Writing

“Lately I’ve been thinking about Dating…

When I picture myself dating, I imagine I’m funny. The jokes are one-liners, Killer punchline after punchline. I imagine I’m handsome. The outfit screams dapper, Confidence seeps from my pours. I imagine I’m charismatic. The tension is electric, My mouth dancing with words, And I never stumble over my lips. I imagine I’m the best. The failing leaves my mind, Consumed by constant success. I am perfect.

In reality I am A self-portrait I quit painting: An unfinished, self-evaluating project. I’m the book I started writing When I was depressed But could never bring myself to get too Invested in. I am plot holes in a Story: An unfulfilling mess after two-thirds of Reading me, With an ending that could never Summarize the Journey.

“He sits with me in my driveway Under the pale glow of the streetlight. His gaze an eery feeling of remorse, A feeling of too little too late.

My breath scrapes the windshield, Glides down the glass and vanishes slowly. Every time I inhale, I notice how cold I am. The streetlight illuminates the passenger seat, Empty and cold, Reserved for her.

Looking in the rear view mirror, I see him sitting in the back, Hands folded on his lap, Cloaked in midnight black. His breath pinches my neck, Warmth finishes fleeing the car, Chills spreading across my body quickly. The sound of the stereo escalates.

I’m terrified. In fact, I’m frozen. The words are distant. I hear the piano and regret never learning, And the guitar is screaming before I’m Screaming. This is it. The car is filled with me, With my life, With this horrified belief That I am as broken as I feared. With my voice cutting through the air, The night defeats me.

My heart stops, Or I am at least gasping for breath. Clinching my chest, I frantically turn around. He is no longer there. I’m still frozen, Covered in a cold sweat, Breathing, Living.

I open the door to my car, Step out, And walk toward the porch. I imagine myself smiling, I don’t know if I am, But I hope they believe I am okay.

As I twist the handle and push on the door, A cold breeze pinches my neck.

“7:30. We are at the movies. I can feel your presence. The smell of popcorn is overpowering, But I can still smell your perfume. You’re next to me, Breathing, Slouching ever so slightly, Debating whether to get popcorn: Your face scrunches, You turn to me, I glance at you and shrug.

7:45. We find our seats. I walk down the aisle first, You follow. You sit next to me. Your arm brushes my arm. I’m not going to say sparks fly, But I remember it. The drink is between us, Already sweating, Drops of condensation collects on The drink and my hands. I’m not sure why the drink is nervous, But you are so beautiful.

8:00. The lights dim, 15 minutes of commercials begin. You dip down in your seat. You’re now a foot shorter than me, So I adjust to a happy equilibrium. I can see you chewing. I think I see you notice me noticing you, But I hesitate, Just to see you a second longer.

8:15. The movie announcer thanks you: Rewards member. Five dollars off our Number One combo. The lights go out. I suddenly become aware of the theater: Large, half-full, hushed. I sink down in my seat, Hiding from those around us. You shrink too. We’re hidden.

8:30. The movie is well on its way. You shift, Rotating in your seat, Legs tangling with mine. I shift, Sitting up. The moment is gone. I don’t think there was a moment. I glance at you, A handful of popcorn disappears. I smile. You point the popcorn toward me. Caught. Smile spreading, I grab a handful.

9:30. Climax. People are sniffling. Colds. Tears. Not sure. You check your phone, A faint glow from your purse. Your face is illuminated: Forehead, Nose, Mouth, Chin. I think after all these years, I still notice something each time I see you That makes me fall in love with you.

10:00. The main character didn’t die. A few people died. Credits roll. I sit up. You look at me. You smile. We share an exchange, Something about it being okay. I lead the way out of the theater. You’re close behind.

10:15. We’re in my car. I can’t stop looking at you. You are my favorite person. I make a joke. It’s terrible, As always.

10:30. I’m driving. I hate driving. We’re talking politics. We agree on everything. You are at ease. I’m tense. I’m driving too fast: 70 mph. Reckless or risk taker. I can’t bring myself to tell you I love you. It has been a long time. I’m so in love with you.

10:45. We’re almost to your road. You ask if we can drive around. I drive by your road. We’re discussing social media. We say "Fuck” way too often. I’m laughing. You’re laughing. It is unbearably comfortable.

11:00. McDonald’s fries. Diet Dr. Pepper. I know your order. I know your order to a lot of places. I think you know mine too. You stretch ever so slightly, A yawn bellows out. We’re an old couple. Our bedtime is overdue. I keep driving.

11:15. We discuss life, This town constricting our desires, Our hope to travel, Our hope to be happy. I hope you mean together.

11:30. We do not discuss feelings. I am a million feelings in one being, Bursting. I cannot speak. My words catch in my throat. I want to tell you how much I need this: Driving, Freedom, Love, Hope, You. I bring up work. You mutter. I mutter back. Silence. Coward.

11:45. I don’t drive by your road. I turn. You’re still smiling.

12:00. Midnight. Your driveway. I look at you. I want to say something. You look at me. Nothing is said, But I believe you know. I hope you know. You open the door, Step out, Diet Dr. Pepper in hand, And walk in front of my car to the door. You vanish without turning around. I fucking love you.

12:15. I’m almost home. It’s foggy. I nearly miss my driveway. The music is too loud. I made it. I text you. You’re the person who cares.

12:30. I’m already in bed. Lights off. I’m not tired. I start writing. I want to tell the world about you. How perfect you are. How I am so incredibly lucky to have The opportunity to tell you How crazy I am about you, Even though I never do. But I’m crazy about you. I really am.

“When you grow up in a household Where an unreported Assault takes Place each week,

‘Shut up’ starts to sound like 'I love you,’ And soon enough 'What do you want for dinner?’ Spoken in a calm voice By your father Feels like his marriage vows, And 'Up to you, hunny’ Sounds like your mother saying 'I do.’

The honeymoon is dinner Without an argument,

And the joy of the first year of Marriage is crammed into One night of watching movies As a family: Mom and Dad snuggled on the Couch. It’s as if the bruise on Her cheek is no longer A painful reminder of Twenty-four hours prior When Dad kissed her with his knuckles.

The next day, Flowers arrive on the front porch. 'To: My Love.’ Mom is smiling, Her eyes glistening in the sunlight, The bruise in full bloom: Purples, reds, and blues Decorate her face, And she knows she can’t Leave the house for the Next two days until the swelling subsides.

She always tells herself she loves him, And she does; However, Sometimes when she looks in the mirror, She cannot imagine herself at Sixteen or sixty. Her identity is the bruise, And for a split second she feels The weight of the world Crashing against her shoulders And a single sob escapes Her throat in the form of defeat.

When you grow up in a household Where an unreported Assault takes Place each week,

Crying goes unnoticed, And Mom walking out of the bathroom With a smile on her face Reassures you everything will be Fine. You need her to be Fine, And she needs you to be Fine. And neither one of you are Fine. But you tell yourself it’s Fine. Because it has to be Fine. It isn’t Fine.

When you grow up in a household Where an unreported Assault is noticed Every week,

“I was standing beside my mother When the man started speaking of Eternal damnation. ‘Christ is the only one who can save you,’ He said as he shifted his stance, Prowling across the stage, Looking for a child to scare into commitment. I was ten. He locked eyes with me, And a smile teased the edge of his mouth. I could feel the pressure, Or maybe I could feel God. At the time, I wasn’t sure there was a difference.

I was kneeling beside my father When I admitted defeat: Jesus was my Lord and Savior. I was eleven. I had just committed to my Maker, And I could still feel Hell looming Over me, Casting a shadow on the altar Of my God’s making. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ Everyone said as I stood in front of the Small congregation, Seventy-two eyes staring at me, Judging my willingness to follow The rest of them. I hoped I could now join the Saints as they went marching in.

I was riding in the backseat of the van When I asked my mother If God hated people. I was fourteen. My Sunday school teacher mentioned Obama being a murderer – abortion, it was called. He said our God would never let A ‘baby murderer’ into His home. My mother remained silent, Avoiding the answer, And perhaps she knew I wouldn’t Like the truth.

I was looking in the mirror When His voice asked If I loved Him unconditionally. I didn’t know the answer. I was seventeen. My God had built so many promises On quicksand, And I could feel His commitment to me Sinking to levels only my Commitment to Him had reached. God and I dug trenches between us, And as I looked upon either side of our face, I realized His side of the battlefield Yielded more casualties than mine.