like the melting clocks but this time you see the people melting

Today’s one of those days where I feel terribly scared. I don’t know how I can win more time. I’ve always been half decent at talking my way out of things, but I can’t talk my way out of this one. Don’t know how I can do that to make them any healthier, to lessen the lines of age, to stop the trembling. 

I’m scared of time passing. 

But I can only milk what I can of this time given, in all this uncertainty. I’ve taught myself to forget numbers and time when I’m with them. In the times I catch myself putting a bright screen between me and them, I feel my own heart breaking for being a selfish grandchild, for wasting the time I’ve been given; a warm question is met with an empty, distracted reply. Grandpa watched me play a silly little phone game the other day, asked me if he could play it on his phone too. Looking to find a point of relatability, of connection with his grandchild. I need to listen, I need to be present. All those stories, the scolding, the questions, I’ve been taking them for granted so long.

I’m so scared. I’m scared of things slipping away. I’m scared of moving forward, of wishing for days to come, because I know that with time moves everybody else.

So I continue hold onto their sleeves.

A little girl and her grandparents, wearing seams of memory, love, and time.

even without my glasses, I’m not blind enough to not see that

lately, my pieces are dyed in a deep shade of blue.

because even when I’m angry I see blue. even when I say I’m fine with creating alone, I draw people holding one another. even when I tip-toe into the night, I listen for a breath.

because when I sleep at night, I curl into myself, hold myself for company.

it seems that I’ve been dyed a deep shade of blue. it seeped in without my noticing and now it’s unavoidable.

radio static both scares and intrigues me.

the voices that fade in and out, the crackling that crumbles over words, forms gravel walls between understanding and story.

people want the words, the voices, the connection

and yet

the radio static continues on, despite all the efforts to make it go away.

it sounds lonely.

is there anyone who listens to radio static?

can you hear its voice?

I wonder, I really do, if there is any music, any story, anything, that the static wants us to hear.

for now, I’ll let the static wash over.

when you run with full force, make a hard stop, and turn around.

I’m not brave or daring, nothing like the heroes I grew up wanting to be, nothing like the victory for friendship, the risk for belief, the headstrong run towards future. 

It’s too difficult so I won’t do it. I’ve messed up before, so I won’t. I’m not ashamed, I’m used to this.

But I’m so, very, very, ashamed. 

And it’s about damn time I let myself feel this shame. Coward.

Because I don’t want this shame, I want to change. Because I’m tired of unfinished projects and choked back words, hard stops and canceled plans, I can’ts and I won’ts. 

Because, well,

I want to turn to face forward again.

You’re foolish, too careful, and selfish. Wake up, idiot. 

-note to self

more on tadpole lungs but this time

it feels a little more like tide pools

words left unsaid, swirling and pulling, catching my breath, sweeping me off my feet

I’ve always been a bit of a coward. Can’t get too close to the tide pools, can’t let those words overflow, can’t let them overwhelm. Bottle them up and send them back into the ocean, so much that the waves becomes restless again. Rush back to rocky shore. Tide pools.

Powerful words, longing words, even just singing words. Left unsaid and unsung.

As tadpoles fill lungs, give lumps in throat, I stumble on tide pools. Trip on the jagged rocks, stumble over my own bare feet, feel myself slip. Raw feet.

How raw these words are. How sweet and sad. How words wash over the old, to try to forget.

And yet they continue to pool.

Continue reading “more on tadpole lungs but this time”

voice box

I’m having trouble sleeping from a few words my sister said to me so I’ll just write until I can sleep.

It’s a little sad isn’t it? You’re feeling some ways sad, or maybe a lot of ways.

The way you speak, your words, you–it’s just all too much. It’s hateful. Introversion? Not even close. Says her. Says he. Says them. Because she’s-he’s-they’re the one who decides who you are, isn’t that right?

Contrary. 

You’ve drilled the words over and over haven’t you, the little rhyme with the sticks and stones? It’s rough, isn’t it? Aren’t you tired?

You’ve stopped liking how you talk, how words rise and run, how you’re you. 

Why is that?

Simple.

You hold too much weight in the words of others, too much weight over your own, too much so that you are held down, so much that you hold yourself at a distance.

It shouldn’t be this way.

The way you talk is odd, overwhelming to some (or a lot) but it’s got its own charm to it, an excitability, an energy. The way words stumble in the run, hopping at intervals and sprinting at some, it’s a runaway symphony. The words are simple, honest. And you. Well, you’re still growing aren’t you? You’re still learning aren’t you? 

So don’t be so hard on yourself.

You’re doing okay.

I like listening to your voice, so let’s keep this melody running.