omg i wrote a book
Emma, 21, Colorado native. Photographer, Jesus follower, aspiring poet/writer/human being.
"Por Dios no es Dios de confusión, sino de paz."
"For God is not a God of disorder, but of peace."
1 Cor 14:33
omg i wrote a book
Something is blocking me and I am crying from the effort of trying to get it out, get it out of the way, open the floodgates please because I am drowning in here, I am choking on my own sickness. Help me, I command myself, weren’t you doing okay but a day ago? Weren’t you on the mend? Mend! Why won’t you mend?
I am holding rags of relationships in hands that never learned to quilt, I am sorry, I am weak, I am broken. I have become a function of my own being wanted. I am ripping myself in half and telling you it’s thirds, telling you I’ve kept a piece for myself after I’ve given the other two away. What is joy, what is comfort, what is new that will not soon become ritual, uncomfortable, old hat? My miserable attempt at toleration of this everything has failed in its fledgling stages; observation cannot distance me enough. It’s as though nothing can distance me enough from what is. The other day I felt like a coat hanger soul, with a body hanging limply from it, a mobile garment, heavy and crumpled. I wish to be melted down, take me back to the factory, recycle me quickly, I am too tired of holding this thin shape together, of holding up this heavy sweater, my body does not wish to be insulation, decoration. My body does not wish to be; my elements die a little more every day hoping soon to be released from the mold that holds them together in my shape. I am too situated within myself, feeling too much, and yet I am so foreign to myself as to be inexplicable. It is not my separation that causes my loneliness, but the unity that still fails to even take the edge off. What is pain? What is the sharp feeling of stabbing coming from within?
I met a man named Clarence on a street corner in Denver. He was shot in the leg in Vietnam, shot in the head from so far away that he wasn’t killed, but left for dead. What is it that decades later, unable to walk, would lead him to thank God for his life? You should have left me for dead, I would scream. Leave me in the dead truck, let me bleed out, don’t make me writhe under the pain of daily life any longer, please. Please, God. He showed me a shining silver dollar. That’s Kennedy, he said. He collected the coins, they made him think of God, he had six at home already. He was saving them for their beauty, for their shape, not their value. He was in need enough to sit on a corner with an empty cup, greeting the sea of unfriendly faces streaming by, and yet he saved them for beauty. I made these friends who had no home, who had no people for Christmas, and I think their phone bill got cut off, I think she’s having a baby next month and I don’t know how to find them, I don’t know where they live, I don’t know where to send the stuffed animals and tiny cardboard books, she’s younger than me and they’re not texting back any more. My ex boyfriend is going to rehab next week, he’s failing his life because he can’t put the bottle down, he doesn’t care enough about anything and everything is wrong, I tried to help him too but I found my only reflection in the last drops of vodka, by the end of the bottle it was too late for me to get to him, I evaporate, I am never free.
My ex girlfriend is still beautiful, I still want to kiss her lips, I still lean into her hugs, I still ache to cry on her, and every time I force out words that shout blatant boundaries, I shake with the effort of separation, my fragile self esteem thanks me and the rest of my everything hates me. I am not surprised by racism, hardly even offended anymore, there is so much hatred floating in the air that when it comes out of mouths in thick clouds I hardly bat an eye. I am rarely surprised. I am being poisoned by its ubiquity. I am aching with inequity. I am breaking.
My love is aching. I watch what I am causing and I find myself hating it. I can find no place of calm, no lighthouses in this storm, I am a lightning rod.