Seventy-One Days

One week ago,
there was no countdown.
There was no excitement.
There was no talk of, “When you’re here…”
Now,
there is.

In seventy-one days,
I will pick your sleepy, jet-lagged ass up from the airport.
Here, only 22:30, 12/07/17.
There, already 06:30, 13/07/17.
I only get more excited as the days creep by.

In seventy-one days,
I will quite literally tackle you to the ground in the airport,
just settling in for the night,
and jolt it (and you) awake with the squeak of your name.
Your fellow passengers will likely look at me like I’m insane.
Fuck ’em.

In seventy-one days,
I will finally find myself locked in your embrace,
face buried in your chest,
(tall Dutch jackass),
and exhibit feminine, bitch-like behaviour involving tears of joy.

In seventy-one days,
after one-hundred-ninety-three days of unconditional love and support,
I will kiss you for the first time.
I will tell you to your face,
“Ik hou zo veel van jou…, mijn beertje,”
with a shit-eating grin on my face.
And I will love every second of it.

In seventy-one days,
I will sit in the back seat with you as you drift in and out of sleep,
speaking softly to you.
I will run my fingers through your hair,
a stupid grin on my face,
through the entire hour and a half car ride home.

In seventy-one days,
I will drag your tired ass inside,
put you to bed,
and shortly thereafter,
lay down beside you.

In seventy-one days,
I will drift off to sleep at your side,
in your arms,
and sleep peacefully…
for the first time in a long time.

I Am Not

am not cookie dough.
You can’t just find your favorite cookie cutter,
hidden in the cabinets,
long forgotten from my childhood,
and press me into who you want to see—
what you wish I’d turned into rather than what I’ve become.
am not cookie dough,
and I am not sorry that you can’t handle the warped finished product.
You burned the cookie.

am not a quilt.
You can’t just take your favorite fabrics,
your favorite pieces of me,
and sew them into a pretty little blanket.
Crisp edges and bright colors with wide fields of May flowers preceded only by mild April showers.
am not a quilt,
and I am not sorry that you’re unhappy with the aesthetic of a frayed, storm-torn, barren cluster of scraps.
You fucked up the stitching.

am not a military contract.
You can’t sign up for 18 years,
serve your time,
and choose not to reenlist when shit goes south;
decide that you don’t want to re-commit because the state of my psyche has declared WWIV.
WWIII was mandatory—
year 16 or 18.
Damn.
So close, right?
I am not a military contract,
and I am not sorry for the wars you let happen, contributed to.
You were blind to the red flags.

I am not your “smiley baby girl.”
Not anymore.
You can’t just stick your head in the sand,
watching the clips of the past in the recesses of your mind.
She’s dead;
she has been for ten years.
What’s left is the husk of the creature she wanted to be.
I am not your “smiley baby girl” anymore,
and the only thing I’m sorry for is the burden you place on others in picking up your slack because you can’t face the truth.
You let her slip away.

Three-Hundred-Thirty-One Days

The building pressure along several faults finally forced the slip.
Ravines split pale earth wide open;
vermillion rivers rushed forth from each canyon,
converged,
flowed downstream with the pull of gravity.

As one large mass,
it slowed.
Akin to jelly,
it crawled to the ocean.
Eventually,
it dumped into the ocean,
dispersed,
immediately followed by the aftermath of the secondary and tertiary waves of destruction.

When the ground stilled and the dust had settled,
the stains of the disaster were slowly washed away with the rain.
The cracks in the ground filled with the crimson goo unable to escape,
now solid,
forever more scaring the soil.

Three-hundred-thirty-one days.
The last round of earthquakes had stopped.
The pressures of the plates had eased,
but built again.

Three-hundred-thirty-one days.
New craters to heal,
lighten,
fade from the landscape.

Three-hundred-thirty-one days.
Only thirty-four days shy of one year earthquake-free.
Three times prior,
they’d returned.

Only thirty-four days shy of one year.
No warning.
The faults just slipped.

Only thirty-four days shy of one year.
Again,
dealing with the aftermath.

Only thirty-four days shy of one year.
Why did the earthquakes always return?

Again and Again

When you first said,
“You make me happy.”,
my gut reaction,
my initial response was,
“Why?”

Why,
how,
could some pessimistic,
worrisome,
neurotic,
clusterfucked,
disorganized,
self-loathing,
son of a bitch like me make you happy?

I ask why,
remembering every time you tried to be optimistic,
tried to tell me,
“It’s going to be okay.”,
keep me from losing it,
only to be shut down—
remembering each time looking in the mirror,
seeing the jagged,
gnarled,
wounds that have only physically scarred,
thinking of how it will pain you to see those for the first time.

And yet here you sit,
sighing to yourself though with the same jovial lilt in your tone,
still saying,
“You make me happy.”,
again and again.

When you first said,
“I’m the lucky one.”,
my gut reaction,
my initial response was once more,
“Why?”

Why,
how,
are you the lucky one?
You put up with the tangled,
frayed,
fucked up little ball of crazy that is me.
You put up with the breakdowns,
the ASI,
the PSI,
the mood cycling,
the periods of unresponsiveness,
because I just… shut down.

I ask why,
remembering every night of silence,
every morning of sleepless panic,
every tear I’ve shed,
every tear you’ve shed at my own fault,
every medication rollercoaster,
every manic high,
every depressive low,
every mental break,
every frantic call,
every anxious question.
So tell me,
why are you the lucky one?

And yet here you sit,
chuckling a “For fuck’s sake” under your breath,
still saying,
“I’m the lucky one.”,
again and again.

When you first said,
“I love you.”,
my gut reaction,
my initial response was still,
“Why?”

Why,
how,
could anyone love… this?
A broken,
angry,
tired,
empty,
scarred husk of a… human being.
Am I human?
Who am I?
What am I?

I ask why,
seeing every character flaw,
looking at every physical imperfection,
remembering every shitty thing I’ve ever said,
ever done,
to you especially.

And yet here you sit,
shushing my protests,
still saying,
“I love you.”
again and again.

However,
you can’t shush me permanently,
Schat.

So, no
You make me happy.
Before you,
genuine smiles and true laughter…
Those were but long faded memories.

So, no.
I’m the lucky one.
Before you,
I hadn’t known what love was,
or what it was to be loved.

So, no.
I love you more.
Before you,
I was a lifeless,
shell of a creature,
merely going through the motions—
but you were a jolt of electricity,
striking a cold,
dead,
black heart.
You did the impossible:
you got a pulse.
You showed me that I am,
in fact,
still human.

You make me extraordinarily happy.
I am the luckiest person alive.
I love you very much.
Please don’t ever forget that.

~Little Bird

A New Spin on an Old School Blog Game

These things were popular way back in the day…, but rather than a “letter”, how a about a poem? Letters are a little lame, and poems are a little more challenging, yeah? I thought about NaNoWriMo back in November, but I had neither the attention span nor the time for that. Therefore, this will have to suffice. Can’t promise 30 consecutive days for these, but I will get these done.
  • Your best friend
  • Your crush
  • Your parents
  • Your sibling (or closest relative)
  • Your dreams
  • A stranger
  • Your ex-boyfriend/girlfriend/love/crush
  • Your favorite internet friend
  • Someone you wish you could meet
  • Someone you don’t talk to as much as you’d like to
  • A deceased person you wish you could talk to
  • The person you hate most/caused you a lot of pain
  • Someone you wish could forgive you
  • Someone you’ve drifted away from
  • The person you miss the most
  • Someone that’s not in your state/country
  • Someone from your childhood
  • The person that you wish you could be
  • Someone that pesters your mind—good or bad
  • The one that broke your heart the hardest
  • Someone you judged by their first impression
  • Someone you want to give a second chance to
  • The last person you kissed
  • The person that gave you your favorite memory
  • The person you know that is going through the worst of times
  • The last person you made a pinky promise to
  • The friendliest person you knew for only one day
  • Someone that changed your life
  • The person that you want tell everything to, but too afraid to
  • Your reflection in the mirror

Little Bird

“Never stop chirping, Little Bird.”

Even lost in the darkness,
the phrase still rang in her thoughts.
Clinging to the wall of the cave,
swallowed in pitch black,
the same voice repeated the words:

“Never stop chirping, Little Bird.”

She repeated it aloud to herself.
Where she thought she couldn’t,
never would,
for the first time while trapped in the suffocating grip of the void,
she smiled.
With a hiss,
the darkness recoiled.

“Never stop chirping, Little Bird.”

Again,
that smile.
She continued to smile.
The darkness withdrew a little further.
She continued to those words,
that voice,
in her mind.
Her grip on the wall become stronger,
her breaths a little deeper,
her heart rate a little slower.

“Never stop chirping, Little Bird.”

The light,
while not before her…,
she could see her Shining Light,
repeating those words,
when she closed her eyes.

“Never stop chirping, Little Bird.”

A massive brown paw,
soft like a kitten,
reached out to her.
The darkness retreated enough for her to see.
The Teddy Bear,
a smile on his face,
had found her.
She took his hand,
and he pulled her out.
All the while,
still echoing in her mind…

“Never stop chirping, Little Bird.”

You Are

You are a massive fuckwit…

for even thinking that you are not good enough.
I should be,
I am,
the one,
thinking this,
saying this to you.
Every.
Single.
Day.

You are intelligent.

Not smart enough for psychology?
Really?
Then why do you know my tells?
How did you learn them so quickly,
and through text even?
“I’m not trained.”
I, however, am in training,
and it looks like you’re learning through osmosis, love.

You are a kind soul.

If you weren’t,
our paths would have never crossed.
We’d be running parallel,
never intersecting,
never tumbling to the ground in a head-on collision,
and never deciding to hang around and talk,
even after making sure the other was okay.

You are a patient man.

You, one of the few, picked up every shard of a broken woman,
piercing,
potentially venomous,
without a second thought.
And when she hurt you,
when those shards pierced your flesh,
drew blood,
more than once,
you smiled.
You held on.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The woman cried;
you took every fragmented piece of her for who she was.

You are the better.

“You deserve better.”
You fucking muppet.
Your words were a punch straight to the chest;
I couldn’t breathe.
“Why?”
I asked.
Two reasons you gave me—
I shut them both down in four minutes.
I would have only needed two had I not been typing.

You are my better.

I’d never found my better here,
because it is currently seven time zones,
5,150 miles,
8,288 kilometers,
and an entire ocean away.
They say every person has their perfect match,
a single person out of 7.4 billion,
and what if we’ve found our’s?

You are too good for me.

How did I,
some angry,
shattered,
defective,
little ball of crazy meet you?
Capture you?
And somehow,
despite making you bleed far too many times,
keep you?

You are my better,
and for reasons I have yet to comprehend,
I am your better.

Usstan che dos.
愛してる。
Я люблю тебя.
Te amo.

~Little Bird