late luminescence

photo: dunmore caves, ireland

but, just, please: 
the space,

between




does not belong
to anyone. 

you could hear a foot fall
shoulders grow small
watch the purple elephant crawl across the room

you could hear a pin drop
feel her heart stop
watch the hot breath pop a full balloon

you could hear God's whisper
the subtext while you kiss her
watch the splitting of the zipper as the world goes into bloom

I have it stuck in my head that I am always the one who is expected to stay stagnant

to be the girl waiting back behind the picket fence who is familiar in all the ways that feel like home

but in all honesty, I am too disparate to be her

half the kitchen would be clean and the pantry would be full of all the ingredients of abandoned dreams

i'd be eating the leftovers of last week's culinary disaster

my room would be a museum of all the times i have ever loved, even if i'm only sentimental in the short term

and my desk would be covered in receipts and empty boxes of cookies,

all the postcards we bought and never made time to write

i paint my life with the best of intentions, i thought about you but not in the way that wounds

i'd either be in all day or never at all

contradiction, cyclical rebellion, oscillation, dejavu

its always the smallest things that really break you

I don't really understand what exactly I have for my appeal ---

I know its not good to talk down yourself but like I just feel ---

I'm dead weight, I'm always late, I might not flake but like

I'm certainly far cry from being the best 

I'm dead weight, when will my luck dissipate

I'm always late, and they still wait

I might not flake, but I feel sure one day they'll deem me a fake

I'm certainly far cry from being the best 

is it only a matter of time? 

most days I don't even make the sloshing rhyme,

but if I was on the stand, with a gavel in my hand,

I'm certainly far cry from being the best, so when will I fail the test?

I would deem me so unworthy.

Dear Audrey,

It's not worth it to be sad about it. It's okay. It'll be okay. I think sometimes people try to frame these things in storybooks, try to cast a villain and a hero. If only it were always that simple. You're taking a criminology course, and even just breaking the first layer makes it obvious that ethics (wuji) aren't vinegar and oil. The same complexity that makes intricacy beautiful, that makes the unfathomable appreciable, is what makes people loveable. It's why you love the Untamed. I think that's why when you get older, you come to also subconsciously learn to yearn for simplicity. The piercing, silent clamor of the cold on a winter's night. But just because you look away doesn't mean it's not there. 

I remember in show choir, the music teachers used to always tell the kids peeking behind the curtains that "if you can see me, I can see you". This is not a universal truth. Neither is its reverse.

You keep asking if there's something wrong. Is discomfort always a symptom of illness? Are you trying to feed medicine to atrophy? Are you trying to numb growing pains? You hate the feeling of metal scraping against bone, every six months in the dental office. There is always a little blood, but they've stopped telling you its an issue. 

I don't know what I'm trying to say here. In fact, I don't think I'm trying to say anything --- I am trying to piece together the present.

Sometimes I think I must be terribly uninteresting because I wish there was a manual for the right way to do things. How do you support your parents as they move apart from one another? Who do you tell when everyone told you so, and you didn't listen? When are you allowed to watch someone leave without it being called abandonment?

Because if you look back, it'll be my fault for not giving chase. It'll be me leaving. And despite whatever else is to come, I still care most about what you think of me. Is this a form of narcissism? Am I just pretending to love you if I can't love you more than I care about what you think of me? 

I hung up because you sounded happy without me. You walked away first, I swear. Please don't look back. I am weak. I am weak-hearted.

I hate how I try to masquerade under this guise of nobility. The feeble martyr. If you're going to be commit a crime, at least acknowledge your hands. Bed. Red. Lie in it, and smile, even if it feels more like baring your teeth to a dark room.

I'm hanging up now,
Audrey Sioeng

(it feels strange to end a letter like this.)

(fixed it.)

AGH.

(brittle, brittle, shhhh. stop leaving crumbs.)