2:30 AM Thoughts

Someday, when all your dreams have come true and you've gotten everything you've ever wanted out of this life, I hope you remember that there was one you left behind, deliberately abandoned in the back alleyways of your mind, like an unfinished sentence or a half-eaten slice of bread. I hope you dig deep within the sandpits of your soul and uncover the entire existence we made together, like opening up a box of distance memories filled with half-ripped, faded photographs. I hope you remember everything we thought we'd be and the life we so naively built together when we were eighteen and didn't know any better. I hope your eyes fill with the same tears I cried every night for months on end, and your lungs cave in from the weight of the regret you've been trying so hard not to feel every day since that crisp November morning when you so wrongly decided which dreams were worth turning into reality.

Where You'll Find Us

You will find us in strange places and tight spaces.

You will find us in between your couch cushions

and behind cartons of freshly bought milk.

You will find us under piles of paper on your messy desk

and the coin compartment of your first self-bought car.

You will find us in the back corner of your medicine cabinet

and beneath the box of winter sweaters in your bedroom closet.

Like gum wrappers that were never thrown out

and spare change that was too heavy for your pocket.

Like a half eaten sandwich re-wrapped for later

and an unfinished cup of earl grey tea.

Like a crumpled up sticky note with a helpful reminder

and an old grocery list for a big family dinner.

This is where you’ll find us.

This is what we’ve become.

The Next Time Around

Maybe it’ll be better the next time around.

Because we’ll have grown into the people were were destined to be—- it’ll be so deeply rooted in our souls that even the strongest wind won’t be able to shake it.

And we’ll have grown into our skin and known what it’s like to fit into it perfectly, all on our own, without having to feel like we’re missing a limb whenever we’re apart.

And we’ll have known what it’s like to breathe without our lungs intertwined in our chests and our legs in the sheets and for the first time we will breathe fresh air that is not polluted by toxic love.

And we’ll have seen ourselves in the mirror for who we really are, and stared at reflections that are only ours, not yours and mine or mine and yours.

We’ll be whole, and we’ll be ready, and we’ll be better.

Because we must find peace as two before we can find peace as one.

At least that’s what I’d like to believe about the next time around. 

Everything He

I.

He was strong in the way that he carried me into his bedroom every night, like a bride and groom on their honeymoon

But he was weak in the way that he didn't know the weight of the words he had spoken much too soon

II.

He kissed me with the taste of forever on his lips and  "I love you" on the tip of his tongue

But he touched me in a way that he wouldn't ask me to stay if I ever decided to run

III.

I wanted so bad to live life knowing that I'd never have to live it without him again

But he wanted so bad to live life on his own, and that was our tragic “The End.”

Maybe

We were the best

Because feet freak me out a lot

And you always made sure to have socks on when we went to bed

Maybe.

We were the best

Because sometimes you forgot to eat breakfast

And I knew that anything and chocolate milk was the way to go

Maybe.

We were the best

Because at night when I cried about the little things

You were there to cup my face and wipe my eyes

Maybe.

We were the best

Because I couldn’t swim to save my life

And you were all but a fish, and a fighter one, at that

Maybe. 

We were the best

Because biology just never made sense to me

And you had a strange love for science that I’ll never understand

Maybe.

It was for the best

Because I don’t know a single country song

And you’re well on your way to becoming the next country star

Maybe.

It was for the best

Because New York City makes you nervous

And I was born in the heart of its busy streets

Maybe.

It was for the best

Because you know you want to go to medical school

And I know that four years is a very, very long time

Maybe. 

It was for the best

Because we both love sleep way too much

And can never get up earlier than noon on any given Sunday

Maybe.

It was for the best

Because you insisted on growing out your beard

And it tickled every time we kissed

Maybe.

It was for the best

Because you hate it when people talk during movies

And I have too many questions spinning around in my mind to keep quiet

But maybe we were the best

And all these bullshit excuses

Are just a way to make it out to ourselves

That maybe, just maybe, it really was for the best

The Problem with Naming Your Theoretical Children on a Drunken Friday Night

The problem with naming your theoretical children on a drunken Friday night isn't that they might not be pretty enough, or that you might not remember how to spell them right on their birth certificates when the time comes, or even that they might be in the Top 5 Most Common Baby Names in America. It's that now, you have full responsibility over those little named rascals, because before, they were just this idea, this possibility, and now, they're the real deal: all six of them. 

And now you both have to pick favorites, and sides, and decide the colors of their bedroom walls and who has to sleep in the same room as who. And who's going to get up at 3am tonight to feed them because you did it last night and he promised, but he's really tired from work and says he'll make up for it tomorrow night. And whether Phil is going to play football like his uncle or swim like his dad, and whether Becca is going to do ballet like she wants to or gymnastics like all the other girls at school. My loves, do what you love because nothing else will make you happier: not money, not fame, not anything at all.

And now you have to teach them how to share and say please and thank you, and that it's not okay to eat in church, but here's a bag of Cheerios Kate, sweetheart, just please stay quiet for the next hour or so, and Matt, please stop pulling on your sister's hair. And how you can only have cookies from the cookie jar after dinner, and even then you can only have one. And how 5 x 2 is 10 but 5 to the power of 2 is a whole 'nother thing, which is 25 by the way. But don't be too hard on yourself, because mistakes are okay and you are so much more than just a test grade.

And before you know it they'll be falling in love just like you two did on an elevator that first day of college way back when, and suddenly they'll be saying they don't need you anymore. And here come the dates and the curfews and the tears-- oh, the tears! And Addie swears she'll never find anyone ever again but honey you will, I promise you, you will, just give it some time.

And then before you know it they'll be getting  married and you'll be giving them away, and then it'll just be you two again. Because everyone has moved to other states to start lives of their own and you'll just be those old folks in some picture frames in their living rooms. And you'll be sitting on the back porch on a Sunday evening watching the sunset with a couple of drinks in hand, thinking to yourselves, "When did this all happen?"

And then you'll remember it was when you decided to name your theoretical children on a drunken Friday night, just the two of you alone in the dark, in your poster-filled dorm room. It was when you were wondering if you'd had too much to drink or if the warm feeling inside your chest was because of the way he was looking at you. It was when he said he loved you for the first time and you believed him, and oh sweetheart, it's okay that you did; I would have too. It was when you didn't know better because you're still learning, still growing, still hurting; but I promise you dear, it's why you're here.

FOR THREE WEEKS I BORROWED YOUR BOYFRIEND

1.
I took a quick glance at his phone screen
And there, in the tiny glowing square,
Were the words he was writing to you
But saying to me.

2.
We walked down Astor Place
And he mentioned you,
A quick slip of the tongue,
Slippery like the phrases I never let roll off mine.

3.
The subway swayed and he laid a hand on the small of my back
Steadying me, holding me in place.
But all I could see when I closed my eyes
Were him and you, swaying on the dance floor.

My Almost Romeo

There is something to be said about doing romantic things with unromantic people. About having picnics in Central Park with Italian wine and store-bought mozzarella cheese and assorted crackers, in the hopes of even slightly resembling Europe. About laying out on blankets in Bryant Park and watching  poorly delivered renditions of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, in desperate attempts to soak in every source of literature possible, regardless of quality. About getting on the last 6 train to Little Italy because of sudden hankerings for cannolis and gelato, despite having to spend the very last of dollar bills on subway fares. There is something to be said about existing in a medium so wonderfully crafted by things of love; but one where it cannot, and will not, exist.

Junior Year

I bit his lip

and filled his mouth

with my girlish laughter

because I was thinking
of the last word I said

before he planted
his boyish kiss on me:

Schizophrenia.

And I thought to myself,

wrapped in the unjustified murky air

of my parents' newly renovated basement,

Could I be schizophrenic?

Or maybe I had multiple personality disorder;

all the crazies melted into one big psychotic mess

on the glossy textbook page anyway.

 

Because this isn't me,

the girl laying
on the one-star quality mattress,

with his fingers
expertly unhooking my bra

and my amateur hand

trailing down the inside of his pants,

his zipper chipping away

at the $10 manicure I got last Wednesday.

This isn't me,

the girl drinking stale beer

in the back of a rundown Irish shack,

watching him empty
his confidence-infused brains

into a garbage can twice his size,

letting him nuzzle my neck

even though he reeked

of last night's home cooked dinner

and today's early lunch.

 

No.

 

No thank you,

this is just a version of me,

a deluded,
affection-hungry one;

the shell that was left
after you pushed me

out of our perfect nest,

with so much haste and fervor

that a few twigs made the trip down with me.

We Still Have Time

We as humans have a funny little habit of telling ourselves and one another that we still have time. We still have time until we don't.  We still have time until the day we've been silently dreading for weeks on end finally wedges its way into the present. We still have time until we are in the very moment of departure. And then we freeze. Our minds go blank and our bodies go numb, as if the universe is refusing to let us comprehend the concept of one last goodbye. What do we say? What do we do? Are words enough? Is one last embrace enough? So we get sloppy, and we start babbling about things we've already talked about; dead end statements that can't possibly be added onto. Perhaps we do it to fill the awkward air between us as we desperately try to search for something meaningful to say—something that'll stick. Perhaps we do it as to not let the other person know how much the present moment is ripping us apart inside. We fight the urge to look each other in the eye because we know if we do we'd never want to look away. We ditch the thought of trying to memorize each other's features because that in and of itself indicates that we'll only ever exist in each other's minds from here on out—and that's just not right. We shut down. We become emotionless robots. We give careless one armed hugs as to not let the gravity of the situation drag us down with it—at least then we still have some bits of our deluded fantasies to hold onto, even when reality is forcefully tugging us in the opposite direction. We turn our backs to each other and call out standard farewells, none of which even mean anything, really. We turn our backs to the sound of each other's voices, the ones that have been the symphonies of our daily lives for so long, as they echoed down halls, filled up rooms, and seeped into the tender cracks of our hearts. We turn our backs to the only goodbye that will ever really stay with us, rejecting its importance in a useless act of protest. We turn our backs even though we are fully aware of the risk we are taking. This could be the last, and we're wasting it. We lock up our hearts with such ferociousness because we're too afraid of everything that's left to say—everything we still need to say. We convince ourselves that it's not the last time, because we know it can't be. We won't let it be. We convince ourselves that we still have time. Because we still have time, until we don't. 

Here Lies the True Magic

When people talk about the magic of New York City, they always mention the flashing lights, the towering skyscrapers, and the endless amount of things to do. The Broadways plays, the restaurants, and the fashion sense: You name it, Manhattan's got it. But perhaps the true magic of the city that never sleeps lies within the silence. The silence drowned out by the subway performers who play the classics you know and love, the constant honking of taxi cabs trying to weave their way through traffic, and the chatter of tourists as they look up at landmarks they've only ever seen in postcards. The silence shared between two groups of pedestrians as they wait for the light to change. The intimacy suspended in the air between dozens of strangers as their busy days are halted for a second, or maybe thirty. For a single moment, two clusters of souls are forced to be as one until they all walk off in opposite directions and go on to live the rest of their lives, never to think about the mundane moment they just shared with humans they probably won't ever see again.

 

So much of our lives have been spent in silence, yet none of us take the time to really appreciate it. The time we spend on the subway, packed in like sardines, exchanging body heat with nameless faces, all of us with a certain destination in mind. The time we spend on line at our local coffee shop, too preoccupied with figuring out what we want to order to even exchange a simple hello with the person waiting next to us. The time we spend standing in a pit at a concert venue, impatient and complaining for the main act to come on, too consumed with what we want right then to realize that everyone around us shares a passion of ours. So much is being said in these silences, yet no one ever seems to be listening.

 

We spend so much of our time waiting and wanting and existing in the in-betweens of life that we forget all about the lives in full motion around us. In the moments we spend trying to get from Point A to Point B, we are surrounded by countless of stories waiting to be told, journeys waiting to be embarked on, and destinies waiting to be fulfilled. In these simple, quiet moments, someone's heart is breaking. Someone is losing a friend. Someone is losing his job, while another is getting a promotion at his. All of this lingers in the silence between us, but none of us bother to listen.

 

Within each person is a beautiful abyss of secrets, experiences, hopes, and dreams. Within each person is a past, a present, and a future. And though we may only be a part of that single moment in the present of that one person... Isn't that magic enough? To be able to celebrate the mere existence of life in the deafening silence we all dread and desperately try to fill with pointless, meaningless noise? 

 

It's sad to think that the only time we ever really appreciate the beauty of this silence is when it's all there is left to be heard, and we find ourselves wishing we had started listening sooner.

Down in Downtown SoHo

Grand Central Terminal, 10:51 PM

A budding potential 

His green eyes resembled

As we exchanged apprehensive glances across the room.

A handsome young stranger

Smile speckled with just the right danger

Could he cure my never ending gloom?

Who is he?

Could he love me?

All questions asked much too soon.

Two lost souls

Daring to be bold

Silently juggle the odds of doom.

There was something in our silence

Be it reckless, or maybe violent

With power that beamed like the moon.

Because as our eyes locked

I admit my heart stopped

In that over-crowded and dimly lit room.

One Last Goodbye

A fleeting wave

To end the day

We can't escape

The mess we've made.

I want to try

Ask myself why

It's all a lie

We cannot hide.

I miss you now

But don't know how

A broken vow

Take one last bow.

Better to leave

Torn at the seams

A movie scene

Not made for keeps.

There's no more sorrow

Tears will not follow

A friendship borrowed

Until tomorrow.

It's time that we

Accept defeat

One day we'll meet

Again repeat. 

Fallen Fountain Muse

Madrid, Spain

She stared blankly at the park's fountain in front of her, which held drunken lovers only the night before. She had scoffed and gawked at their animalistic love, perfectly captivated by each other's beauty, on display for the whole world to see. They pawed at each other, their faces illuminated by the gentle moonlight, desperate to be released from the damp grasps of the clothing that separated their souls. She wondered in bewilderment at how foolish they were being, and the ease at which they didn't seem to care at all.

 

She had always been the girl with the broken heart; the victim of lust mistaken for love. She retreated from everyone around her, faster than she could even comprehend, and shut her heart away in a box, shielding it from the world whose only intention seemed to be to hurt her, to deceive her, to break her. She had had enough: the stiches on her heart were fragile, the threads thinning with every twinge of hope, every bruise of defeat.

 

She stared blankly at the park's fountain and saw a glimpse of the life she wanted to live flash before her: a drunk lover, a prisoner of animalistic love, perfectly captivated by her lover's beauty, on display for the whole world to see. A foolish soul who didn't seem to care at all, desperate to feel the brilliance of his soul inside of her. The girl who finally found love amidst the lust, deceit, and heartbreak. The girl who belonged to him just as much as he belonged to her.

The Winner Takes It All

As I chew this garlic bagel with cream cheese as a substitute to my preferred plain, purchased with the five dollar bill I had forgotten was in the pocket of an old jean jacket, I can't help but marvel at how incredibly stuck I am. Stuck in the sense that  my privileged, suburban teenage life is going absolutely nowhere; at least not in any sense that matters.

 

Today I headed over to one of the local supermarkets in our lovely bubble of a town in the hopes of getting hired. While I sat on the bench near the entrance, waiting for the manager to return from the bank, my worst demon, Mr. Social Anxiety, crept his way into my mind and before I knew it, I was out the automatic doors and on my way home. A sense of defeat gnawed at my core as I walked past landmarks that have become a part of who I am, and I grew more and more frustrated at my incapability to get a move on with my life. Whether it was the fear of rejection, or that of failure, or the overall feeling that no one would ever want or like me, even for a job, I just couldn't will myself to stay on that silly bench. 

 

I know that I've grown a lot lately, and that I should give myself credit for that, but it always seems to be in ways that I want, rather than in ways that I need. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing, but my alleged growth has done nothing to help me in terms of practicality. I can definitely say that I am remarkably more emotionally stable now that I was months ago. I'm proud of how often I've been writing lately, testing out different styles and exploring new techniques left and right. I've found a sense of identity and have solidified my beliefs and voiced out my opinions, namely about the importance of feminism, in the hopes that I can make people more aware. I'm grateful to have been granted an editorial internship with the help of my principal; an opportunity I wouldn't be able to have otherwise.

 

Yet, despite all of this, the reality of it is that I'm tired of being Daddy's Little Girl, a spoiled brat, a privileged rich kid, and any other title that comes with the part. I loathe and am extremely embarrassed about the fact that I am still driven places, and that my main source of money is my father's wallet. The degree of my dependency is absolutely humiliating, and must so desperately come to an end. But every time I try, someone else always seems to swoop in, leaving me empty handed and rejected. I often wonder if these are the doings of the universe and if I'm trapped in a never ending karmic cycle with no way out, but I guess that's up to the Fates to decide.

 

What boggles me the most is the level of ease at which other people my age seem to be able to attain these simple desires, and still have the audacity to complain about employment, a salary, transportation, and overall independence. God only knows how much I want all of those things: to be able to have my own money, to be able to drive myself places, and overall, to have a sense of control, and rid myself of this feeling of complete and utter inadequacy. I've been given a lot of big breaks and opportunities that some can only ever dream about, and for that I am grateful; but it's the mundane things that seem to be ever so slightly out of my reach, and I'm left with more questions than answers as to why.

The Night of the Fluffy Rug

High school has always been, and always will be, to some degree, about finding the perfect niche. Tiring and most likely to leave you in shambles, the pressure of not having a group to call your own can be distressful, and lead you to believe that you simply do not belong. There truly is nothing like having a group you can fall back on, composed of people you trust, love, and feel comfortable with: a home base. No one's trying to be anything other than themselves, because no one's asking you to be. You are accepted for who you are, no matter how weird, outrageous, and flawed you may be. You simply are: vulnerable and unplugged, stripped down to the very core.

 

I'll be the first to admit that my priorities were in the wrong place over the past four years. I was always the girl with the broken heart. "By whom" was a question whose answer was ever changing. I was fooled into believing that that's where I would find my absolute happiness: in the arms of someone else...the boy of my dreams. But as the great Peyton Sawyer once said, "People always leave." Now, to some degree, there is validity to that statement. But what Ms. Sawyer failed to realize is that though person after person made their cameo appearance in her storybook of life, there were always a few constants who refused to walk away no matter how rough the times got, namely, Brooke Davis, and the ever so wonderful Lucas Scott.

 

As I delve deeper and deeper into the heart wrenching, emotionally traumatizing drama that is One Tree Hill, I can't help but envy the friendships that continue to deepen and thrive between the characters, all of which started in high school. Why don't I have that? I ask myself, as I wait for the next episode to play on Netflix on a Saturday night, alone in my dark room with only my laptop to keep my company, while the rest of the world is out with their friends, having fun. It's a question that has been gnawing at me throughout my senior year, and I can't seem to find the right answer. The best that I've come up with is this: I just didn't try hard enough.

 

Every time I had my heart broken by yet another boy who wasn't even worth my time in the first place, I retracted into a dark place where I bathed in my despair and solitude. Rather than trying to make the most out of life and reaching out to potential new friends, I wallowed in my self pity and fed off of the little sympathy others had to offer. I proudly wore my despondency like a badge to the point where there was probably a cloud of gloom hovering over my head, following me wherever I went. I analyzed every last detail of what went wrong with the guy of the hour, creating deluded theories in my head and living in the imaginary constructs of my mind, when I could've been enjoying myself with people who made me happy.

 

This, in all of its tortured truth, is why last night was a night I will remember for the rest of my life, despite its innocence and uneventfulness. In fact, it is because the night was so innocent and uneventful that it stands out, and will always be one of those dog-eared pages in my mental high school memory book. In the basement of a friend, I sat with some of the nicest people in my grade. Most of them are friends of mine with varying degrees of closeness, while they, in their entirety, form a close-knit group. Naturally, I felt a little out of place. They all had their inside jokes, adventures, and unique bonds that I could not adopt simply by being there. I had no idea if I was overstepping my boundaries, but I was grateful enough to be so unquestionably invited and welcomed into a home.

As the night went on, I grew more comfortable and realized that I was far from being an intruder. I guess the habit of automatically assuming that you are disliked just comes with going generally unknown at school, and being used to melting into the background. But last night, I sang, I danced, I laughed, and enjoyed the company that was able to provide me with such pure bliss. There were times where I wished to remove myself from the moment, just so I could capture the pure essence of its perfection without being a part of it.

The moment so particularly engraved into my mind came towards the end of the night. The lights were turned off for a collective nap and with the flick of a switch, bodies were entangled, breathing was synchronized, and a wave of peacefulness washed over the room. I chose to lay on the floor on the fluffy rug and watched as a sweet and innocent intimacy unfolded before me. With every shallow breath radiated a stroke of trust, a stroke of love, and a stroke of comfort. I smiled as the acoustic guitar continued to play in the background and thought to myself, So this is what it must feel like. To have a home base. To have a niche. To feel grounded. Accepted. Appreciated. Loved.

So it turns out that I've been looking for all of these things in the wrong places. Maybe it's too late; maybe I really did screw it up for myself. Rather than counting down the days until I can leave this one horse town and the people I have made loose camaraderie with, I will cherish the days I have left in the hopes of forming bonds that stand the test of time and distance. I can only wish to find what my peers have found as I embark on a journey and start a new chapter in my life, in the midst of all the parties (and overall impurity) that college has to offer, and feel the sense of belonging and contentment I have been craving for for as long as I can remember.