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.

Set Sailing By a Scotsman Singing Sea Shanties from Afar

Shoved onto the ship and pushed from the shore with only a foot and a shit-eating grin, they were swept away by the rough waves of the Atlantic Ocean. They laughed and shook their heads. “A joke,” the two agreed; however, the pair soon discovered there were neither lifeboats nor paddles. The ship lacked a captain, a crew, a steering wheel—they were the sole occupants of the free-floating vessel. The joke quickly faded, and soon, each found themselves ensnared within the other’s grasp.

She was baffled. He struck her like a bolt of lightning—jolted a blackened, long dead heart to bare even a weak pulse. How? And…he? She…wasn’t…She was dumbfounded, in shock. The thought hummed in her mind, growing, until she could hear only the screams of the emotions she tried to smother—an art she’d perfected over the years that had now failed her. She could only spit the words silently in hiding, where he would never find them. The screams dulled to a tolerable, growling mumble once more. She could think, sleep, breathe again, even if the secret scribblings of frustration and fear tugged at the back of her mind both in and out of consciousness. What she did say came off as she they had first agreed upon: a joke. Or rather, she thought. Those short weeks passed, and the screams returned, consuming her entire being. Each breath, each movement, each waking thought and remembered dream, those buried words moved closer and closer to the surface.

Their exchanges were no longer a jest, their tones no longer playful, their smiles no longer teasing. They were genuinely sailing together. They were far from the shore, long past seeing it even on the horizon as the sun set behind them. Many kilometers away, they had unknowingly drifted into deep, pitch black waters. Once standing on opposite sides of the ship, they came to stand face-to-face. And with one, particularly powerful wave, shaking the massive boat to its very core, she stumbled into his arms.

She lifted her eyes to meet his, reading a warmth in them meaning nothing more than, “The joke has long been over,” as a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. And slowly, she smiled back. Her eyes lit up, catching the flicker of the shining stars above. Her confusion had been ripped away by the recession of the powerful wave that had pushed her to him. Her mind had calmed. Complete silence. She only murmured a soft, short response:

I know.

You’re Worried?

You love one whose thoughts slither from a mass of tangled,frayed,
stripped,
severed,
bent,
and warped self-loathing;
one whose dreams dance around the idea of (and sometimes seek out) the allure of an eternal abyss long before one her age should,
as if it were normal that anyone should.
You’ve traveled through the recesses of her mind, only injuring yourself in the process.
Tch.
And you’re the one that’s worried?

You bear the scars of chemical burns,
evidence of the chemical combustion of her mind spitting acid in her words.
You wear your own wounds of the past,
of which she has,
though unintentionally,
dug her claws into and made bleed further,
causing you unnecessary heartache—
unnecessary pain.
And though she is sorry,
she questions your forgiveness.
She does not deserve it.
And you’re the one that’s worried?

She cringes at silly things,
flinches at uncontrollable human reflexes,
withdraws,
hyperventilates,
trembles,
freezes,
and in the past,
even cried,
at the most basic of human needs,
desires.
Yet here you remain beside her,
refusing to leave.
And you’re the one that’s worried?

The majority of her heart is dead,
smothered and beaten,
abused,
neglected.
What little remains is shoddy,
spotty in functionality.
“Condition: mediocre at best.”
She can be cold,
far away in her own mind,
unfeeling.
She fails to find words,
to give meaning to the emotions smoldering in her thoughts.
Only short,
repetitive syllables.
Nothing intelligible.
And you’re the one that’s worried?

She’s worried.
More than you can imagine.
She never knows when that last admitted thought of the end,
that last injury to you,
that last chemical burn,
that last bloody talon torn out of past wounds,
that last shutdown,
that last cold,
unfeeling night,
will drive you away.

She’s worried,
above all else,
that you will one day disappear,
but she will understand.

And you’re the one that’s worried?

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

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