasures of other people. I ask for patience as I work to overcome the decades of degradation but never seem to make much progress, inadvertently pushing others away. I can’t blame them for getting tired of waiting for me to come around. Especially when I’m not sure I’m even capable of doing so. They move on and I move closer to giving up.

I want love for you. I just didn’t what it to have to be at my expense.