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

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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… eventually.
  • 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

Just a Little Bit of Happiness

“Do you even know what he looks like?”

You really ask me that?
Honestly,
I thought you’d be happy for me.
For us.
You know what I’ve dealt with,
lately in particular.
I can’t just have this little bit of happiness?

“He’s only seventeen.”

And just who the fuck are you to judge?
Twice your age,
not that it particularly matters,
but playing petty games even?
You’re to blame too, you know.
I told you as a friend.
I thought we were friends, anyway…
I just want a little bit of happiness.

“That’s some serious long distance.”

Really?
Fucking really?
Sure,
you two aren’t quite as far,
but you aren’t particularly close either.
How many miles?
Cross country, yeah?
Goddamn hypocrite.
I need just a little bit of happiness.

“I thought you weren’t into guys…”

Ever heard of fluidity?
I’ve had so much trouble,
so much fucking trouble,
with my sexual identity—
had to defend it to my mother for ten years.
And here,
someone who dares call me a friend,
tries to shatter that?
I deserve just a little bit of happiness.

Don’t take your problems out on him.
Don’t spit your acid,
mess with his head,
cause him astronomical amounts of pain,
confusion,
suffering,
because you refuse to face your own fucking problems.

Don’t call me a chameleon,
accuse me of “blaming my pills”,
not taking responsibility,
calling me my fucking father.

I will have just a little bit of happiness,
and you will not ruin it because you cannot find your own.

Please…

Please,
just make it stop.
I beg you.

I’m choking,
but drawing just enough breath to remain conscious.
Frigid water fills my lungs.
I feel everything.
I hear everything.

‘I raised your sister as a single mother in nursing school, you know.’
‘You don’t have cancer.’
‘If you’re that sick, I’ll have to take care of you.’
‘GPA: 2.78.’
‘Won’t make it through the winter… I just thought you should know.’

Though I could only see the fading lights,
shrinking and dying,
as I sank down deeper beneath the surface,
I somehow continued to draw that same breath,
just barely enough,
to remain painfully alive.

Be merciful.
End it quickly.
Let me rest.

My lungs are ripped from my chest,
body trembling.
I have no more tears to cry,
all soaked into the blanket around my shoulders,
down the front of my shirt.
My phone clutched in my hand,
I sit at my desk,
the blue light of my laptop staring me in the face.
Ask for help.
The words dance through Window’s the glow,
mocking me.
I’m stronger than that…
I don’t need to burden them.
I do the helping.
That’s.
My.
Job.

For fuck’s sake,
stop dragging it out.
Just let me die.

I’ve stared at you,
my silver-edged friend,
every night for the last five days.
I can hear Lilith in the back of my mind,
reminding me of the old days,
…offering to listen just like the old days.
Exactly why I don’t take showers after dark anymore,
especially lately.
The offer has been tempting,
but the pinkest of the scars are just beginning to heal.

Stop being a pussy!
Kill me, goddammit!
Just do it already!

I have my instructions all lined up,
legibly printed on clean paper,
stored and ready.
I lack a firearm;
however, I’ve calculated lethal dosages and combinations of my medications.
It’s just…
the letters.
They’re not all written.

I can’t leave anything unfinished—
leave anything unsaid.
And that list…
what was once only ten long and eight written,
is now 22 long and only 14 written.
It grows,
and so,
I stay.
Because I can leave nothing undone.

I fucking beg you,
just let me fucking rest!
Stop fucking dragging it out!
Just fucking do it, goddammit!

I just want to die.

P l e a s e…

I Thought I Had One

‘At least I have one good parent…’
I’ve been telling myself this from the time I realized I never had a father.
Funny thing is,
my parents were [and still are] married.
We lived in the same house.
We did these superficial little things together.

But, …if we’re being honest,
were we genuinely a family?
Fuck.
No.

My father was always absent—
drifting off into the recesses of his own mind,
ruminating on his self-serving need for the gratitude of others,
fixated on this mindless drive to be a caring, devout nurse, loved by every patient and coworker alike,
focused on his sole purpose in life of spreading love to the entirety of world,
…excluding his family.

So, what were we to him?
A wife: secondary income-earner and sexual object.
A daughter: the only thing he created to pass on his genes and continue his “legacy”.
A step-daughter: the seven-year-old came with the wife from the previous marriage.
Apparently,
not a whole lot.
Usually,
it felt like nothing.

Now,
as of February 2016,
a changed man;
a recovering drug addict.
He has a disease,
and just like that…,
it’s as if the last 25 years,
of which 22 I existed,
no longer mattered.
You forgave him quickly.
Easily.

I am so.

Fucking.

Disappointed.

In him?
Sure.
But in you?
More than you can ever imagine.

You were our rock growing up.
You were forced to raise a child, a teenager…
and a husband.
You worked the overtime.
You paid the bills.
You found the money to pay for Christmas,
when there was no money to be found.

You took the brunt of the physical abuse,
for both Sisi and I.
Even if you were so angry because you couldn’t save us from the emotional,
the verbal abuse,
you did everything you could.
You even grew a pair with age;
you’re no longer that meek, doe-eyed woman I called “Mommy” as a kid.

But you can see drug abuse,
unlike an unbalanced brain chemistry,
and because he’s a “changed man”,
your marriage is “better than ever.”
10/02/1993 to Present

“He’s just like you—he has a disease.”
You beg me to open my eyes,
to magically forgive a lifetime of abuse—
my own, your own, Sisi’s…,
all of which I had witnessed first-hand.

But you can see his,
because you can see drug abuse.”
The acid splatters across your skin;
my words—impulsive, resentful—are corrosive.
Don’t you dare compare me to him.
You can’t see excess dopamine.
The flesh on your arms begins to melt away.
The words erode further inward,
exposing more and more of you as I go on.
You can’t see disordered patterns of thought… maladaptive schemas!

Schemas…?
I read the question in your expression,
can see it in your eyes.
The rage condenses in my chest,
implodes,
forms a black hole.
It consumes everything,
beginning with me.

You know what?!
I’d explained it god-knows-how-many-times.
Once again,
you hadn’t listened to a goddamn thing.
Fucking forget it!
Shaking my head,
I walk away.
Again.

What happened to you?
What else did he do to you?
You were ready to finally leave;
for once, ready to think of,
think for,
yourself.

You were ready to do what’s best for yourself

I just…
Who are you?
Please tell me.
At least then,
I’ll know who I’m talking to,
because I’m sure as hell not talking to Audre Annette.