• Prose and poetry,  Relationships

    First impressions

     
    The first time we met, you decided you will never like me. I get drunk too easily, I smoke too much, and I’m obnoxiously loud. I’m constantly thinking about food, and I always seem to say the wrong things. My taste in music was weird, and my words were caustic as can be.
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  • Friends,  Prose and poetry

    A conversation between Allison and Claire

    “Which The Breakfast Club character are you?” I asked. It was meant to be a light question, one that was meant to keep the mood easy. After all, it had been a tough week for us both, and all we wanted was to relax and knock back some beers under the night sky.
    “I’m Allison, of course,” I droned on, lighting a cigarette. “I always was a freak.”
    You scoffed and leaned back into the wicker chair. “You’re really not. The weirdest thing about you is how you think you’re a loser.”

    “How am I not?” I demanded, gesticulating wildly towards myself. “Look at me. I’m an overweight, socially-awkward loser with bad skin and unfashionable clothes. Everyone says I’m weird. Hell, even when they don’t say it, I can feel them thinking it.” It used to hurt to think of myself in such awful terms, but I’m slowly embracing the fact. I pressed on, “Plus, in high school, I was always that girl, the one everyone thought was a bit off. I’m goddamned Allison, and that’s the end of it.”

    “Fine, okay! Jesus.” You gave a short laugh, sipping from your glass. “I’d have to say, I’m Allison, too.”

    “The fuck you are!” I cried. My head was getting foggy, and I wanted to scream out into the stars that you, dear sir, were far too lovely to be Allison.
    “What? I’m Allison. I’m as weird as you! That’s probably why we’re friends! Unless—” Your eyes widened. “Shit, I’m Claire.”
    My laughter was a mix of amusement and disdain. “God, you’re right! You’re Claire! I mean, look at you!” I jabbed my cigarette at the air. “Well-off family, lots of friends, expensive clothes, nice things, basically everything you could ask for—and still unhappy! God!”
    After another round of laughter, you adopted a more somber look. “Seriously, though. It’s pretty sad that no matter how lucky Claire—and I,” you hastily added, seeing my death stare, “No matter how lucky Claire and I are, we’re still miserable with our completely empty lives.” Reaching over, you plucked the cigarette from my fingers and crushed it on the table, your brows furrowed in thought.
    I sighed deeply and brushed some ash from your hair. We’ve been through this conversation many times before, and never did it end up neatly. A few minutes passed, both of us looking out at the city lights, lost in thoughts never to reach our lips. Finally, I broke the silence.
    “Do you think we’d still be friends on Monday?” I teased, referencing one of my favorite lines from the movie.
    Your answer sounded hesitant and a little sad. “I don’t think so.”
    “Typical Claire,” I said, and we started laughing again.
    I refilled my glass and drank as quickly as I could. I wanted the truth, and I got it. The truth was, we never could tell how The Breakfast Club ended. For all we know, Allison and Claire passed each other in the halls many times, and never acknowledged each other again. After all, despite all their similarities, they were far too different, from separate cliques, lives, and worlds.
    How many times have we talked about this? For that matter, how many times have we watched The Breakfast Club? We know how it goes: our favorite fivesome will never have that moment of openness, ever again. They will ignore each other in the hallways, and laugh at each other’s backs. They go back to being strangers.
    But it wasn’t what either of us wants to hear. The best we could do is hope that Monday would never come.
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  • Prose and poetry,  Relationships

    The one you love and the one who loves you

     

    The one you love and the one who loves you are never, ever the same person. —Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters

    The one you love is indifferent. You can spend your waking hours craving his affection and approval, only to have him ignore and belittle you. He might never give you what you want. You, on the other hand, give him everything he could possibly need, leaving none for yourself so long as he is satisfied. Which he never is.
    To him, your problems are small and petty, to be answered with a shrug of the shoulder. Despair will tear at you and you blindly convince yourself that someday he will return your affections.

    The one who loves you, on the other hand, worships the ground you walk on, kisses the hem of your garment. He will give you everything he has, and more. You know this because he makes sure you know this.
    To him, your problems are his problems, his burden to bear. Guilt will gnaw at the pit of your stomach and you wonder why he would do all this for someone like you.

    There’s one thing they have in common, though: you will never feel good enough for either of them.

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  • Prose and poetry,  Relationships

    I’d like to take care of you

    I’d like to make you coffee every morning. Morning, noon, nighttime, daybreak… At any hour, whenever you want it. I know how much you enjoy a hot cup of joe; I know that it helps you write and work.


    Speaking of work, I’d like to tell you to get some sleep. I’d get mad that you’re still up at 4AM and nag you to go to bed. You’d think that I don’t understand that you need to work, but I’d just be worried about your health.

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  • Prose and poetry,  Sadness

    Waves

    waves,ocean,sea,water
    Photo by Mourad Saadi on Unsplash

    Grief comes in waves.

    As the ocean waters can be smooth as glass before the tempest’s arrival, I am composed before the downward spiral of my unraveling.

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  • Food,  Prose and poetry,  Relationships

    The Hollowness of a Bite

    We met at a restaurant.

    It was a steakhouse, a block away from where I worked. The entire place was wall-to-wall wood: tables, chairs, even the candleholders. It appeared cozy and familiar, the perfect place to have a hearty, comforting meal after I had another rough day at work.

    “I’ll have the filet mignon, please,” I ordered. “Well-done.”
    The quiet laughter and conversation of the other diners rang loud in my ears. I felt their lightness weighing down on the hollowness inside of me, more painful than the physical pangs of hunger.
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  • Prose and poetry,  Relationships

    Minutia

    In the little things, in the most mundane objects:

    a hot cup of coffee, a morning phone call, a crumpled bus ticket

    in the simplest and laziest of days spent on the couch, watching sitcoms for hours

    in the long stretch of a comfortable silence, punctuated by gazing eyes and grazing skin

    in the few millimeters of distance between us when sitting side by side, reading books, lost in different worlds

    in the words you do not write, in what you do not say —

    I find love.

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  • Prose and poetry,  Relationships

    Dissonance

    Amid the steady hum of passing buses rises the dissonance of raised voices. The midnight quiet broken by clashing cacophonies, symphonies of shouts.

    I lick the droplets of blood from between the cracks of my lips before twisting my mouth open into a snarl. My words, I wield as weapons: their sole purpose is to inflict pain. The scars I am leaving behind are monuments of every pause, every punctuation, that has drawn blood.

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  • Prose and poetry,  Relationships

    Standing outside my house at 1:48 in the morning

    The sheets are cold with your absence as I crawl out from underneath them. The clock ticks 1:48AM. Sleep eludes me tonight.

    Pacing the ground purposefully, my bare feet are restless on the asphalt, toes twitching, itching, as though determined to close our distance, whether of a few inches or a hundred miles.

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  • Prose and poetry,  Relationships

    A love letter to someone I’m not actually in love with

    Dear you,
    Do you remember that night in your house? Please don’t say no. I know you’ve had your share of girls, but this is me we’re talking about, and you shouldn’t just forget about me.

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