The Door

5/6/2020

I grew tired of keeping it open all the time.

The draft from his ghost was nearly unbearable.

Although it seemed but a breeze to some,

it had a tendency to bring me to my knees

every single time it wisped past my memory.

My hands grew calloused with splinters from the wood of his disdain.

My feet became bloodied with blisters from being the wedge between his abandonments.

My reactions intensified with immediate palpitations from the daggers in his mendacious eyes.

My core is becoming weaker by the minute trying to keep you from opening this creaky door.

With all of my might, I hold myself against it,

sweat pouring from my skin.

My battle going unnoticed,

with the wood stains beginning to camouflage my despondency.

I am slowly losing this fight,

while you maniacally knock at a tune too catchy to ignore.

I just can’t.

I can’t open myself up to you,

because I know the second that I do,

your curious knocking will instantaneously stop in absolute disgust

as I reveal the woman I really am just waiting

behind the door.

The Thread

5/3/2020
For Mom:

We were once woven so tightly.

Wrapped up into a cozy, familiar blanket

that kept us warm from the inside out.

Your consistent threads of validation intertwined

with your needles of grace that maintained us as the devoted unit

we would always be known for.

We were once woven so tightly.

Becoming a well-preserved heirloom

passed down from many different patches.

Your jovial and cordial thread sewing us together,

making our blanket unbelievably spectacular

with you at the center of it all.

We were once woven so tightly,

but your perpetual weaving suddenly took its toll.

Your hands became weaker,

with knuckles too inflamed to add any more of your glorious threads.

And just as we were becoming confident in our blanket,

your essential force became unexpectedly absent,

leaving us without a pattern to follow.

We were once woven so tightly,

but you were the thread that,

once loosened,

we all came undone.

Good Enough

Good Enough 5/3/2020

I think I’m pretty

enough.

I think I’m funny

enough.

I think I can carry a conversation well

enough.

I think I’m a good catch.

Well, a good enough catch.

I think I’m bound to find him one day. I know he will be

enough.

I’m crammed in between the corners of my imagination and reality.

Straddling the lines between just right and almost there.

Wedged between convincing beginnings and suspicious conclusions.

Balancing acts of showing my true colors and watching everyone strain to see its rainbow.

I think I’ve shown

enough.

I think I’ve dreamt long

enough.

I think I’ve done

enough.

I think I’ve always been almost

enough.

I think I’ve been through

enough

to know that I’ve had

enough

of wondering why being

enough

is never good

enough.

The Back Burner

4/17/2020

You cook up your lies with subconscious intentions,
all the while having me believe you were acknowledging my existence.
I can feel your forged validation beginning to steam me to my core,
its fog slowly clouding my perception of you.
I can feel your irrational enigmas splatter upon my face,
reluctantly knowing that their stains will never wash out of my facade.
Your heat intensifies by the minute,
forcing me to bubble over with thoughts of assumed acceptance.
In order to stop the spurting of any kind of recognition,
you capriciously grab a lid to block me out.
Condensation builds as fast as your rejection,
as I abruptly crack under its pressure.
And then, there you go again,
evasively touching me,
to only move me farther away from you.
Just close enough to still feel your incredulous heat,
and yet far enough away for me to not be burned by it.

Neighbor

4/17/2020

Walking up the stairs,
avoiding all eye contact.
I just want to make it inside
before I break down.
Opening the door,
immediately falling to my knees.
I heave out all of my insecurities one by one,
tearing myself into a million more pieces in the process.
It’s impossible to explain:
that feeling of just wanting to be seen,
to just be heard,
to just be acknowledged,
to just be wanted,
but knowing you’ll only be just an insignificant ghost to them.
I crawl to my bed,
crying so hard that my body permanently cramps into a despondent curl.
I can’t help but raucously moan out my loneliness,
in hopes that the walls between us are proofing out the sound of my dejection.
All I can do is watch these desolate vibrations descend through the floor.
Hoping among all hopes,
that she can’t hear my weeping
every single night.

Triggered

4/18/2020


I feel like a puzzle with mismatched pieces.
I can’t complain about it, though,
because at least I have pieces left, right?
I’m not sure if some pesky pieces were ever included in my package
or if some of them have just gone inexplicably missing.
I find myself frantic trying to find out where these pieces fit.
If they’ll ever fit into my dilapidated self-worth.
I often wonder if some pieces just fell underneath the carpet that I happen to cover my insecurities with,
or if some are still stuck to the tear stains that haven’t dried yet.
I regularly find myself crumbling in and out of some kind of trigger-fed spiral.
I can’t control when it comes or goes
and am even more perplexed when the spiral suddenly stops.

They made me this way.
All of my tragic rejections transformed my once wild heart into a sputtering mess.
I can’t seem to shake it.
I am alone in this.
I can only figure this out by myself.
It can be so miserable at times-
to be this isolated with such a tumultuous conscious.
To always find yourself triggered by such petty things,
like continuously searching for missing pieces that were never there in the first place.

I feel like a puzzle with mismatched pieces.
I can’t complain about it though,
because no one listens to a person struggling with the pieces they have left.

Frequency

4/18/2020

This futile static is deafening.
The mixing of its volatile high and low pitches forces me to cover my ears,
as if it will lull out our incessantly redundant noise.
I frantically turn the knobs,
attempting to reach some kind of comprehension,
but only end up with more stations to fumble through.

This confounding chaos is relentless.
The persistent banter of your ego somehow registers my own problems invalid.
I frenziedly try to ignore you as you press every one of my buttons.
Prying my mouth wide shut, with eyes wide open,
I am left helpless and hopeless as I watch you neglectfully mute me.

I just don’t get it.
With so many tones between us
and so much static left to decipher,
why couldn’t you tune your belligerent frequency for once
and just HEAR me?