thoughts on canvas

You are never far from my thoughts, you know. Does that knowledge weigh on you like the sky does on Atlas’s shoulders, beautiful and vast and lovely even as it overwhelms you? That is how it is for me, knowing I exist not just as myself but as a million shattered mirror shards, each belonging to one person. They look at it, thinking they know me, but I will just reflect what they want to see. How do you see me? I hope your shard is the biggest. But be careful. I don’t want you to cut yourself. It hurts, you know. I wish you could see all of me, but I seem to have lost my glue and even then I don’t know how to turn a mirror into a self-portrait.

Still, I wonder what shape and color thoughts of me take. Do you paint me grey or vibrant, am I soft or sharp, and… and do you like what you see (perceive)? You must, for you kissed me and trailed your fingertips along my jawline, looking at me like I held the world in my hands, and not on my shoulders. I would know the meaning of that gaze, for that is how I look at you too, starry-eyed, promised, not caring if it might be naive.

I have memorized the curves of your lips, the ridges of your teeth, the way you sigh when I twirl your hair around my finger. You have a freckle on your left eyelid and your legs are too long for your body, kind of like a yearling colt. I have memorized the quirk of your smile and the stark blue of your eyes and the roll of your laugh when someone tells a joke. You are odd in your own ways but somehow you manage to charm- you charmed me, after all. I have memorized the stories which flow from your tongue and the information which swirls in your head and the way you weave words together into sentences. You have a deep perspicacity if you choose to, always pondering but never dwelling.

As a child, I knew three things: I loved my family, I loved to tell stories, and God was real.

The tune of my life was simple then, my dad would balance me on his knees so I could fly for just a moment, my sister would brush patterns onto my fingernails so I could be pretty like her, my brother, mischievous, poked me in the stomach before showing me his car engine so I could learn something new, my mom ran her fingers through my tousled hair, weaving a braid so tight my skull hurt and I felt loved. They loved me for the potential of who I would become, ambitious and beautiful and curious. Am I still that, now?

Things have changed since then. I used to drink three glasses of milk at dinnertime, back before it made me shit my guts out. I used to look up to my sister, back before she crumbled into smoke rings and broken vows and bitter justifications. I used to go to church and marvel at the words on the tissue paper in front of me, red and black and full of wisdom, back before the sight of that holy book made my heart clench.

I have a question for you: how many times did you kneel by your bedside as a child and pray “the” prayer? How many times did you beg God for forgiveness simply because you existed? How many times did you cry after making a mistake because you didn’t deserve to be saved anymore? Even if the answer is once, it is still too much. No child should live in constant fear of eternal damnation.

They say: if we are wrong and you are right, we lose nothing. If we are right and you are wrong, you lose everything. But allow me to ask you this: haven’t I already lost everything through daring to question? I have lost the respect and esteem of my family: my mom cries for me instead of my sister now, she plays another video about the erosion of our culture full of outrageous propaganda and caricatures and wonders where she went wrong, my dad has a quiet disappointment in his voice whenever I express an opinion contrary to his. I have lost certainty, because while I was stifled and afraid at least I knew why, at least there was a purpose behind it. I have lost myself.

It’s all a bit unfair, you know? You create a dilemma in which you are never wrong, in which doubt is a crime and truth is buried beneath fear. You say you have nothing to lose; but isn’t living your whole life blindly based on something that could be a lie a loss greater than the one that might incur if you choose to challenge your beliefs and seek truth no matter where it lies? This is not even a question. It is why I have chosen another path.

So why do I still lay awake at night, paralyzed with indecision? Why am I still struck with terror by the almighty God? How can I be afraid of something I don’t even believe in? That voice whispers in my ear, the voice of my mother. It whispers, “what if you are wrong?”. I suppose it is fitting that the woman who has given her life for me and cherished me from my braids to my breakdowns should be the woman to drive my self-doubts, too. After all, she told me God was real in the first place. And maybe that’s just it. Maybe it’s time to grow up.

I miss the desire to take on the world that I had as a little kid, wide-eyed and hungry. When TV’s were still thicker than the dictionary and cell phones could be closed if you wanted and tragedy was veiled behind your parents hands over your eyes during the nightly news. Sometimes I wonder if the world feels bigger or smaller now that I’m older, but most of the time I wonder if that question even matters. Here’s the one that does, in the end: when did my hunger for the world turn into being devoured by the headlines and the cross and my own amygdala? The predator becomes the prey; the child becomes an adult. They are one and the same.

I want to swallow the world whole. I want to feast on the oozing intestines of politicians whose words are an empty pit, I want to tear into the hearts of holy men whose dogma is a prison, I want to consume the corrupt like a starving jackal, baring its teeth in rebellion.

How dare they lie to me? How dare they feed on my hope, how dare they gulp me down into their stomachs to use my ambition for themselves?

I will ravage them from the inside out. I will tear at the linings of their bowels and claw at their lungs if that is what it takes. The prey becomes the predator; the adult tries to become a child again.

sometimes it scares me how much you see me. How you can look past all my reassurances and pick out my tells like they’re cockleburs on an old coat. Somehow you know me without me having to say a word, you read between the silences, brutally honest between my shaking hands and careful sentences. You make me want to tell you everything and nothing but somehow I’m always spilling over like I’m a river after a quick spring melt and my banks aren’t strong enough to hold everything in anymore. I lose control around you and somehow it’s the most freeing thing and I can’t explain it but I know I love the way you sound when my teeth are on your collarbone. I’ve never been good at letting go, but sometimes I think maybe I could learn to, and I’ve never been good at enjoying life for the sake of it, but maybe the uncertainty is exactly why I should feel more at home in my own skin.

Ignorance is my closest confidant- I’m hyped up on teenage wisdom and not a word of it is true- but each day I hope I come closer to knowing you. Knowing how you’re not much for planning unless it involves a character and a plot, knowing how you care deeply for people but don’t always show it, knowing how you need three to five business days to process your feelings sometimes, knowing how you don’t know what you want but you don’t really care that you don’t know, or maybe you do sometimes.

sometimes I wonder about you

how you feel about yourself

what portrait you are trying to paint

the paint you use for yourself is much different

than the beautiful portrait others see

you feel like you don’t have a voice

because who would want to listen to you?

you paint another shade of black over your heart

and whisper alone.

but I hear a harmonious song from your parted lips

and it draws me in with its serenity

color erupts into bloom on your canvas

from that quiet whisper alone.

you feel like you don’t have a friend

because who could ever love you?

you paint another shade of grey over your heart

and love alone.

but I feel cared for and welcomed in your presence

and I begin to love you as you are

your thoughtfulness paints another bright shade

from your selfless love alone.

you feel like you don’t have a shot

because who could find you intelligent?

you paint another shade of black over your heart

and ponder alone.

but I feel moved by your thoughts and insights

and I begin to learn from you as you do from me

your wisdom adds a rich background

from those deep ponderings alone.

yet, I know what you see when you gaze at your portrait.

it is all dark and black and empty and without worth

and you begin to wonder how you walked down the road of self hatred.

the truth of your portrait is far less dismal.

you are a work of art, dear, full of color and life and kindness and value.

you are beautiful.

I begin to wonder how I can help you see the same canvas that I do- the real one.

you yearn to see yourself in color

when I stopped believing

I was afraid of the uncertainty

The not knowing and the never learning

The promise of death being a stranger

But it is weird how

I never gained or lost certainty

The kind I had simply changed

And I know which I prefer

Before, I knew that I was saved

That I was special, that I was righteous

But how could that be

When all those around me

Wore the same kindness on their hearts

Without professing belief?

I laid awake at night, anxiety consumed

Counting lost souls instead of sheep

And wondering how God could love me so

If he had such wrath for the rest

It didn’t matter how saved I was

When other kind souls were damned

Now, I am no longer saved

I am no longer special, I am no longer righteous

I am like the kind souls around me

Burning bright in the present, in life

I lay awake at night wondering

What if I am wrong to not believe

What if my soul will receive

Wrath instead of love when I expire

But no matter

I will not be saved

For I stand in solidarity with my brethren

As another kind soul