Missing and Found

Remember the time when we found ourselves next to each other, sitting in my backyard, surrounded by the song of the crickets that had not yet hidden for autumn. Millions of dreams were hung up in the sky, waiting to be captured. You, so comfortable with brick walls and screaming sirens, found yourself staring at nothing but me and dreams illuminated. I still remember that night. The moon. It was the night after a full moon, and if you looked close enough at it, you could see the tiny sliver missing, invisible unless you knew it wasn’t there in the first place. Your arm was housing me from the elements of hearts at risk. Your silence was telling me stories your lips couldn’t possibly form. And your chest was my brick wall. And I wondered how you could look at me, enveloped by the velvet touch of a breeze and five-pointed dreams and rustic leaves, and still think I’m beautiful. Do you remember that night? That was the night I reached up, with your hand guiding mine, and found the missing shard of the moon.

The Hidden Pulse of Existence

( thanks to strout for the great line :] )

One day they will find (and admire) her beauty. The beauty that comes from within and radiates

out, out, out until it reaches the tips of her fingers, the sunrise in her eyes. They will see the

beauty that captures the curve of her mouth, causing the ones around her to glow with the aura

of life. They will see her beauty as she twirls in circles on the soles of her toes, her heart beating

through her feet, her face tipped up to the sky as if to say, “Today is new, and I feel better.” And

when she places her hand of the neck of the guitar and strokes the song surging through the

veins of her entire being, they will finally find (and envy) her true beauty.

Homage To Her Hands

Hands that have held his face,
As she promises,
Everything.
Will.
Be.
Ok.

Hands that have swept over his body,
Caressing,
Torturing,
Memorizing
Every scar,
Each flawless flaw.

Hands that have brushed his mouth,
With the slightest of touch,
Telling him:
Shhh…
Listen to our heartbeat.
It holds all the answers.

Hands that have expressed
Locked fingers
And matching palms
As
Thundering chests
And unified souls.

Haves that have touched him
In places hidden from the world.
Soothing a punctured heart,
An absent father,
A lost childhood,
His stolen innocence.

Hands that have picked up,
His shattered pieces:
Fragile:
Handle with care.
Gentle hands speaking silent volumes:
I can save you: let me in.

Black Holes and Empty Chests

I believe I come from a place where emotions are void. Sucked into a black hole, never to be seen again. Spinning around in the night, crashing into the stars, causing whirlwinds, leaving behind everything. Running away. Always running, afraid to show its face. Where sadness is no longer ocean’s crashing down my face. Sadness is now biting my lip, praying for the strength to hold back your tears yet again. Sadness is trying to swallow around the heart in your throat. It is that same heart trying so desperately to get out; to say, “I’m still here. I’m still beating.” Where anger isn’t shouting words; anger is screaming silence. Anger is ignoring the problem, pretending it’s not there. It is taking a deep breath and changing the subject. “So how was school today.” Ignoring anger is a skill. An act. A lie. Where pain is no longer a vocabulary word. Pain becomes emptiness, just another spot to fill in your vacated chest.

english writing

If I close my eyes and think of the one place that comes to my mind when I think of where I’m from, I think of my kitchen. And it’s not because it’s my favorite room; it is where I grew up. It is where my roots are. It’s not really anything spectacular to look at, but it has memories. Is has a beige and brown tiled floor with an off-white flowered wall paper that has been there since the beginning of time, it seems. It has all the necessary electronics: refrigerator, stove, 2 ovens, and microwave. But to me, it’s more than that. It’s more than simply doing dishes and preheating the oven.
I grew up eating Sunday meals prepared with caring hands and warm hearts. Meals of steak or roast, mashed potatoes, and corn or broccoli. Homemade chocolate cake often accentuated the meal. My younger sister and I would argue over whose turn it was to day dishes. Somehow, we usually both ended up getting out of it.
My kitchen is the one room in my house that leads virtually everywhere. Downstairs to the computer and basement. Down the hall to my sanctuary, my bedroom. To the dining room, where I spent almost every night as a little girl drawing pictures and playing games. Outside, to the trampoline, pool, swing set, and sandbox. My mom would always be looking out the window in the kitchen, where she was making brownies or cookies, to make sure all of us kids were safely occupied in the backyard.
The kitchen was the most popular hide-and-seek hiding place. If Mom and Dad felt like joining in our game, they would sometimes lift us up on top to the refrigerator. It felt like I was on top of the world. In our six-seven-eight year old minds, we could see the world from six feet above the ground. But the best part was that the seekers could never find us.
I am the kind of person who embraces change but still likes to hold onto the familiarity of the past. I, like anyone, want a sense of security in my life. Although my family is far from perfect, and I don’t get along with them sometimes, I wouldn’t change them for the world. As life goes on and I grow from carrying dolls to carrying car keys through my kitchen, I will always have the foundation of security to hold me up and keep me hanging on.

Just The Average, Typical … (Girl? / Boy?)

I’m a girl.
Maybe I do enjoy hearing,
“I love you” fall from his lips,
And so what if I can never get enough,
Giggles,
Silly moments?
And, yes, I do wear make-up,
But it doesn’t take me six hours to apply.
And maybe, just maybe,
I love it when he tickles me,
Holds my hand,
Grabs my waist,
And gives me bear hugs.
And, ok, I’ll admit it,
I could spend the whole day at the mall.

But I’m a boy.
I hate pink.
You will never, ever find me wearing it.
I would pick worn-in jeans over miniskirts,
Last years’ sneakers over 3 inch heels, any day.
Given the choice:
Cheerleading or football?
You’ll find me on the gridiron,
Sprinting past the 15-yard-line,
Scoring the winning touchdown.
And contrary to popular belief,
I’m not anorexic.
I don’t always order salad.
I can eat.
Me and emotions don’t get along,
We try to avoid each other.
I HATE to cry.
Ignoring it is easier than talking about it.

I’m really a girl,
But deep down inside,
I’m kind of a boy too.
And maybe one day,
The world will be ready to accept all of me.

Start of English Memior

I grew up hearing the words “Good night. I love you. See you in the morning,” from my mom every night. On Saturdays and Sundays, it was my dad tucking us in. No, it’s probably not what you’re thinking. They weren’t divorced. Quite the opposite, in fact. They were, and still are, happily married despite the rising divorce rate. My dad worked nights, so it was my mom telling us every night to go brush my teeth, it was time for bed. My mom made dinner every night, and we all sat down together to eat. On Sundays she made a big meal: meat, potatoes, vegetables. We didn’t ask any questions. That was just the way it was. Since we didn’t invest in a television until I was nine, we often occupied lazy Saturday nights with family board games. Sorry, Uno, Golf. We were all pros at them.
“Mom, that’s not fair. She took my red card. Tell her to give it back.” Stamping feet, pouting faces, and thrown cards punctuated each complaint.
“Well, honey, she doesn’t know any better. She’s only three.”
I had you typical, average family. At least to me it was. In my nine year old brain, I never noticed that most kids had one or two brothers and sisters, not three sisters and one brother. It was ok with me. Big families meant we always had someone to play with, someone was always up to entertaining. I was used to sharing a bedroom and having my clothes stolen from my drawers. I didn’t say I liked it.
“Mom! Tell Rachel next time she wants to read one of my books to ASK,” I shouted up the stairs into the kitchen, where my mom was making brownies.
“Honey, learn to live with it. You’ve got nine more years of this,” she would always shout back, annoying me even more.
We would get up faithfully every Sunday at 7:30 to make the one hour trek to Clifton for church. No liked getting up early for church, but, once again, that was something that we never questioned. Of course, there were complaints every week. The same incessant ones. “Dad, I don’t want to get up. I’m tired.” And there were the magical 1 hour stomach aches. “Dad, I can’t go to church. My stomach hurts.” And if by chance he gave in, our stomach bug would magically disappear an hour later, just in time eat warm, sticky cinnamon buns.
But even though we had a content family, there was still something missing. It was kind of like when mom throws out one of your shirts. You know that something is missing; you just can’t seem to figure it out.