Taunts of Normal
Days faded into nights, and all was normal.
Or at least, I thought it was.
Looking back after all of this time,
I guess I was the only one who didn't notice it.
My differences slipped on past me, and I didn't see their shadows lurking there.
Sure, there was always a faint feeling.
A feeling that I was missing.
Looking back after all of this time,
I realize that feeling was Normal.
I was missing Normal.
Normal always lurked beyond the corner.
No matter how far I stretched my hand into its deep abyss,
it always slipped past me.
I waited for a day where it would arrive,
but it never came.
I waited for a night where it would perch on my shoulder and sing its gentle lullaby in my ear.
That night never came.
It always strayed out of reach, and no matter how loudly I called,
no matter how hard I hoped,
it never came.
It was like I was missing a key ingredient that everyone else had.
Everyone but me.
The word still haunts me, because I know it's something I will never be.
No matter how quickly I chase after it,
I know I will always be one step behind
Normal.
Patchwork Families
I wonder why
some families are simply
fragments.
Slivers,
splinters,
shards
of what should have been.
My own is a torn piece of cloth, ragged
and shredded and
tattered
from too many beatings.
It's only my mother and
sister and
me.
Some people have whole families.
Glowing,
beaming,
breathing.
No missing pieces.
No unanswered
questions.
They are confident
in their trust and
love
for one another.
But what about the fractured ones?
The ones who are strewn across the floor,
tangled,
like marionettes with broken strings.
The ones with scratches and
stitches and
bruises
scattered carelessly throughout their heart.
Like Jonathan.
My one true friend.
When he stares at you with his gleaming eyes
that hold the mystery of
the past,
you can almost swear that he's seeing through you,
making you fade
away.
He's the only one I've got.
My only friend.
Clockwork of two.
He's just like me
in the way that his Dad
is gone too.
We found each other
years ago,
drawn together
by our blistered hearts that somehow
kept on beating.
We both pretend
that it doesn't matter,
that our fathers are going to
come back.
But what are you supposed to do
if your dad is gone?
What do you say
to appease the questioning gazes that
settle
like snowflakes around you,
until everywhere you look, you can't help but see
one hundred thousand starlight whispers
of what
life should really be?
Empty Apologies
You say that you're sorry,
but I wonder if you are.
Because the whole world keeps on turning,
revolving around the stars.
With the hundreds of apologies flung
at my sister,
I wonder if anyone is
sincere.
But I guess it doesn't matter,
because apologies don't change anything.
No amount of kind words--
or even actions--
can soothe the rough edges
of a bullet hole.
With every I'm sorry
that tickles my ears, I cave in on myself
just
a bit
more.
It's the way their eyes glimmer with the glaze of gratefulness
as they realize it could have been
any and every one of them.
Each sympathetic smile is just a reminder
that I am dead,
but they
are okay. Better
than okay.
Alive.
And it's just another reminder to me
that I
am not.
Apologies are supposed to heal all wounds.
Words and gestures are the patches that cover
the bleeding.
Cards and flowers and casseroles are the medicine to ease
the pain.
Hugs to hold you together, kisses to remind you that you're not alone. They are the stitches that forever forbid
the crying.
Each of these is supposed to make my family,
make me,
feel encircled in a loving embrace where everyone involved has one thing in common:
their sympathy.
But how come
each troubled glance I witness,
each hug I oversee,
each word of advice I overhear
only pushes the bullet
in deeper.
I see
the stares of strangers
as they size up my sister. They think,
Hey, that's the girl with the dead sister!
She receives their sorrow displayed in every
action. She is mended by the hope of others and
by their words. Always I'm sorry for your loss, so, so
sorry. Never once does someone confess, I don't understand
this pain. Because no one does. But still, the apologies to Mia,
to my parents, to the school, my classmates, the police, the state,
to the whole world
keep flowing in.
Everyone gets a chance
to be broken
at sometime.
We'd like to pretend that whatever divine spirit there is
will only dish out a plateful of troubles;
never more than what we can chew.
But some people are stuck
with an extra helping.
Even so, everyone gets a chance
to be patched up
at sometime.
Maybe those kind words
and cards
and flowers
and casseroles
and tears
and laughter
and hugs
and kisses
and wishes
and promises
really do help.
But I wouldn't know.
Everyone gets their bowl filled to the brim
with hardships.
But they also get a glass of I'm sorrys
to wash it down.
They say I'm sorry to Mia
and others undeserving of attention. Anyone that catches their eye.
The world apology river has overflowed
for my family.
Everyone wants to pay their respects.
But what
about
me?
Who's going to
apologize to
me?
Time
Time is suspended in midair,
each second marking a shallow breath.
I have to remind myself to breathe.
In, out.
In, out.
And each tick of the clock
marks another moment
without you.
I've started to make bets with myself.
Deals to God,
if there even is one.
If the next car turns right,
you'll come back.
If this nickel lands on heads,
you'll come back;
my twin sister won't be dead anymore.
If that lady drops her jingling change,
if my basketball goes in the net,
if I ace this test,
if that kid stoops to tie his shoe
you won't be gone anymore.
But I guess all this game playing
has been one big joke on myself,
because the car veered right,
the nickel landed on heads,
that lady did drop her change.
My ball swished into the net,
I aced the test,
and the boy tied his shoe.
I won each bet with myself.
So how come you haven't come back?
Winged Promises
Promise.
Noun.
"Assure that someone will definitely do."
The dictionary definition.
But it's more than that.
What is it, really?
Is a
promise
the thrill that accompanies
tucking a secret in your back pocket
to keep it safe?
Is a
promise
like a pebble you pick up
at the beach?
Overheard and
unearned
and
rough around the edges?
The kind you toss around in the air,
reckless
and unimportant,
until one day you drop it all together,
and then,
the promise is gone.
What about those types of
promises?
Is a
promise
as radiant and glowing
as the beams of the moon?
As pure and captured
as a monarch butterfly,
imprisoned?
Entranced, you watch the butterfly's wings flutter.
Flap, flap, flap.
And with each pulse of the wing, out goes the
shh-shh-shh
of a
promise
you'd vowed to keep.
Is that what a
promise
is? Or
is a
promise
unspoken, just passed along
by sheer love?
Or even sheer
hate?
There are thousands of promises,
no,
millions, that go unfulfilled.
What happens to the
promises
that are broken?
Snapped,
as brittle as
a bone.
Where do they go?
Do they mend themselves together
until they make a new promise?
Shining,
whole,
hopeful?
Or do they flutter
to the earth
like feathers,
only to be trampled
and torn?
There are so many ways a promise can go.
So many lives
it holds power over.
Well, I want to know:
what is the true definition of a
promise?
"Assure that someone will definitely do."
I don't believe that. It doesn't define all the individuals
swollen with
a lifetime of
promises.
It isn't right.
Not
the dictionary
definition.
