Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Feel

*I wrote this one over a month ago, but never got around to posting it... It was right after my ex broke up with me... It's about how I wasn't able to feel the pain*

I don’t feel the pain.
But I can hear it.
Deep inside, I know
it’s there.

When I open my mouth
to talk about it,
my voice cracks,
chokes,
dies.

As my voice cracks,
my eyes leak.
Just a little.
Not much.
But enough.
Enough for me to
know that the
pain is there
and there’s enough
of it to make me cry.

When friends offer
their comfort,
it reminds me that
I need to be
comforted,
which means that
I’m hurting.
I know I need
the hugs,
but if I choose
to accept them,
I choose to
acknowledge the pain.

I know the pain
is there, but
I can’t feel it.
If I can’t feel,
how can I heal?
How will I know that
the pain is real?
How can I grieve?

I want to feel.
I just don’t want the pain.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Changing Seasons

Daylight comes.
Nighttime stays.
Bright blue skies
And cloudy days.

Touch of raindrop,
Sunshine sweet.
Silver snowflakes,
Pouring sleet.

Heart of silver,
Precious tears.
Changing of seasons,
Throughout the years.

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

spider web tale

weave for me a
pretty spider web tale
and I’ll listen to
every word

share with me
the delightful secrets
of the universe and
what lies beyond
 
unlock the untold
mysteries and show
me the answers to
all life’s questions
 
paint my name in
the midnight sky
and take my hand
so I can fly

Don't touch my life

What makes you think
that you’re entitled to be
a part of my life?
 
Is it that
we’ve known
each other
for so long,
been so close,
and you just
can’t let it go?

Are you still
grasping onto
the false hope
that maybe we’ll
reclaim what you
thought we once had?

If so, you’re
just kidding yourself.
It won’t happen.
It’s gone.
Stop holding on
to this twisted
delusion.

I’ve drawn this line.
Can’t you see it?
It separates me
from you and the
life we had.

See this line?
That’s where my
life begins.
Don’t cross it.
See this life?
It’s mine.
Don’t touch it.

frozen heart

take a lighter
burn my skin
light a fire
deep within

falling out the window

peering wide-eyed through
the cracked windowpane
of scarred skin and
bloody battles

knuckles turning white
from holding too tightly
to scarlet tissues
and hourglass dreams

quickly slipping from
the windowsill
wet with the dew
of seawater tears

gazing at the warm
light now out of reach
longing for the
safety and shelter

turning away
finding joy and love
in a new world
a new reality

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

What happened to that feeling?

It’s funny how we humans can lose feelings over time. We can have this overwhelming emotion, but within months, days, hours, sometimes even minutes, we forget what that experience felt like.
I recently experienced a moment where I remembered an emotion I haven’t felt in a long time. The feeling I had when I first started coming out. Isn’t it interesting that we can forget something so monumental like that? It’s been almost a year, and I’ve become so used to who I am that it is no longer something that I have to think about. I don’t think, therefore I am. I simply am.
Maybe that’s how it should be. It’s probably supposed to feel this natural. Who I am shouldn’t be a big deal. I shouldn’t feel something extra just because I’m not what the world would consider “normal.” It should feel normal to me, and it does. Maybe that’s how it should be, but sometimes I wish it wasn’t this way. Sometimes I wish it felt like something more.
Anyone who hasn’t come out (or who doesn’t have anything to come out about) can’t possibly know what it feels like. It’s indescribable. Imagine a world where a part of you must be locked up. Hidden. Caged in like an animal. Imagine that you are the one imprisoning yourself. That the cage – or “closet,” as we call it – is your own mind. Then imagine that feeling when you finally decide that you don’t want to live – if you can call it a life – in that cage anymore, and you finally reach out to someone. You can’t imagine it. You have to feel it.
I first started coming out on November 15, 2012. At that point, my sexual orientation was a part of me that I was so completely desperate to hide. I was scared, ashamed. I saw myself as a walking sin. I had spent years of my life, wasted years of my life, trying to pretend it all away. I thought that if I would just ignore it, then it would disappear. On November 14th, I finally decided that I’d had enough. I was in an extremely bad relationship with someone I honestly didn’t love, he had just gotten arrested (for beating his mother, no less), and I was exhausted. Putting on my happy face façade every morning and pretending that I was someone else was draining everything out of me and I couldn’t take it anymore. I was done. That night, I was emailing my best-friend/little-brother (who I knew was bisexual), and he knew that something was wrong. I told him that my boyfriend (ex-boyfriend now) had been arrested and also that there was something else on my mind, something I was really struggling to deal with. He asked me if I wanted to talk about it, and I suddenly had the feeling that I did. I arranged to meet him before school the following day to talk.
That night, I started to have second thoughts about coming out to him. Then I just took a look in the mirror. I kid you not, I looked my reflection in the eye and said to it, “You know what? You’re not straight! Suck it up and deal with it already!” The next morning, I met with my little brother to talk. I tried to tell him how I felt, who I was, but I couldn’t. Those two little words were on the tip of my tongue, but I simply couldn’t say them. I knew he was a safe person to tell, but I just couldn’t do it. My fear had such a fierce, intense hold on me that it simply wasn’t possible. So I wrote him a letter telling him everything. Even in the letter, I couldn’t just say it. I wrote at least a page-and-a-half discussing other topics, other struggles. I wrote about everything on my mind, except the one thing that I’d been dealing with for five years that, in reality, was probably the source of all of my other struggles in the first place. Finally, I decided that I’d stalled long enough and wrote out the two words that changed everything.
Later, he and I met up to talk again. I took out the letter and read it to him. I know that my voice must have been dripping with emotion, not because of what I was reading at first but from the anticipation of the part I would have to read. I was terrified, but I knew that I had to do it. For myself. I couldn’t keep living in a cage.
Finally, I reached the part that I’d been stalling on saying. I paused and took a deep breath, then finally said the two words that carried more depth, more meaning, than anything I’d ever said. “I’m bi.” I continued to read the rest of what I’d written. About my past relationships and how tired I was of it all. About my home life and how ashamed I felt. About how I wanted to stop feeling like there was something wrong with me. When I finished, he pulled me into what was probably the longest, most loving hug I’ve ever received.
After that moment, the first emotion I felt was a sense of relief. Someone knew my deepest secret, and it was okay. There was no judgment, no condemnation.
About a week ago, I came across the email conversation I had with him later that night. It was nothing incredibly special, and I think that perhaps that is why it is special. There was no pomp and circumstance about my orientation. It was just a conversation between a bi girl (that’s what I identified as at the time) and her bi brother. A week ago, when I reread that email, all the emotion of that time came back to me.
As I sat there reading through that email again, I could almost feel myself wearing my favorite sweatshirt over my favorite spaghetti strap. I could almost feel the weight of my favorite blanket draped over my shoulders. And above all, I could feel the novelty of it all.
In that email, we talked a bit about my letter, but it was mostly just random conversation. At one point, he mentioned his boyfriend (ex-boyfriend now, but boyfriend at the time). I remember how different that felt. Talking to a guy about his boyfriend, and that actually being ­okay. Normal, even.
Suddenly I felt like I was in a new world. A new reality. A world where everything I’d been taught was wrong and that meant that suddenly I was free. Free to be myself. A world where I didn’t have to be afraid to be who I am. A world where suddenly it was okay to talk about my orientation instead of hiding it like it was some disease that I didn’t want anyone to see. In this strange new reality, it was okay for me to talk about thinking that a girl was cute. It was okay to see two guys kissing or two girls holding hands. It felt strange, but pleasant.
I carried that feeling with me for months, all through Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, even into St. Valentine’s Day. All through the cool fall and the frigid winter, I carried that feeling. Everything had a new meaning to me. Everything I did had a new purpose to it.  Even the simple act of ­­breathing was different. The air that entered my lungs felt, smelled, different than it had before.
As I read that email, I could feel that sense of the cool autumn air. I could imagine the fall decorations that decorated the mantle of the kitchen fireplace. I could smell that warm autumn scent, with the pumpkins and just that feeling that the world outside was cool but I was inside all nice and cozy. Then I could imagine the atmosphere beginning to change as the weather grew colder and the autumn leaves on the kitchen mantle were replaced by a Christmas tree in the living room and stocking holders on the mantle of the family room fireplace. I could smell the peppermint. The snicker-doodles  sugar cookies, hot cocoa, pumpkin pie. These scents carried with them a different meaning because they came at the same time as a new sense of freedom. I walked through life with a different attitude, a different outlook. That time wasn’t perfect. I didn’t suddenly have everything together simply because I came out to one person. It didn’t take away all of my other struggles. But it changed my world. Life was different for me.
I don’t feel that emotion anymore. I don’t carry that feeling with me everywhere I go. Now, the only emotion I feel connected to my orientation is that occasional fear. The fear I get when I’m around my “family.” That’s the only time I don’t feel like I can be myself. Yes, there’s that sense of freedom when I can be myself. But when I do feel like I can be myself, it doesn’t feel like there’s anything extraordinarily special about it. It’s just normal. And I wish that it did feel more special. I wish it had the feeling it used to have.
The other day, I asked someone how it is that we lose the feeling we get when we first come out. She responded, “You don’t.” If that’s true, then why can’t I feel it anymore? If other people keep that feeling, why didn’t I? What happened to that feeling? And will I ever get it back?


i am starving

i am starving. i am a skeleton in a society already filled with far too many stick figures.

i am starving. i am starving for a different life, a different name, a new existence. i am starving for light in the darkness, for shadows in the sun. i am starving for a voice to break this silence. i am starving for solitude.

i am starving. i am starving for a world in which perfection is not expected, nor errors chided. i am starving for a society in which differences are celebrated, not despised. i am starving for a day when bigotry is defeated. i am starving for freedom.

i am starving. i am starving for the sunrise. i am starving for the dawn. i am starving for twilight. i am starving for the moments which most matter.

i am starving. i am starving for the substance of deeper conversation. i am starving for discussion without argumentation. i am starving for a disagreement that does not require a fight. i am starving for peace.

i am starving. i am starving for anything save that which i currently possess. is this not the story of life? always hungering and thirsting for more? never being satisfied with that which lies before you?


i am starving. will i ever be filled or will i hunger for all eternity?

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

existence

eyes heavy with the
weight of slumber
hiding from a false
reality torn asunder

lips moist with sweet
midnight dew
masking the taste
of pungent hate

wading through a thick
molasses existence
heart of stone
standing alone

an island floating
in a furious ocean
of fear and pain
tears and rain

seeking refuge in
a different universe
where love prevails
over lies and betrayal

a clouded looking glass
obscuring a bitter
long-forgotten past
of eternal shadows

slipping in and out
to and away from
high expectations and
deep intolerance

dreams of flying
far away
waking to a
brand-new day

You're Gone. When Will I Admit It?

*Written about the same friend I 
wrote about in "My Cat's in the Cradle"*

(*TRIGGER WARNING: SELF-INJURY AND SUICIDE*)
In my mind’s eye, I see her. Air flowing in and out of her lungs in quick, emotional breaths. Heart pounding. Eyes welling up with tears. Fingers feverishly floating over the keyboard. The words I never wanted to read being typed into a message. She clicks “Send,” and the email shoots out across the internet faster than the speed of light, arriving in my inbox within moments.
Later – how much later, I don’t know – I see the email. “I want to die,” she says. I keep reading, my heart racing. “I feel so hopeless.” My heart stops. It breaks, shatters like a porcelain plate run over by a steamroller. “I promise I won’t do anything.” As my gaze rests on those last six words, I know deep within me – she’s lying. And it’s too late.
Even though I know deep within me that she’s gone, I reply anyway. I tell her that I love her, that she’s like a sister to me. I tell her that there’s hope. That this will pass. I email her every week for almost a year, until the day I receive that dreaded message telling me that the email could not be sent. I cry. I knew it. I can’t deny it anymore. I have to grieve now.
I can see her death – her suicide – clearly. I can see it as clearly as if I’d been there. I can see her trembling hand clutching the sharp blade. Holding it to her wrist. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Applying pressure and piercing her skin. One swift motion and she has carved a cut deeper than she has ever made before. Her life slipping away, disappearing like a shadow fading into darkness when lights go out, as she bleeds on the floor. She is alone.
She shouldn’t have been alone. I should’ve been there. But I couldn’t be. The distance… I was… Too far away… Hours away… distance… Too far. I… I wish I’d been there.
Why couldn’t she see that she wasn’t alone? I know that I wasn’t there physically and that we had limited communication, but I was still there for her! I wasn’t there to keep her from dying. I wasn’t there to see her die. But I was there. And I still witnessed her death. I saw it all.
Why? Why, my sister? Why did you have to give up? You were always stronger than that. You were the one who helped me be stronger than that.
I can’t watch. I can’t keep seeing you die. Yes, Death comes for all. But you invited him in. Why? Why? I watch him steal your soul then disappear. In my mind, I hold you as your spirit separates from your body.
I wish I could stop it from happening. I wish I could see you smile again. My hyper kitty cat screaming, “I love Family Force 5!” at a Switchfoot concert. But you’re gone. When will I finally admit it? You’re dead and I’ll never see you again. 

Monday, October 28, 2013

fly, my sweet

feather-light wings in
deep sleep dreams
flickering candles
light the walls

tip-toe among
the silver stars
worry not
where you are

ride a comet through
the jet-black night
make your home in
the autumn sky

soar with wings
not made by man
fly as high as you can
to a world far from here

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Hard

If my rights were wrong
And my wrongs were right,
I wouldn’t be feeling
Like this tonight.
But answers in this world
Are never black-and-white.
When I think I’ve found one,
It slips out of sight.

Why am I wrong
Whenever I think I’m right?
Why does everything
Have to end in a fight?
Why does this battle
Have to rage in my mind?
Why is what I’m looking for
So hard to find?

It’s hard to leave
All my wrongs behind.
The door I choose doesn’t lead
Where I think it might.
I try so hard
But I’m never right,
Because right and wrong
Aren’t black-and-white. 

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

My Cat's in the Cradle

My Cat’s in the Cradle                Dedicated to one of my best friends, who committed suicide
My Cat’s in the cradle,
In the coffin, six feet deep.
Gently rocking in
An everlasting sleep.

I used to open up my email
To find her loving letters.
When I was feeling down,
She’d always make it better.

One day the roles were reversed,
And she was feeling low.
She wanted to end it,
To let her life go.

I tried to tell her she was loved
But I guess she never heard.
So I’ll sing to my sweet sister,
And hope she hears my words.

Now my Cat’s in the cradle,
In the coffin, six feet deep.
I wish I could sing her awake,
Instead of singing her to sleep.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Uncoiled

Uncoiled                  for my asshole of an ex-boyfriend
You made me trade my halo
For a devil’s horns.
You made me trade my kingdom
For a crown of thorns.

You made me trade my morals
For a bitter touch.
You gave me so little
When I gave you so much.

You made me trade my heart of gold
For a silver ring.
You made me trade myself,
Give you everything.

You said this ring was the ending,
But I think you meant it to be the start.
Because though I no longer wear it
You still try to steal my heart.

I didn’t realize until I took it off
That it was only weighing me down.
But now I see that you meant
To keep me on the ground.

Now I know that in all that time,
You never truly thought of me.
You cared only for yourself.
You didn’t want to see me free.

Now I see the selfish soul
Behind your innocent eyes.
Now I see the truth
Behind all of your lies.

I open up my jewelry box
And here I stand.
I put your beautiful shackle
Back onto my hand.

I see it shimmer in the light,
False silver with counterfeit gold.
I tear it off my finger.
I’ve never felt anything so cold.

What a fool I was to accept it,
To accept anything from you.
Tell me this, was it all a lie,
Was your love ever true?

I cannot answer for you,
But I do know this:
The truest deception of all
Was in my lying kiss.

I never truly loved you;
I was only playing a part.
Oh how I sincerely wished
That you could’ve claimed my heart.

But now I’ve come to accept
That you don’t have what I need.
Time has healed up all the wounds
That once made me bleed.

I wish you all joy and happiness
As both our lives move on.
You might try to get it back
But our time together is gone.

I’m giving you your silver shackle.
I don’t want it anymore.
It’s time I spread my wings
And allowed myself to soar.

I’ll fly away to distant lands
That you may never see.
I’ll make my home with those
Who accept me for me.

I’ll let myself fall in love,
Feel whatever I want to feel.
I’ll stop pretending to be someone I’m not.
I’ll let myself be real.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Suspended Traveler

Time passes like everlasting ripples
But here I, a traveler lost
In this sea of unfamiliarity,
Hang suspended on a gossamer
Thread, my feet mere inches
Above the torrential rapids below.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Momentary Joy - A Poem

This is an old one.... Tuesday, 29 November 2011
Momentary Joy                        by Starlight Isaacs
Paint me a picture.
Picture me smiling.
Smile back at me.
Me, myself, and I.

I hold a star.
Start to let it go.
Going in circles.
Circling my mistakes.

Taking my time.
Time flies by.
Buying time.
Time is precious.

Precious as gold.
Golden rays on my face.
Facing each moment.
Momentary joy.

Thursday, June 6, 2013

"A Jar, a Plastic Bag, a Golden Key, and a Rose" - A Short Story

TRIGGER WARNING FOR SHORT CUTTING SCENE
Inspired by a combination of my story and that of two friends.

She used to wear her heart on her sleeve. If she didn’t, she would feel almost as though she were naked. She never quite understood why she felt that way. Technically speaking, allowing every passerby to see the contents of her heart left her open and vulnerable, but she’d never thought of her openness as a danger. She had always thought of it as liberating, because she had never had to feel bound by her own reservations about others. While she watched friends struggle with fear every time they tried to trust, she herself was an open book and she’d liked it that way. Or, at least she was a partially open book. Everyone has a secret or two, and she was no exception. But all of this changed the day she allowed the wrong person to see far deeper into her heart than she should have. She had shown him the one part of herself that she kept hidden. She had thought that she could trust him, but in the end her heart had been torn from her sleeve and tossed to the ground like a worthless scrap of frayed cloth. He took advantage of her openness and his abuse of her trust penetrated deep within her, opening a wound in her heart which she had believed to be completely healed. In one moment, she had opened her heart wider than it had ever been opened before, and in the next moment he had reached inside it and torn it from the inside out. He took every bit of her joy and put it in a balloon, then pushed the balloon out the window and let it float up and up until it was scorched by the blazing sun. He took every piece of her, and when he no longer wanted her he scattered the pieces on the floor. Then, he had left without a word. He had left her standing there, the tears streaming down her face. That night, she stared at the fragments of her heart, her soul, and the very essence of who she was, and she saw no hope of the pieces ever being put together again. So she swept up the pieces of her damaged heart, put them in a plastic bag, and put the plastic bag inside her chest. Between sobs, she couldn’t help but think that if she’d only kept her heart in her chest where it belonged then this never would have happened.
                  In the years that followed, she isolated herself from the world, trusting in the shadows to hide her from the view of all people, believing that behind every smile and gentle word was a heart of deceit determined to rip her apart until every secret and every dark thought within her lay exposed in the sunlight and vultures came to devour the remains of her shattered heart. She lived in silence, unable to forget about the boy who had taken everything from her, unable to find the words to say what she was feeling, and unable to trust that anyone would really care to hear the story behind her empty expression and hushed tones. Every day, she walked to school alone, sat through classes during which she had to endure the whispers and stares from the other kids, then walked home alone. In all honesty, she came to prefer solitude, because every minute she spent with her father meant another bruise and another biting criticism to add to the jar of insecurity that she kept hidden next to the plastic bag that held her heart. She hid her pain behind long-sleeves, jeans, and make-up, afraid that others would judge her by the number of bruises, cuts, and scars that covered her body – or worse, that others would see them but no one would care.
                Three years had passed, during which she fell deeper and deeper into a dark pit. All of her hope had disappeared. She looked in the mirror every morning and saw every imaginary imperfection, looking through the lens of her past and every wrong that had ever been done to her. She saw no hope, no future. She saw nothing but brokenness, emptiness. Eventually, she stopped looking up towards the opening of the pit, accepting what seemed inevitable – that no one would ever come to rescue her because no one would ever care. Then, on a particularly dark day when all she could see were black clouds against an onyx sky, someone did find her. A small ray of light shone into her abyss, shining from a small pocket flashlight held by a boy who looked down at her, his eyes filled with genuine concern. She tried to open her mouth, but it was as if her lips were taped shut. It didn’t matter though, because even if she could have opened her mouth she wouldn’t have known what to say, and this boy didn’t seem to need her to say anything. He reached out his hand to help her, but she looked at his hand as though his mere touch was poison that would burn her flesh. Day after day, she went through the motions, seeing nothing but darkness. And day after day, this boy would find her at some point. He never forced his company upon her, never stayed for too long if he sensed that she was uncomfortable, and never reached out to touch her in any way. He seemed to know that if he so much as put his hand on her shoulder, she might never recover and it would be even more impossible for him to ever earn her trust. So he would merely walk up to her. Sometimes he would talk to her for awhile, not seeming to care that she never offered a response to anything he said, then turn on the flashlight and shine it at her before leaving. Other times, he would simply walk up and shine his flashlight, shedding just a little light into her life, then walk away without a word. Without her even realizing it, he became an important part of her life. Every day, she looked for him and his flashlight. Months passed and she became aware of a strange closeness growing between the two of them – a closeness that scared the hurting, distrustful girl within her. Again and again he came, until the day when she looked at him and, with an emotionless expression, told him to leave.
                The next night, she came home to a quiet, empty house. Her own soul, however, was so quiet and so empty that the silence of the house was deafening and the emptiness of it was too crowded. In the privacy of her own room, she washed her face of the make-up that hid her pain and stripped off her baggy sweatshirt, revealing the wounds and battle scars exposed by her tank top.  Alone, she was safe and all of her walls fell. She sat on her bed, opened her nightstand drawer and pulled out a knife. She closed her eyes and dragged the cold blade across her wrist, once, twice, three times. Then she opened her eyes to watch the blood run down her skin. Soon, there came a knock on the front door. Her heart raced as she rushed to stop the blood, threw the bloody tissues into the a wastebasket filled with mementos of previous dates with her knife, once again concealed herself behind her jacket, and ran down the stairs.
When she opened the front door, she saw the boy. She had not seen him all day, and had thought that he had left as she had asked, but now here he was. His eyes were laughing, he wore an easy smile, and in his right hand he twirled a key chain from which a small flashlight hung. As the door swung open, he asked, “Do I really need to shine this in your face or do you recognize me without it?” But when the door was fully open, his facial expression suddenly became serious and his eyes filled with concern. She was confused for a moment, not understanding the sudden change in his countenance. But then she put her hands over her face, realizing that she had no make-up with which to hide her black eye and bruised jaw. She stood there for a moment, hiding her pain from him. Closing her eyes, she willed him to leave, but there was a small part of her that hoped that he would stay. There was silence for what seemed like an eternity, and just when she was certain that he had left, he showed her that he was still there.
                His right hand closed gently around her left wrist, and after a moment his left hand wrapped around her right wrist in the same way. This was the first time he had ever touched her, and he waited for a moment to see if she would react negatively to the contact. His touch was as light as gossamer and he held her wrists as though they were made of glass. His hold on her wrists was so tender that her fresh wounds were not irritated and she simply stood frozen in place, wondering what he would do next. When she made no attempt to move away from him, he gently pried her hands away from her face and looked at her. “What happened?” he whispered.
                She shook her head and slowly twisted her wrists, indicating that she wanted him to release her. He did so, but made no motion to leave. After another moment of silence, he asked her, “So, may I come in?”
                She nodded, not intentionally, but feeling as though her head had a mind of its own and was consenting without her permission. Without thinking, she allowed him to enter the house and closed the door behind him.
                “Is there somewhere we can go to talk?” he asked. Then he laughed a little. “Well, I guess where we can go so I can talk.”
                She swallowed and thought. As much as she was afraid of the thought having him in her bedroom, it seemed like the only safe place for him to be if her father came home. Reluctantly, she motioned for him to follow her, and led him upstairs.
                As she closed her door behind them, the boy surveyed her room. He smiled at the collection of china dolls on her shelf, stuffed teddy bears that were lined up in a neat row on her window seat, and books and CDs sitting in stacks on her floor. He turned to her and gestured towards her bed, silently asking her permission to sit on it. Again, her head had a mind of its own and she reluctantly nodded. He sat gingerly on the very edge of the bed, realizing that his mere presence in her bedroom could be a major source of fear for her and not wanting to do anything to make her any more uncomfortable than she already was. She sat down on her bed as well, at the opposite end as him, her back against the headboard and her arms protectively hugging her knees against her body. After yet another moment of silence, he spoke.
                “What happened?” he said for the second time. He searched her face, his gaze resting compassionately on her bruises.
                She didn’t respond. She never got the chance to respond, because as she was trying to muster up the strength to open her mouth and say something, they heard the front door swing open, hitting the wall. She cringed and buried her face in her knees, then looked up again, biting her lip. She stood up, motioned for him to stay where he was, and slipped out of the room. After a moment, she returned. “He’s gone now,” she said, her voice hoarse from disuse. “He came home to get some more money then left. He’ll be gone all night.” She sat back down on the bed and fidgeted, realizing two things – that this was the most she’d ever said to him at one time and that if her father was going to be gone all night then that meant that this boy could stay in her room all night and he would never know. The thought made her stomach turn.
                This thought did not cross the boy’s mind. He merely looked at her and asked, filled with both concern and anger, “He did this to you, didn’t he? Your dad?”
                She nodded hesitantly then buried her face in her knees again. He drew closer to her and put his hand on her shoulder. When she looked up, he looked at her and said, softly, “Hey, I know that yesterday you told me to leave, and if you still want me to leave after I’m done talking then I promise you I will. The only reason I came tonight is because I couldn’t help but think that you didn’t really want me to leave, you were just scared. I know you’re hurting. I could see it in your eyes the day we met. And I know you’re afraid to trust, but I promise you that you can trust me. You can tell me anything. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not like that. So please, tell me what’s going on.” He rested his other hand on her face, running his thumb lightly over her bruises.
                He looked into her eyes, and she looked back into his, focusing on the way that the light shone on them and made his blue irises more brilliant. As she began to lose herself in him, something else caught her attention. In his dark pupils, she saw her own reflection. This time, she looked at herself not through the lens of her own pain and insecurities but through the eyes of this boy who was looking at her as if she were the most important thing in the world. The image she saw in the reflective surface of the windows to his soul was clear, and looked nothing like the girl she saw when she looked in the mirror. For the first time, she looked at her reflection and liked what she saw. She liked what he saw in her. She tried to speak, to tell him everything, but her lips still felt as though they were taped shut. Suddenly, she felt an inexplicable need to be close to him, and even though she was afraid of what being close to him could mean she surprised even herself by closing her eyes and leaning in.
                He leaned in as well. She expected to feel disgust at the feeling of having another’s lips pressed against her own again, but instead she felt a sweet comfort as their lips met. His lips were soft and as he kissed her their gentle pressure caused her own lips to part slightly. For a moment, he kept his hand on her face, slightly pulling her into the kiss. Then his arms wrapped around her waist, and his hands pressed on the small of her back, pulling her even closer until there was no space between them. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she buried herself in him. They pulled their heads back, then he kissed her again, this time more firmly but still gently, and they stayed locked in that embrace until he pulled away slightly, feeling her tears spilling onto his face. “Hey,” he whispered, kissing the tears on her cheeks. “What’s this? Why the tears?” He took her face in both hands and used his thumbs to wipe away the streams of tears.
                She started to shake her head, but then stopped. She had to give him a chance. She looked down, her voice almost inaudible. “If I show you a secret, will you promise that you won’t leave me? Or tell anyone?”
                He tilted her chin up so she could look into his face and see the sincerity in his eyes. “Of course. I promise.”
                She removed her arms from around his neck and pulled away. He dropped his hands and watched her. Her hands were shaking and her fingers fumbled with the zipper on her jacket for a few minutes, until she finally gave up. “Can you,” her voice cracked and the words stuck in her throat. “Can you help me get this off?”
                Without a word, he slowly unzipped her sweatshirt and pushed it from her shoulders. His eyes began to widen as he slowly removed her jacket and began to expose her scarred and wounded arms. He let the jacket fall to the ground and simply looked at her. As the truth of what he was seeing sunk in, his eyes filled with pain, but he did not look away or show any desire to leave. Now that he could see the path of bruises down her arms, the scars, and the fresh cuts, everything came together. The way she always wore long sleeves and was constantly stretching them and pulling them down over her hands, the panicked look on her face when she’d opened the door, the bloody tissues in her wastebasket, the bandages on her counter, it all made sense now and he was kicking himself for not having seen it all sooner. He looked in her eyes again, his own eyes filled with remorse. “How long have you been doing this?”
                “A long time,” she choked, then added bitterly, “But it’s gotten worse in the past few years.” She drew close to him again, buried her face in his chest, and sobbed. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and she stayed that way for a minute, weeping uncontrollably.
                After awhile, he drew her to arms length and looked her in the eyes. Then he took one of her arms in his hand and, to her surprise, gently began to kiss her scars. She closed her eyes, leaned back against the headboard of her bed, and thought of nothing but him. When his lips touched her fresh cuts, his kisses were so soft that it caused her no pain. “Tell me about it?” he murmured, his kisses traveling up and down her other arm as well.
                The tears burst out of her again, and it was as if the invisible tape that had kept her quiet for all those years had been ripped off. In a broken voice, she told him everything. She poured out her soul for him, telling him the story of sixteen years of abuse and broken bones, the man who’d hurt her as a child, and the boy who’d taken everything and left her broken and shattered. He listened to her every word until she had run out of words, and then pulled her close to him again, kissing her face, her lips, and her hair. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “You never deserved that.”
                That was all she’d ever needed to hear. She kissed him again, unafraid.
                His hands ran up and down her back, comforting her, as they kissed. When they pulled away for a moment, he asked, hesitantly. “Do you have other scars?”
                She nodded, and gestured towards her abdomen and her legs.
                “Can I see them?”
                She held back, but eventually nodded. She closed her eyes again, shaking as his hands moved down to the hem of her tank top. He pulled her shirt up and over her head, his warm hands grazing the skin of her back. He paused for a moment to look at the scars that covered her stomach, and then his hands found their way to the zipper of her jeans. He unzipped and removed them, but that was where he stopped. When every mark on her body was exposed, he simply stopped and looked at her, not in the same greedy way as the first boy from years ago had looked at her, but with the eyes of one who truly loved her and was pained at the sight of what she had done to herself. Without a word, he touched his lips to each and every wound in turn, and when he was finished he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her gently down until they were lying together on her bed. He traced the scars on her wrist with one hand, stroked her hair with the other, and whispered in her ear, “I love you.”
                As he pulled the blankets over them, she whispered back, “I love you, too.” Lying in his arms, she fell asleep.
                Around two o’clock the next morning, she woke up. She was thirsty and reached out to grab a glass of water off of her nightstand. In the darkness, her hand made contact with something else, so she sat up, turned on the small lamb beside the bed, and looked. Sitting on the nightstand was a jar filled with folded-up scraps of paper. Next to it was a note. She opened the note and began to read, not realizing that the boy had also woken up and was watching her.
                “I found this last night when you were opening up to me,” it read. “I’m sorry if you didn’t want me to open it, but to be honest, I didn’t like what I saw inside it. What I saw was a ton of insecurity based on lies that you’ve believed about yourself. I found things like, ‘I’m ugly’, ‘I’m unlovable’, and ’I’ll never be worth anything’. None of these things are true, and I don’t want you to carry them around with you. So I emptied out the jar and filled it up with new thoughts. Now it’s filled with things like, ‘I’m beautiful’, ‘I’m loved’, and ‘I’m priceless’, all of which are the truth. You could choose to fill it up with insecurity again, but I’m begging you not to. You’ve been lying to yourself for far too long.”
                There was more, but her vision was beginning to blur as tears of happiness spilled down her face. She reached out for a tissue, and when she’d dried her eyes she saw something else on her nightstand: a needle, thread, and a plastic bag. She looked back at the note and kept reading.
                “One other thing… Your heart is far too valuable to be kept in a plastic bag. So I took it out, stitched it up (which, honestly, you could’ve done for yourself, but I think either you didn’t know how or you were just too scared to), put it in a treasure chest, and put it back where it belongs. Here’s the key. No matter what you decide to do with it, just please promise me that you’ll keep it safe. You deserve to be loved and have your heart taken care of.” Enclosed in the note was a golden key.
                She set the note and key down next to the plastic bag and opened the nightstand drawer. After so many years, she suddenly felt as though she was finally ready to give up her knife. But when she looked in the drawer, the knife was gone. In its place was a red, long-stemmed rose.
                She closed the drawer. In the corner of her eye, she saw him watching her with one eye open. She picked up the golden key and climbed back into bed. As she settled into his arms, she slipped the key into his pocket. “I’ll trust you to keep this safe.”
                He buried his face in her hair and murmured, “I promise I will.”

                She looked up at him, kissed him, and for the first time in three years, she smiled.

Tuesday, June 4, 2013

Heaven's Confidant - A Poem

Twinkle, twinkle little star.
Shine in and pierce through the dark.
Light a fire in this cold heart
And show me visions of worlds afar.

Cry your silver tears for me.
Smile and laugh so I can see
Beauty and hope in a world that has failed me
And tossed my dreams into the sea.

Whisper stories in my ear.
Sing to me to ease my fears.
You seem so far away, though you're so near.
Draw close to me; I need you here.

Little star shining in the sky.
Shine through my window; don't pass me by.
I see you glitter through the night,
Then watch you slip out of sight.

Little star, don't slip away.
Tell me that you're here to stay.
Yes, there are many other stars, but none can say
That they sparkle in your special way.

My dear little star, don't you know
That you're the only one who can show
Me that I'm loved? I'm not alone.
Stay with me. Please don't go.