Unsent

Dear Michelle,

I have written this letter in my head a million times, and in this final attempt to put these words down on paper, I will write it no matter what. I’m writing this letter today, at 9.00 am this morning, to express myself to you. I wish I could see you to tell you the things I will write in this letter ignoring how difficult that might be to do.

I hate watching TV shows. They always make you think about everything and when you particularly enjoy watching shows that center on love and relationships, it’s even worse. It makes you think about things. Like how you have no one. Every time in my case.

Sometimes, you think you know so many people but you really don’t. They don’t matter in a way, just phone contacts on your Whatsapp and nothing more. They are just there, like evidence to show that you know a lot of people. People you don’t know.

But I know you, and I love you.

I saw you watching me while I ate that first night from the corner of my eye in the canteen. Then when one Sunday you messaged me saying your sister had taken you to Radisson’s, you said you wished I were there with you again and that meant the world to me. You meant the world to me and I know I’m not perfect, well, neither are you.

You hurt me several times. It was always on your face when it seemed I was embarrassing you. I was hurt when I couldn’t give you the things you wanted. I couldn’t handle it. I can’t do all of the things you want me to do. Why? I’m just like everyone else awaiting results. I’m waiting for my big break, too. So I don’t need any extra pressure especially from you. It’s emotionally draining. I couldn’t stand to disappoint you if things didn’t happen the way you wanted them to. Life is okay, it still needs improvements, but please, don’t put that burden on me. And forgive me if I am not what you wish I was.

I saw this show (Being Mary Jane) where Gabrielle Union’s character reunites with her Ex at this ball. They were dancing and having fun (Mary Jane and her Ex) and relieving old times when he tells her he is currently seeing someone. You could tell from her reaction to this piece of information that she was disappointed and that she still loved him even though they were not together anymore. She left the ball minutes after. It occurred to me at that moment that there will always be that one that got away. The one that made you feel special and one-of-a-kind even if you didn’t feel that way about yourself. It’s not a usual feeling. It’s simple and nice and prideful and you feel so lucky you experienced such a thing in your lifetime. And I thought, again, that if time passes us by, I have a feeling I will be the one still waiting and reliving those moments in my mind and by then you’ll have moved on to somebody else or become married off hastily to someone else. In my own version of things you would have gone. I’ll be crushed and will never want to see you again because it will finally dawn on me that I will never have my forever with you. That it was never meant to be. I just hope I won’t be thirty-eight at that time.

You see, I hate how things are with us. How we see only a couple of times in a year. Sometimes, I don’t want to see you because I know I will have to say goodbye again. It’s tough. You re-enter my life time after time bringing me rainbows of happiness, texting in whenever you like after you are gone leaving ghosts of memories for me to chase after. The worst bit is when you go on telling me about people you like. No please and no thanks. I want you to say you like me, that you still want me. That we made a mistake. That you think about me every day, just like I think about you. I don’t want to know about other people as cheerfully as you make it seem. I don’t want to. You can’t do these things to me. It messes me up and I don’t know what else to do about us but to let you go. My back is against the wall this time around. I have had enough. The quest for hidden treasures for either of us to find has been given up by me.

So here’s the truth. I will say goodbye to you. I will ask you not to talk to me again, ignoring completely all the things you do to me. Completely disregarding my emotions and feelings, I will not play along the lines of being great friends just to have you in my life.

You will always be you. Funny face. You will always be the one I’d settle for out of everyone else. But life’s uncertainty and inconsistencies define my decision now. To let you go and leave you alone. I may be wrong, but right now I’m tired of waiting for you.

That ghost of a tongue. That tongue of a ghost.

I am the mirror breathing above the sink.
There is a censored garden inside of me.
Over my worms someone has thrown

a delicately embroidered sheet.

And also the child at the rummage sale–

more souvenirs than memories.

I am the cat buried beneath
the tangled ivy. Also the white
weightless egg
floating over its grave. Snow

where there were leaves. Empty
plastic cups after the party on the beach.

I am ash rising above a fire, like a flame.
The Sphinx with so much sand
blowing vaguely in her face. The last

shadow that passed
over the blank canvas
in the empty art museum. I am

the impossibility of desiring
the person you pity.
And the petal of the Easter lily–

That ghost of a tongue.
That tongue of a ghost.

What would I say if I spoke?

The Beauty that is Poetry

Poetry is not glamorous. Poetry is keeping a journal by my bedside so I can wake in the middle of the night, annoyed and desperate, to scribble down sentence fragments and ideas before sleep steals them from me again. It’s writing all over my hands, napkins in restaurants, typing it out as a message to a friend and accidentally sending it. It’s losing my patience as the perfect title slips out of my mind when I divert my attention at just the wrong time. Poetry is staring at a blank page for hours. Poetry is staring at the same page through tears and tears when the words build up inside of you like a flood but they simply won’t come out. It’s re-working the same sentence over and over again until the words barely sound real anymore. It’s slamming shut your computer when your work seems only unpolished, immature, and never truly capturing the world the way you want it. It’s a pile of rejection letters on your desk. It’s not normally coffee shops and natural light and fresh ink. It’s in my pajamas at my kitchen table with lukewarm tea, trying to squeeze in a few more words before I have to go back to class or work or some other engagement. Poetry is not glamorous. It is real and gritty and soaked in life. But it is beautiful. And it is worth it. And it is the only thing I know.

I’m not a stalker

Pick someone interesting.
Have a conversation with them.
Start off the dialogue by assuring the subject
that you are not a stalker.

Do so by saying something like,
“I’m not a stalker.”
“I’m not really a stalker.”
“Do you think I’m a stalker?”
Or
“Does this make me sound like a stalker?”
Because whenever you mention the word “stalker”
it automatically makes you look like a stalker.
Got it?
Let’s move on.

Follow them on twitter,
re-tweet everything they say.
Add them on Facebook,
like all of their pictures,
statuses,
and poke them.

Constantly.

Get their phone number.
Preferably not from them.
Send them pictures.
Of you. 
In a wedding dress.
Let the caption read,
“Hey babe, thinking about you.”

Call four times. 
A day.
Leave three voicemails. 
A day.
Make sure the third one is passive aggressive.
Sound irritated,
like all of this is an inconvenience to you.
Try to make the subject feel as guilty as possible.

If that doesn’t work,
get angry, cuss them out.
Then call back,
apologize for overreacting.
If the subject still doesn’t respond
to a call from a blocked number,
if they don’t pick up,
leave another voicemail,
cuss them out again.

That’ll show them.

Love Song

My love for you is deeper than the deepest sea

Softer than the softest breeze

Higher than the tallest tree

Don’t ask me why this prize was yours

Not mine to decide

Not what’s said but dread of unsaid

Written words make me become undone

Much more than spoken do

You don’t need this shit called love any more than I do

Move to the beat, broken souls reject

Healing, sift through broken bones

As though the answer lies in our wishes

We become lies we live

Buried in solitude, create a fortress

Make us prisoners

Of our own demise

Hearts like silver need polish

Troubled and cautious, need to demolish

Striving to forget unpunished deeds

Our souls create a fort for faith

Hide away, survive wounds, lost battles, day after day

Feel like I’m a rash or allergy, out of control

Think before you speak or

Forever hold your peace

Like shame from tarnished childhood

Secluded from the sun

There’s nothing won in fighting

Tell me give up

I’ll stop hoping

My love for you, stronger than a hurricane

More powerful than an angry storm at sea

Baby don’t make me explain

Feelings I have for you

My heart stuck on you like glue

Love like morning dew

Abrasive

When my inner self and my outer self disagree
I tend to let my inner self free
I will not be repressed by society.

I am labeled straight forward
abrasive
Some say it with respect and admiration
Others, like I have a disorder

They can call me abrasive
I'm prepared for it to continue 
until my inner self fully replaces 
Love with judgement

I am determined to seek empathy
I will continue to let my inner self free
I will not be repressed by society.

I have a long way to go
but, I trust me.

One of the best jokes i have come across

John wanted to buy a motorcycle.

He doesn't have much luck, until one day, he comes across a Harley with a "for sale" sign on it.

The bike looks better than a new one, although it is 10 years old.

It's shiny and in mint condition.

He buys it and asks the seller how he kept it in such great condition for 10 years.

"Well, it's quite simple," says the seller, "whenever the bike is outside and it's gonna rain, rub Vaseline on the chrome. It protects it from the rain", and
he hands John a jar of Vaseline.

That night, his girlfriend, Liza, invites him over to meet her parents.

Naturally, they take the bike there.

Just before they enter the house, Liza stops him and says,
'I have to tell you something about my family.

'When we eat dinner, we don't talk.
In fact, the FIRST person who says anything during dinner has to do the dishes.

'No problem,' he says… And in they go.

John is shocked.
Right in the middle of the Living Room is a huge stack of dirty dishes.
In the kitchen is another huge stack of dishes. Piled up on the stairs, in the corridor, everywhere he looks. Dirty dishes.

They sit down to dinner, and sure enough, no one says a word.

As dinner progresses, John decides to take advantage of the situation.

He leans over and kisses Liza.
No one says a word so he reaches over and fondles her.
Again nobody says a word.
So he stands up, grabs her, rips her clothes off, throws her on the table, and takes her, right there in front of her Parents.

His Girlfriend is a little flustered, her Dad is obviously livid and her Mum horrified when he sits back down, but no one says a word.

He looks at her Mum. She's got a great body too.
John grabs Mum, pulls down her pants, and turns her every which way but loose right there on the dinner table.

John sits down exhausted.

His Girlfriend is furious, her Dad is boiling, & Mum is beaming from ear to ear.
But still....Total silence.

All of a sudden there is a loud clap of Thunder, and it starts to
Rain.

John remembers his Bike, so he pulls the Jar of Vaseline from his Pocket.

Suddenly the Father stands up and shouts. "I'll do the dishes"!!