lily's wild thoughts

On a clear and sunny day, the sky is blue.

The earth rotates on an axis and follows the sun around the galaxy.

Two plus two equals four.

Death comes for all.

I love her with insanity and grounded deviation all at once.

I would carve my own beating heart from my chest with a kitchen knife if it meant keeping her alive.

I would let her hurt me, wear me down to nothing, and i would ask for more.

steady on, though they’re gone

steady on, whether it night or day

The weather app said it was “clear.”

(Maybe outside but not in my mind.)

I made myself a cup of tea and went out onto the deck. Within minutes, the morning sky grayed and the rain began to fall.

i was told i was free from a young age  so i thought i knew what it meant:

sticky, sugaring pops of fourth of july tearful songs of sacrifice 

white twinkle lights and  a red, white, blue banner

but i recently learned that those things have lost all meaning that the mid summer holiday falls away

and in its place 

is a life without hinderance or restraint.

this time, i tell myself i am free and i know that it means:

acting, speaking, thinking as me not as you expect me to be

it means sweet tequila kisses on the weekend joyful laughter and song

a colorful world a pink, purple, blue banner

freedom is-

every day every breath  every blink

My prayer is that you come to know the things you’ve given me. That you come to know rest and peace. That you’re granted respite, a safe set of arms to hold you and soothe you. That you have a place you can always go to know joy and to know anger, and know love in both times. That you know what it means to close your eyes and sleep, comforted by the fact that in the eyes of at least one person, you will be love regardless of who you are or what you’ve done.

A disturbingly short time ago, in a land surprisingly close by…

There could live a girl. She could be seventeen years old, with thick brown hair that she took particularly good care of. She could have brown eyes that didn’t particularly sparkle or compare to chocolate, but could be considered warm if her gaze fixed on someone she liked. This girl…could perhaps not be an accelerated student, but one who had to struggle to pass (but still passed). She could live in a town that wasn’t so small everybody knew everybody, but also didn’t live in a buzzing metropolis loosely based on New York or LA. She could simply be a girl who had some friends, but didn’t like most of them, and a family she yelled at quite a lot of but still loved.

She could have a sketchbook open during her history class, and tell a story of her own, one that feels more than what she’s supposed to dream about.

A long time ago, in a land far away…

There lived a girl. This girl was no older than eighteen, no younger than fifteen—it’s more fun if we leave it to your imagination. One with mousy brown hair that her quirky friend could fix in one night, and blue eyes that sparkled like the sapphire seas of the Mediterranean (or whatever blue people are using nowadays). 

She was remarkably perfect for a young adult novel, really. Timid, but fierce. Not the smartest girl in school, but a bookworm who pushed her glasses up her nose when she was nervous. You could find her in coffee shops, listening to bands nobody had ever heard of. 

Or maybe she’d be in her room, alone on a Friday night and just waiting for someone to come sweep her off of her feet and show her a world of excitement. Quite possibly, she could teach this ‘someone’ to have a tender heart in return.

She could love a boy, at one point, only for that boy to stop loving her. She could give herself to him and realize it’s not all like the movies. She could be bad every so often, and also realize that’s not at all like the movies.

She could have an anger that brewed in her chest, though she didn’t know where it came from. She could throw you a glare to kill, eat an entire pizza to prove a point, or eat an avocado because she loved to take care of her body. She could feel empty and beat down, broken and not able to be fixed by the love of a high school boy.

She could always have that look about her, that look of otherness, of eyes seeing things much too far away, and of thoughts that wonder of the edge of the world.

She could want to end her life because fighting, angry, empty…it wasn’t enough to fuel her anymore. She could do it.

So what if she did?

What if she drove to the more mountainous region of her state? What if she took no provisions, no shelter, and no phone. What if she waited at the top of a cliff and watched the sunset blaze over the trees-

—like the anger that blazed in her gut, if you will—

—and patiently sat by as the stars began to twinkle?

What if she thought, Twinkle…twinkle is a funny word.

What if she closed her eyes, held out her arms…and let herself fall over the edge of the cliff?

A bell rang. Alexis shut her sketchbook and began to pack up her class. Nobody paid attention to her drawing, nobody paid attention to her tears. People moved around her, unseeing and uncaring. 

Her backpack was thrown carelessly over her shoulder. 

It drains you of life. You’re touching something cold and wet, but the heat comes and its sucking you dry, leaving no trace of moisture. Just cracks in your skin, desperate to be filled. You’re dust, but you’re trying to feel your way back into something solid and it fails you.

Its about what you touch.

It’s a bold-faced-liar, garlic bread hitting your nostrils one moment, only to open the oven and cough out the choked scent of burned bread and bitter disappointment. Its about what you smell.

It’s a woman in a pretty red dress, a man in a well-fitted suit. It’s handsome and promising. Possibility, Possibility. Underneath that pretty dress is a lazy bum. Underneath that handsome suit is a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a slowly smoked cigarette. Its about what people see.

Nobody ever tells you about the drowning. About the anger, the self-hatred, the way you find worthlessness because you will NEVER meet its expectations. Nobody ever tells you about how, when you fail, you’re stuck with oppressive voices in your head, voices dying to be heard. They have stories to tell, they inform you. So you have to share them because otherwise you’re mad. The thing is, sometimes you can’t share them. Sometimes you’re too stuck, unable to move forward and instead circling around these voices and telling them to go away, to stop.  There are others who tell you how it works. Those who say you’re almost good enough, but you can always be better. Those who say it’s a gift you’re supposed to share. Is it for you? Or is it for others?

(Or is simply so that the voices in your mind don’t take over your own? Or are their voices really your voices?)

It’s about what you hear.

it is dark and lonely here in this little room i’ve created

the world outside of it terrifies me

deep breath, deep breath

light explodes from the crack under the door and i-

i dream -

but i cant -

deep breath, deep breath

i scoot farther back from the door until my back presses against the cold wall

my hand reaches for something anything and finds that other fingers intertwine with mine

deep breath, deep breath

do you see the light beneath the door? i ask, timid

yes he breathes though sometimes i think it isn’t real

because it feels like a dream, i agree and i dream of pink, blue, and purple color that paints my skin and lets the world know who i am

but i cant so it is only a dream

a beautiful dream  he whispers me, i dream of blue, pink, and white color that paints my skin and lets the world know who i am 

everyone says that golden hour is in the evening. you know, when the world glows and you feel a touch of heaven

but my are they wrong  golden hour is at dawn  when you reach a sleepy hand across sheets when you touch, gentle and loving  and my heart simply bursts with light

i grow so very tired of being told to perk up so do not speak to me of your perception of my tiredness

i do not need to perk up 

i need to sleep in the dark forget your face for awhile  find a way to look with sight 

why do you feel the need to correct me

my eyes sting my world blurs my shoulders ache

i like to think of you still laughing still smiling still causing trouble in the dining room

it always filled me with such

delight

to see your head back shoulders shaking mischief glinting

you knew that 

joy 

so well

how to bring it when i had none how to sing it when i was silent how to see it when i was blind

even now

the memory fills my heart,      my ears,           the space behind my eyelids 

so yes

I was made to worship That’s the instruction I received That I was crafted by loving hands to reflect God       and Salvation               and Love.

Thus This is what they meant:

For loving hands to hold me, Guide me, So I may kneel at her altar And be absolved of my sins

Surely This is what they meant:

For us to twine our legs together at night And press my adoration into the center of her being For this to absolve me of my sins For her to find ecstasy at my confession

This is what they meant.

Why else would I feel such peace? Why else would I feel the snares of death lose their grip on me? Why else would I be filled with divine joy?

This is what they meant:

For me to taste and see Who was good And where life came from

This is what they meant -

When they said There’s a hollow in our inner being that craves someone to worship.

When they said We seek the Other Worldly and we fall to our knees and exalt.

This is what they meant -

When they taught me to love my god and profess a joyful noise

This is what they meant -

i was unsure of any higher power but She made me a believer because                       by God

I think, at the end of all things, I might just like to close my eyes and  Rest. 

Such a foreign concept, currently. 

I know stress, the weight of it. I know anger, the fire of it. I know hurt, the gaping of it. I know noise, the crowding of it.

But rest. 

What is she? 

What does it mean, to close your eyes and sink into oblivion? What does it mean, to pull the blanket over your chest and sigh when your head hits the pillow? What does it mean—

To breathe. 

I have not been able to fill my lungs for years. When I try to draw in air, there is nothing, For I am empty, empty, empty. 

Perhaps one day, I will lay my head, take that deep breath, and rest. For now, I scream and I cry and I toss and I turn 

But

I make no noise. 

But

I move, not.