Letter I Wish I Could Send // (mature content)

(I feel like this one should include a disclaimer/trigger warning… There’s definite swearing and if you have had a traumatic sexual experience that you are still working through, maybe skip to another post.)

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What is fascinating about this process of writing (and moreso, sharing) these letters, is that I can’t help but wonder if I am overreacting.  If I am being exhibitionistic. If I am oversharing. My aim is to be authentic and real.  To let you know that you are not alone. To share my process of, well, processing. Of healing. Of dealing with my emotions. Maybe the internet doesn’t need more of this.  But the internet doesn’t really need more cat videos either, and those keep popping up so…

 

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Letter I Wish I Could Send // (mature content)

Letter I Wish I Could Send // Lies

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So, if you saw my post yesterday, you know that I’m working on a new series of posts containing letters I wish I could send to various people in my life.  I’m processing, venting, expressing, lamenting, reminiscing, and in general, just trying to identify some of the things I wish I could express but feel like I can’t or don’t know how.  So far a lot of them are focused on working through things from my past.  Do you have any things/activities/etc. that have been helpful for you to work through past hurts?  Or to help get closure?

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Letter I Wish I Could Send // Lies

Letters I Wish I Could Send

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And thus begins a new series comprised of:

Letters I wish I could send

to people from all aspects of my life.  People from the past, the present, and who knows, maybe even the future.  People who I love, who have hurt me, who I miss.  I’m going to do my best to not get too into specifics… I don’t want to slander anyone, or hurt anyone.  Just process and vent and maybe connect to some of you readers who can relate to these letters I wish, for one reason or another, that I could send.

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Letters I Wish I Could Send

Lingering

Like mascara trails down her cheek,
exhaustion in muscles weak.

The tender ache of a bruise,
the baby weight you can’t lose.

Trembling after his rage,
sense of loss after emptying cage.

The taste of wine that you sip,
the ghost of his touch on your lip.

Final song at the end of the night,
hurtful words that were said in a fight.

Garlic scent still on his breath,
The longing left after a death.

Smell of smoke in the distant wind,
sense of shame; accusation: you sinned.

Sense of dread from that first casket view,
Eerie silence post storm blowing through.

Emotion of dreams upon waking,
It’s all over yet shoulders still shaking.

 

Lingering

It was just an adjective.

Simple sounds
muffled amongst the layers of meaning
that wrap overlap and veil
Meant to convey
they confuse refusing to be as simple as they seem
Because we’ve imbued them all
Convoluted them all
And if they’re not in a dictionary yet, just you wait
And the words on the screen broken down
are just pixels perceived by your eyes
Any meaning perceived
all lies behind
where the lines are converted to sounds
wrapped around and around with meaning
A mean thing
created by the creatures determined to drown out the actual sounds and
Perhaps the magic of music is found
in the substance of sound without meaning,
sound just being

If I could only just be.

And feel

(The wind of the word
a i r
and the Teeth
(Are you feeling your Tongue Touch the Tip of your Teeth
and your breath breath breath)
the swish and the swash of the grass and
the buzz of the bugs
and the squish and the squash of the marsh
and the gal-lop gal-lop gal-lop)

When did sounds become words
and words become meaning
and meaning become so abstract
that I can’t even grasp what it is to mean.

It was just an adjective.

the damage of one dandelion

He was everything that has roots in the cracks of my skin that are sidewalk scars – the bleeding wrinkles of time in my soul that had scabbed over but ripped open anew – and I hate him for it.

He was the middle school girl in science  class
Too high in the social strata to acknowledge her
Unless it was a partner lab day and the other popular girls were out sick.
And then they were best friends.

He was her father’s anger
and her parents’ fighting
Unaffected by her perfect grades
(And the voluntary additional chores
And resume-building
And extra curriculars)
And she was still sitting helplessly at the top of the stairs,
listening.

He was the boy who asked her to go swimming
At the empty house
And then cornered her in the pool
And left her feeling guilty for not seeing the signs earlier
And thinking she was the one at fault.

To pull a weed with a system of roots so deep can tear up entire worlds.

 

the damage of one dandelion

Referential Existence

Words are so remarkably frustrating. They never fully encapsulate what I am trying to convey… the swirl of thoughts and logical strands, the elegant images and buzz of emotions tingling in my veins… they never flow out of my mouth, instead they tumble and crash like the waves on a beach trying to reach the dunes but failing because their shoes have been tied together and so they fall on their face and are dragged back to the sea of confused meaninglessness by the moon, which doesn’t even make any sense because the moon is so far away so how can its influence reach us.  These things, these letters and words are so limiting so constraining so endless so infinite so definable so utterly incomprehensible…

I took a poetry class in my final year of college.  I sat in a desk,
watching our professor try to pull the strands
just enough to let the light come through the impressions painted with pens,
just enough to get a glimpse of the supple curves and delicate skin,
without shedding the fullness of the harsh light that would shatter the seduction.
Just enough to convince us that we are not alone in our aloneness,
that others, too, are thwarted in their attempted sharing of the solitary oneness of self,
looking to the tilted mirrors of those around them, disappointed.1
Yes, and2
That others, too, recognize words as an elegy to what they signify,3
wavering between being and loss, awash in an incommunicable sea of existing.
That others, too, have sensed the strangeness of holding an unusable, yet somehow beautiful, broken tile of memory 4 in hand with a gentle wondering of what to do
that others, too, feel themselves at the center of a powerful and baffled will,5
Yes, and that others, too, are desperately avoiding erasure6
Aware of oblivion’s inevitability7
And the feeling or fact that
what has been done will be done again
and that there is nothing new under the sun8
And that originality is a myth
And that why is ultimately unanswerable

And so,

Vladimir:             What do we do now?
Estragon:             Wait.
Vladimir:             Yes, but while waiting.9

 


1 Hass, Robert. “The Apple Trees at Olema.” The Apple Trees at Olema. Harper Collins, 2010.
2 Rankine, Claudia. Citizen: An American Lyric. Graywolf Press, 2014.
3 Hass, Robert. “Meditation at Lagunitas.” The Apple Trees at Olema. Harper Collins, 2010.
4 Hass, Robert. “Novella.” The Apple Trees at Olema. Harper Collins, 2010.
5 Hass, Robert. “Misery and Splendor.” The Apple Trees at Olema. Harper Collins, 2010.
6 See footnote 2.
7 Reference to John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars
8 Ecclesiastes 1:9
9 Beckett, Samuel. Waiting for Godot. Grove Press, 1954.

Referential Existence